Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Brimstone smells sharp. It smells like smoke and something almost spicy. It is almost painful to breathe. It burns where it touches lungs, and it fills the mouth with a smoky, bitter taste. It is the kind of scent that is associated with death.

Mystique was well acquainted with the smell of death. She was the cause of it, more often than not. She knew how it smelled, how it tasted, how to expect it.

She also knew how to avoid it. She knew how to beat it.

When the sharp flash of a dagger came, she had already started to move away. She was three steps ahead as she ducked, moved back, and brought up a leg to try and hit her assailant in the groin. Of course, her current body— a body that was not hers at all, no matter how many weeks she had now spent playing its part— was hardly as agile as she usually could be. The attacker had already dodged back by the time her foot had moved, so she quickly turned the kick into a step and moved forward, swiftly shifting her weight so that she could pull back a punch and aim it at the attacker’s face. It nearly worked, and it would have worked if the person hadn’t ducked the moment that she moved and used her momentum as an opportunity to attack her knees. Mystique felt the stumble before she felt the pain, and she had to put her hands forward to catch herself before she could crack her chin on the tile floor. Even as her palms hit the floor, she could hear the guy behind her making another move with the knife, and she barely moved out of the way before the thing scratched the tile where she had been just moments before.

Mystique was well acquainted with death. She was also well acquainted with fighting. She knew what the signs of each were, and this man carried both.

He was good .

There was another slash of the dagger, then a quick jab to her side. Mystique dodged the knife but didn’t catch the punch: however, she also got her own hit in, so the score remained even. The assailant even stumbled when she hit him and she got a brief glimpse of his features— dark coloring, long hair, sinewy frame— before he was once again whipping back and attacking her side. She stepped back, moved forward, and matched each of his moves as best as she could. Usually, that would not be an issue. Usually, she would be better than anyone that she was put up against. But she was stuck in this unathletic politician's body, and while she was good there were some things that couldn’t be solved through skill. To get an upper hand she would need to shift, but she couldn’t do that here, in her office. It may have been night, but there were still cleaning crews and cameras to worry about. She had a front to keep up; she hadn’t spent the last several months living Senator Kelly’s life for nothing.

A fist hit her chest just moments before the knife cut her arm. There was just enough contact that it split the fabric of her jacket, and she could feel the graze of its metal against her skin just moments before she pulled away. A hot streak of pain burned where the knife had cut, but she didn't have time to check the damage because the attacker had already twisted into another strike. He was agile, maybe even as agile as Mystique was in her natural form. It put her at a massive disadvantage, and she could feel that disadvantage as she was backed into a corner of the office. She had to change tactics.

“Who are you?” She said, her words slipping past her lips into a voice that did not belong to her. She tried to mold her sentences as quickly as possible, trying to think of what Senator Kelly would have said in this situation— though of course, if the real Kelly was in this situation, he would have probably been killed when the attacker first slipped out of the shadows to strike. “What do you want from me?”

There were no words formed, but the attacker let out a low snarl that sounded more like a feral animal than a person. That was when Mystique noticed the fifth limb, one that she hadn’t taken into account in her defensive moves, that was suddenly striking at her face. The surprise was nearly enough to make her shift unwillingly, but instead she let her leg snap forward as her head snapped back. Her cheek smarted and her neck ached with the whiplash of the blow, but her heel connected with the attacker’s chest and sent him stumbling back. Finally .

Mystique recovered first, and she used that to her advantage. She snapped forward, her fists flying as quickly as she could make them move as she pushed herself out of the corner. She got a few good hits in, her knuckles stinging from the force of each impact as she landed blows. Of course Kelly’s hands were not used to combat — pathetic . At least his physical build was finally coming into use, as she could use what little bulk that he had to bear down on her opponent. The attacker was forced to turn to defense, and Mystique realized that Kelly’s build really was an advantage; she was significantly larger than her attacker in this form, and it made it much easier to begin herding him into a corner.

His knife came flashing at her, and she caught his wrist. There was another punch already coming for her and she could see the fifth limb— a tail, maybe? —twitching dangerously out of the corner of her eye, but she ignored the attacks in favor of tightening her grip on the wrist. After just a moment she heard the snap that she was aiming for, and after just another breath the knife that was previously in her attacker’s hand was in her own. The handle alone was worn and sharp in her grasp and she held it tightly as she drove it into the gut of the man. Warm blood gushed over her fingers, and she wrinkled her nose as she pulled the knife out with a twist. She pushed him back as she did, fully expecting him to fall to his knees and begin to regret his actions.

She didn’t expect him to lunge the moment that she took a step back. 

There was barely a moment for her to throw up her hands in a hasty block before a swift kick hit her. Her cut arm stung, but she reacted quickly enough to slash out with the knife and catch his foot before it fell away. To her surprise the new injury did not slow him down at all, and another two blows fell against her ribs as she moved back a pace or two. She shoved away a third blow and quickly flashed the knife again. The attacker dodged before she could give him another cut, and despite his quick movements Mystique could hear the harshness of his breathing. 

He was disarmed and injured. He should realize that he was going to lose this fight. He should be fighting a losing battle. He should be dead by now. 

Instead, his tail was flashing dangerously close to her face again, and Mystique was beginning to realize that the knife might have been a farce. That, or the assassin was so determined to kill her that he would do it with his bare hands if that was what it came to.

She dodged back as the tail whipped past her face and had to duck beneath another punch as she did. There wasn’t enough time for her to dodge away from the next blow, and she let a hiss slide between her teeth as pain rocketed up her side, but even as she made the noise she realized that the attacker was hissing as well. To her surprise the fist that he was pulling back was the right one, the one that she had just snapped the wrist of. She must not have broken it hard enough. The tail flashed and she dodged, her knife flashing out in hopes of getting rid of the annoying extra limb, but the person pulled it back quickly enough that she hardly grazed it. Instead she pivoted and pushed herself closer, the knife once again scoring a slash down the man’s side. He hardly cried out, but the pain made him stumble and Mystique used that as her chance to push him down.

He hit the ground hard, face first, and Mystique tightened her grip around the knife as she put a knee on his back. She could hear the hiss of pain slipping from his mouth as his wounds pressed against the tile, and it brought a grim grin to her face.

She was going to have to edit these security tapes. This particular agitator seemed intent on fighting to the death, and she would have a difficult time explaining to the press why she— a politician who now supported mutant rights— was seen stabbing one to death in her office at night. Again, the real Senator Kelly would be dead in this situation. She couldn’t afford this to leak out to the public.

She also couldn’t afford to die though, so she’d just have to deal with the clean up.

She twisted the knife once in her fingers in a quick, almost artistic movement. She debated trying to figure out who sent the man, but she could see that he was definitely a mutant— as if the tail was not enough to prove it. The man’s skin was blue, his fingers were warped and deformed as they clawed at the tile beneath him, and he still smelt of sulfur and brimstone. The likelihood of him working alone was high; he was probably just another mutant that was angry about Kelly’s policies who had not yet seen the work that she had done under his alias. He just happened to be more determined than the others, too dangerous and too wordless for Mystique to be able to imagine herself talking down. She hated to kill one of her own kind, but even now the man was still spasming in an attempt to throw her off. At this rate, he was going to bleed himself out by jostling his existing wounds too much anyway. Slicing his neck would really be a mercy, in its own way.

However, as she moved to make the final strike, she noticed something odd. It was enough to make her pause and enough to make her frown at the back of his neck. 

There was a mark. It was circular, almost perfectly so, and burned right on the back of his neck. The skin of the mark was bubbly and irritated and implanted almost a full centimeter into his skin. It was a distinct sort of scar that Mystique was sickeningly familiar with. Just below the mark, a thin metal band encircled his neck; a collar.

Mystique cursed under her breath. “So. You’re one of his, then.”

The mutant did not respond, not even with an animalistic noise. What he did do was freeze, his spine rigid beneath Mystique’s knee as he shivered just slightly. He bore Stryker’s mark so he must not be entirely lucid, but apparently the illusion to Stryker alone was enough to cause a reaction. He was afraid.

Mystique barely had time to make the conclusion before she felt the assailant beneath her tense again. This was a different sort of tension, one that layered over the fear of his handler and was meant to prepare the mutant for something…

The next moment, all she could see was purple smoke.

Mystique coughed violently, her palms hitting the tile beneath her as she tried to shove the smoke from her lungs. Each inhale brought more of the foul, bitter stuff into her mouth, and she quickly pushed herself to her feet so that she could stumble to the side and attempt to clear her throat. The smell of brimstone and death was stronger now, strong enough to almost choke her.

Somehow through the coughing, she managed to look up and see her attacker. He was standing in front of the window now, at least three yards away from the spot that he had been just moments before. Moonlight poured through the windows, and for the first time the mutant was not swallowed in the shadows. He was also still for the first time, almost frozen as he stared at her, and Mystique suddenly noticed that her skin had shifted in the midst of her surprise. At some point the adrenaline and surprise had been enough to knock her out of her concentration, and now there were blue scales covering her arms and shoulders. She definitely had to tamper with the security cameras after that.

But now that the man was still, now that he was in the light, Mystique suddenly realized how small he was. His frame was slight and wiry, his stance tense, his collar catching in the moonlight as he stared at her. He seemed young. He seemed as if he was following orders. 

She thought quickly. She reached into her memory and past her own skin to the man that she had been in a meeting with just hours before. A shiver ran down her spine as she felt her own lithe limbs fill out, her blue skin fade and blend into something else. Her hair melted into her form and came back shorter, stockier, down her skull and across her chin as her face shifted into something that was not her. Glasses formed against the bridge of her nose and when she smiled, she could feel the difference in her mouth. 

She saw the mutant tense and confusion flickered over his features. His hand moved, and it wasn’t difficult for her to tell that he was moving to attack again. She frowned, and she steeled herself. Instead of slipping into a fighting stance or preparing to dodge, she simply met the creature’s blank eyes and snapped out a short command before he could make a move. “Stop.”

The mutant froze instantly, and Mystique could only describe the look on his shadowed face as terror. She felt a grim smile slide across her lips. It had been a gamble, in a way. But then again, she knew enough about Stryker to know how his game was played. 

“Hello there,” she tried, and she could feel her vocal cords vibrate with the new, commanding voice that she had appropriated. The words flowed out of her mouth and into the air around her with hardly any effort. She usually had to think to remember the particular cadences and wordings that would come with a person who’s appearance she had appropriated, but here the illusion of her image seemed to be plenty to shock the mutant into submission. “Working on a little mission, I see?”

Mystique took an experimental step forward. The mutant didn’t move. He didn’t flinch, nor did he relax; he simply stayed there, frozen, as if in a trance as she approached.

“You were sent to kill Kelly, weren’t you?” Mystique asked in Stryker’s voice. The mutant didn’t respond, but she hummed anyway; she could piece together the truth of her own words. “Kelly would be a threat to him.” She paused briefly. “To me, that is. I am the one who sent you, after all.”

There was movement. It was slight, almost unnoticeable, but it was there; a slight tremor that ran down the tail. Mystique caught it, and so she pressed on.

“And you were being a good little soldier, weren’t you?” She stepped forward. “Following orders?”

The mutant’s gaze— a bright thing, two yellow eyes that practically glowed in the shadows— dropped, and his neck bent to tuck his chin against his chest. It was a position of submission, and despite everything that she had done in her own life Mystique could feel a sense of sickness in her gut. She hated Stryker. She had hated him from the moment she saw him. She hated him every single time that he entered the same room as her, usually carting around some poor mutant as a half-mindless, entirely drugged shell that could be called a bodyguard. His tactics were effective, but they were far from ethical even in her admittedly twisted moral view. 

Mystique felt the weight of the knife in her hand again, but she did not twirl it this time. Instead, she found herself staring at the boy. His head was bowed and stringy black hair covered his neck, but she could easily picture the metal collar that encircled his throat and the scar that was just above it. He looked so docile now, frozen and motionless beneath the gaze that she had fixated on him. He looked obedient. He looked controlled. He looked young . 

For once in her life, she found herself hesitating.

Mystique did not have a bleeding heart. She was never a compassionate person. She was not a person who showed mercy. She accomplished her goals in whatever way that she saw fit, and she didn’t care much for anything that was not a part of those goals. This mutant had no part in her plans besides an obstacle that Stryker had sent at her. The knife was in her hand. She should slit the boy’s throat. She should end it, end him, and make sure that he never had to go back to the man that had molded him into the creature that had attacked her. That would be the merciful thing to do.

She let out a breath, her throat still stinging from smoke inhalation as she did. Her eyes slid from the boy’s motionless form to the window and, by extension, the security camera that was nestled in the corner above it. She should deal with this quickly. The longer this took, the longer that it was available on the cameras. She had already sent the main security team home for the night, but the video was a risk. It contained blatant evidence of her mutant abilities. She needed to deal with it, and quickly. She should just cut the boy’s throat and deal with the body. That would be the logical thing to do. 

He was hardly even a mutant any more. At least, “ mutant ” in the sense that most people were “ human ”; a living, breathing, thinking person that had free will and opinions. Mystique had seen first hand the type of shells that Stryker’s mutants became. It was enough to sicken even her and her heart of stone.

She should kill him. That would be merciful. That was the best thing that she could do for him, in the state that he was in. 

But Mystique had never been the type of person that showed mercy. 

It was not mercy when she put the knife away, and it was not mercy when she commanded the kid to follow her and let him fall in step as she led him away. It was not mercy when she erased all camera footage of his attack and deleted any record of him ever being in the building. It was not mercy when she took him to the only place that she could think of and left him on the doorstep.

No. None of it was mercy. If anything it was cruelty to make that wounded animal continue to live. But Mystique had never been above cruelty. Maybe— just maybe— the kid would be able to have a chance now. Or maybe not. Either way, it was no longer her concern. Her only concern was finishing damage control at the office and completing her next Senator Kelly speech for the following day. If Xavier’s people could help the kid, then they would.

“You’re going to be under new management now,” Mystique said before she left. She said it in Stryker’s voice with Stryker’s face. She knew the kid believed her, because it was all he had been trained to do. “Someone will know what to do with you, I’m sure.”

Chapter Text

“Jubilee,” Logan said gruffly, his voice hardly above a growl as he turned. “If you touch the coffee maker one more time, I am going to skewer your hand to the counter. That’s your warning.”

“Sorry, Logan!” The sound of a teenage girl giggling reached his ears even as she disappeared around the corner, her yellow jacket already whisking out of sight by the time he had turned around. “I’ll be more careful next time!”

Another sharp growl rumbled in Logan’s throat, but there was no real bite behind it. He merely rolled his eyes and huffed before turning back to the busted machine once again. The smoke was a sharp scent in his nose as he stared at the shattered remains, and he let out another breath as he stared bitterly at the mess. So much for his morning coffee. The fact that Ororo and Scott had been enforcing the “no beer in the school” rule again suddenly seemed much worse.

Speaking of Ororo, there was a warm chuckle behind him. “I hope you are not planning to attack any of the students today, Logan.”

“Relax, ‘Roro. It was an empty threat.” Mostly . 

Ororo hummed, a small grin playing across her lips as she leaned over the counter to get a better look at the machine. “She did do some damage, I see.”

“Third time this week.” Logan grumbled. He swept out a hand and brushed a few of the metal and glass shards away. They bit into his palm, but he didn’t mind; the tiny scratches were gone almost the same moment that they formed, and only a slight amount of blood streaked the counter. “That kid shouldn’t be allowed near coffee anyway.”

“Well then, I suppose you have not seen the alternative. Jubilee without caffeine is not a pretty sight.” Ororo watched as he brushed the glass shards into the trash bin at the end of the counter, frowning as he did. “Is there not a better way to clean it up?”

“Like makin’ her do it?” Logan suggested. It was a half sarcastic thought, half real consideration. Maybe she should face the consequences of her actions. That kid got away with far too much in his eyes; most of the rugrats whose names he couldn’t remember seemed to. “That’d be great.”

Ororo gave him a look, and Logan just huffed and finished brushing most of the glass away. Sure enough, the red lines across his palm were already beginning to fade as he flexed his fingers. He could hardly feel the sting that they left. 

He glanced toward her. “Hope you weren’t down here for coffee.”

“No, thankfully.” Ororo smiled her usual soft, kind smile as she glanced at the broken machine. As she looked toward it, a crease formed in her brow, and she quickly looked back up at Logan. “Actually, I was looking for Scott.”

“Slim?” Logan raised an eyebrow. “Whadya want him for?”

“Actually, I believe that he wanted me.” She gestured lightly toward her forehead. “Jean told me so, anyway. Something urgent, from the sound of it, but I don’t know—“

Ororo cut off, and Logan watched as she suddenly went rigid. Her eyes began to cloud, the way that they would when she was about to use her powers, and there was a slight tremor that ran through her hands as she stared into the middle distance. It was gone in an instant and she gasped, nearly doubling over the counter as she inhaled shakily.

“‘Roro?” Logan couldn’t hide the way that his voice shook. He stepped around the counter as quickly as he could, his heart pounding in his chest as he laid a hand on her shoulder. “‘Roro. Listen. Listen to me.”

“I am alright, Logan, I—” she paused to inhale, and Logan stepped back to give her space. “I am fine. But someone else might not be.”

“What do you mean?” Logan asked, and his words must have been sharper than he intended because Ororo winced and pressed a hand to her forehead. After a moment he muttered a quick “sorry”.

“You are fine, Logan,” Ororo assured him. She took a steadying breath. “Jean’s mental transmissions can just be sharp, sometimes. Especially if she is concerned; that emotion can seep into her thoughts. She is worried now, I can feel it.”

“Worried?” He echoed with a frown. “Who’s hurt?”

“I am not sure. She and Scott are at the door.” The sentence wasn’t even out of Ororo’s mouth before she had pushed herself away from the counter and started toward the front of the mansion. Without thinking Logan began to follow just behind her, his pace matching hers as they made their way toward the front door.

At some point, Ororo glanced back at him. Logan didn’t miss the slight crease in her brow, nor the way that his lips twitched into the slightest frown when she realized he was following. “It is likely one of the students, Logan. You do not need to come.”

Logan shrugged, but continued to follow. He could understand the concern on Ororo’s face. He knew that he wasn’t usually the one to be around the students; in fact, he usually didn’t want to be around the students. With the exception of Rogue, the only child that he deemed “not terrible”, he tended to avoid most of them; Ororo was very aware of this, and rightfully so. 

Even so, there was a reason that he had stuck around the Institute. There was a reason that something itched beneath his skin at the thought of a possible intruder outside, or even an injury on one of the students. He would see what was happening, if only to quiet that little protective itch. Then he would leave and let the ones that knew what they were doing to do their job. 

The front door wasn’t far from the kitchen. They made it there easily, hardly more than a minute after Ororo had gotten Jean’s transmission. She stepped forward quickly, and Logan felt himself subconsciously tensing as she opened the door. His claws hovered just below the surface of his skin, just close enough to sliding out that he could feel their bite in his knuckles. If there was some sort of intruder, he wanted them dealt with quickly, and that was something that he couldn’t trust Scott to take care of.

But there was no fight when Ororo opened the door. There was nothing that Logan needed to attack. There wasn’t even a sniveling child that had fallen out of a tree or done whatever kids do nowadays to hurt themselves. There was only Scott and Jean standing in the doorway, both of them looking up at Ororo in concern as she held the door open. At first glance, there was nothing wrong.

There was, however, someone unfamiliar. There was someone that Logan didn’t recognize in Scott’s arms, and that was enough for his hackles to raise.

“Who is that?” He growled before anyone else could speak. Instantly three sets of eyes turned toward him, and Logan could taste the slight surprise in the air.

“Oh. Logan.” Jean was speaking, her brow creased in concern that faded for just a moment as he distracted her. “Sorry, did I call you too?”

Logan shook his head shortly, ignoring the twinge at the fact that she didn’t call him. It did not bother him. It shouldn’t bother him. “I followed ‘Roro. Who is that?”

This time, he followed his question with a sharp nod, as if no one could tell exactly what he was talking about. Of course, the nod was unnecessary; the point of his hostility was glaringly obvious. The creature that Scott was holding was hard to miss. It was blue, for one thing, the sort of deep blue that came with shadows and nightfall. It had a tail, too, a long and sinewy tail that was draped over Scott’s arm and nearly trailing on the floor. There were sharp, long ears that poked out from stringy black hair, and Logan could see lanky limbs that were half-hidden in Scott’s arms. The boy was unconscious, his eyes shut and his breathing heavy, and his hands — hands that were three-fingered and tipped with wicked looking claws — hanging limply at his sides. 

So he was a mutant. That was to be expected. None of that was what caught Logan’s attention, nothing about his appearance made his hackles raise. It was the scents; the stench of brimstone, the tang of blood and faded adrenaline, the sweetness of some drug that was probably keeping the kid unconscious. All of the scents layered over each other and ran beneath some strange, bitter mixture that Logan couldn’t place. It was a strange scent, like metal and something sick all somehow sterilized and chemically-made. It itched at the edge of Logan’s mind, darting away from him like a thought that he couldn’t quite catch. Somehow, he knew he should be able to place it. 

The kid smelled familiar in a strange, distant way; Logan wanted to know why.

Of course, that wasn’t the kind of answer that Scott could give. “He’s a mutant,” the man said, his voice cool and flat as it always was in a situation where he felt that he needed to step up as a leader. Logan merely gave him a snort.

“I can see that,” he growled. “But what’s he doing here?”

“This is a school for mutants, Logan,” Jean pointed out. “Anyone can come here. Anyone is welcome.”

Logan met her eyes. “But he didn’t come here, did he.” 

The wording was a question, but Logan didn’t bother saying it as such. It was a statement. They all knew that it was true. Jean’s eyes slid away from his own and flicked to the boy that Scott was holding. Scott didn’t respond either, his eyes shielded behind the thick glasses that hid his emotions. 

The boy in his arms said nothing. Logan could hear his soft breaths; unconscious. The blood on the back of his head spoke of force, but the scent clinging to his short fur told of drugs. It must have been a combination then; force to start, drugs to keep him under.

But of course, the others couldn’t tell that. Even if they could, Logan knew they wouldn’t care. He kept his mouth shut and his gaze steady.

Sure enough, Scott only had a short answer: “He’s hurt.” With those two words Jean and Ororo were both nodding. They could care less about the boy’s mysterious origins. They could care less about the strange scents clinging to him. They saw a wounded animal, and they wanted to help it.

Logan didn’t move to the side as Scott carried the boy in, but he didn’t stop him either. It wasn’t his place, and he knew that. But he also didn’t flinch at Ororo’s side glance when he started to follow the three of them.

They were bringing a stranger into the Institute. It didn’t matter that it was a kid. It didn’t matter that it was injured. There was something about it that itched at Logan’s senses, that drove him to follow. 

Jean was the one that held open the door for the infirmary once they made it downstairs. She didn’t stop him from entering, but she didn’t need to project her thoughts for Logan to understand what her gaze meant. It was a cautionary gaze, perhaps a confused one.

Logan didn’t return it. He simply slid into the room and positioned himself on the outskirts to watch. Jean glanced at him again as she entered, but she didn’t comment. No one did. 

It would just be a few minutes. That was all. Then he would leave the ones who cared to help the new kid; he just had to convince his senses that there was nothing wrong first. 

“How did you find him?” Ororo asked, her voice tinged again with concern as she looked up at the others. Scott was busy laying the kid on one of the cots, and Jean was nearby setting up some sort of medical contraption that Logan didn’t want to look at. “Was he already…”

“Injured?” Scott nodded sharply. The kid didn’t make a sound when he was set down on the cot, but Logan could see the lines of tension that ran through his unconscious body. “Yeah. He’s pretty banged up.”

“He was just on the doorstep,” Jean cut in, shaking her head as she did. “Someone rang the doorbell, Scott answered, and there he was.”

Logan snorted, and he got a couple of side-eyes for it. He returned them unabashedly, and soon the three were back to fussing over the kid. 

“How old is he?”

“How are we supposed to tell?” Scott replied. He had his head tilted slightly and was looking down at the kid, watching as Jean came over and began to clean off his injuries. From his position at the wall, Logan could tell that a couple of them— probably the worst ones— had been hastily bandaged and that Jean was now beginning to replace those. The scent of blood was heavier in the air. “He doesn’t look old.”

“Not at all.” Jean leaned over him a bit better, frowning at something— his injuries or disposition, possibly both. “He can’t be older than eighteen.”

“Eighteen?” Ororo looked up at her in disbelief. “He’s tiny. He can’t be that old.”

“You can never tell with mutants,” Scott pointed out. “Some of us look much different than we are.” Maybe his eyes flicked up to Logan as he said that, maybe not; it was impossible to tell with the glasses.

“Well he’s young, that much is obvious.” Jean stepped back, and Logan could see that her frown had not left. “He seems malnourished too. I think we need to get him on an IV.”

Scott nodded and turned, likely to go get whatever equipment Jean needed. As he did, Ororo stepped forward to take his place next to the kid. Logan saw the shift on her face, and he watched as some mix of confusion and concern slid onto her features. She reached out hesitantly and her hand hovered just over the boy’s shoulder; not touching him, but close. “He does not look good.”

“It looks like someone patched him up, but not very well.” Jean stepped back to continue binding up the injuries with fresh bandages. “These seem to be knife wounds, or something similar. His right wrist is broken as well. He must have been in a fight.”

“He must have been in multiple,” Ororo pointed out. Logan could see her staring down at the kid, her eyes tracing over his blue skin with a frown. “There are certainly older scars here. How old do you think these are?”

“There’s no telling,” Jean said slowly. “Not without some more extensive tests, at least.”

“Did he come here himself?”

No . Logan could answer that question for her. There was another scent that clung to the boy, one that was layered beneath the traces of blood and sweat. It wasn’t the one that was driving him crazy, but it was still a strange scent — one that was distant and wrapped — and Logan was oddly annoyed that he didn’t recognize it. He could tell it was another person, but like the metallic-chemical scent the person’s seemed to be just out of reach. Besides the scent, there was the fact that he was sedated. The drugs seemed to have been administered, not taken. They would figure that out eventually. 

Jean’s answer was more simple and less informative. “I don’t think so.”

Ororo hummed, her hand still hovering over the boy’s shoulder. Logan watched as she looked over him, her gaze traveling from his feet— feet that were shoeless and showed off strange, oddly-portioned toes— up his darkly clothed body, and to his face. Once there, he saw another pause shift across her features. Her hand drifted, once again reaching out to him without quite touching. “What is that around his neck?”

Jean glanced over her shoulder from where she had been gathering some more bandages. She frowned, then stepped back over to the cot. “I don’t know. Scott noticed that too.”

“It’s strange,” Ororo said hesitantly.  She tilted her head slightly, and her hand moved from hovering over the boy to hovering over her own neck. It’s almost like…”

“A collar?”

Both women glanced up at Logan. He didn’t flinch at their startled gazes. He was making a guess. He couldn’t see the kid’s neck from where he was standing. But both Ororo and Jean had been hesitating, and he could make assumptions. From the looks on their faces, his guess was right.

“Is that really what that is?” Jean breathed, as if she couldn’t believe it. “That’s awful.”

Logan snorted, his arms tight where they were crossed against his chest. “That’s life, sweetheart.”

Jean shot him an unimpressed glance. Logan didn’t bother to return it. He was right. Mutants got chained up and collared all the time. That was the way that their lives went. There was no way around it. Sure, seeing a collar on a kid was never something pleasant, but sometimes it was just the fact of their world. 

His own throat ached at the thought, but he ignored the feeling. That wasn’t something that he wanted to acknowledge in any way. 

Jean watched him for another moment before turning back to the kid on the table. Her hands were still full of bandages, but it looked as though she had already bound the worst of his injuries. The expression on her face hardened as she looked at the thing around the kid’s neck. “We should get it off of him.”

“Agreed,” Ororo said without hesitation. There was an edge to her voice, something hard and cold that made Logan blink silently in the wake of her intensity. “We should.”

“As soon as I finish patching him up,” Jean said with a decisive breath. She nodded to herself, then set down the bandages that she was holding. “I want to get a blood sample real quick. He’s been unconscious for a while; I want to make sure there isn’t anything dangerous in his system.”

Jean stepped forward, and it somehow seemed familiar. Logan almost recognized the way that she approached the raised cot, the way that she lifted a hand and beckoned a syringe to her from the other side of the room. The metal tip of it gleamed in the fluorescent light as she took a hold of it. She handled it in a practiced manner, as if she had done this a hundred times before. When she took a hold of the boy’s left arm and settled the needle against his skin, it suddenly became far, far too familiar.

The needle pierced skin, and Logan moved hardly a millisecond before the kid did. That millisecond was barely enough for him to barrel into Jean. A sharp gasp burst from her lungs as Logan tackled her, but even as he moved he felt the rake of sharp claws tear at his throat. Logan let out a gurgled cry and quickly shoved Jean away the moment that they hit the ground, his own blood splattering the floor as he whipped around to face the boy again.

The kid had looked rough when he was unconscious, but he had still looked like a kid. There was a certain layer of innocence that fell over his face while he slept, one that put an emphasis on his small size and slight frame. Now that layer was gone, and Logan was left staring into a pair of blank, bright yellow eyes and a bared set of fangs. The kid was gone, and in its place was a snarling animal. The familiarity was sharp and bitter, and Logan felt his own hackles rising in tandem with the boy’s. 

“Whoa, what the—” Logan barely had a chance to meet the boy’s eyes before his head had whipped around to face Scott. The man must have just re-entered the room, an IV pack in his hand as he stared at the kid that was now crouched on the cot. “How is he— Ororo !”

While Scott had been speaking, Ororo had taken a step closer to the kid. Her hand was out, possibly in an attempt to pacify or calm him. The kid had whipped around the moment that she had moved, his fangs bared and his claws flashing out toward her with a distinctive shhict that sliced through the air. Logan saw the blood that flew even as Ororo managed to yank her hand away, a fresh set of three thin scratches scored down her skin. There was a clatter from the other end of the room as Scott dropped the IV and lunged forward, trying to put himself between the kid and his teammate. That was a mistake; the boy simply turned his attention to Scott, his tail lashing as he snapped his jaws and struck out again. 

“Stop!” The mutant made no reaction to Jean’s shaking voice even as she continued. “Stop! We’re trying to help you, we’re not here to hurt you—”

The words had no effect, even when Ororo echoed them. It was as if the kid couldn’t even hear them. He was focused on one thing, and one thing only; fighting his way out. The circumstances didn’t matter. His injuries didn’t matter. He just had to get out.

It was something Logan had seen before. It was something he had felt before.

The boy snarled as he whipped around, his tail lashing through the air before he swiped his claws out at Jean again. The woman threw up her arms and pushed back, a blast of psychic energy shielding her from the kid’s attack. Even as she defended herself, she didn’t push any further or take advantage of the brief moment that the kid faltered. Instead she hesitated, and then the kid was back on the attack. His eyes were narrowed, and he hardly seemed human in the way that he moved. He lashed out, he attacked, and he did it all with an animalistic practice that seemed trained into him.

Something cold settled in Logan’s chest as he realized that he knew exactly what this kid was. Words were going to do nothing against this kid. 

Not regular words, at least.

Logan’s eyes darted around the room, fighting his instincts as he tried his best to ignore the fight. It would be so easy to jump into the fray, to shove his teammates away and take the kid out with force. But that wouldn’t work this time. That kid was going to fight until he couldn’t fight any more, and he was going to make a mess of himself and the others as he did it. 

There . Logan lunged forward, away from the fight, his instincts screaming at him as he did. His fingers closed around two blocky instruments, wires digging into his hand as he yanked them off the counter. He whipped back around to the fight, watching for just a moment as the kid thrashed and slashed, then bared his teeth. “ Stop .”

The command itself wasn’t enough to slow the kid. But then he pressed the defibrillators together and felt them begin to buzz. The sound cracked out through the room, and the kid froze on the spot.

Logan hated the fact that he was right. He hated the fact that it worked . 

The other three X-Men slowed, each one pulling back as they realized that their adversary had finally stopped attacking. Logan watched as they each glanced at him, varying levels of confusion and surprise flickering over their features. 

“What happened?” Ororo asked slowly, her gaze shifting back to the kid as she spoke. “He just…”

“What did you do, Logan?” Jean asked warily. 

“I stopped him,” Logan growled, his voice gruffer than it had been moments before. He had to swallow back a snarl as he stepped forward, the defibrillators still in hand as he watched the boy. He hadn’t moved an inch since the command had been uttered. Disgust flared up in Logan’s chest. He knew this would happen. This was what he expected. But it had been so long since he had seen this sort of reaction…

And of course, the others never had. They were shocked. They were confused. 

“With those?” Scott asked. He motioned to the instruments in Logan’s hand. “Why?”

“Simulates electric shock. The sound, at least,” Logan said curtly. The buzz of electricity was still enough to raise his own hairs most days. The kid was wearing a collar, and Logan would be willing to bet there was shock technology embedded in the metal. He had thought that the noise would be enough to trigger a trained reaction, to make the kid think he was in the presence of some kind of authority.

He was right.

“Hey.” Jean crouched down slowly, her hands held out in a placating manner as she tried to make eye contact with the kid. Logan knew she wouldn’t succeed. He knew the look that would be on the boy’s face; blank, distant, staring off into nowhere without flinching. “Hey. We’re not going to hurt you, alright?”

“Don’t bother,” Logan said. Jean looked up at him in surprise. “He probably can’t hear you.”

“Can’t hear her?” That was Scott speaking, a disbelieving note filling his voice as he looked at Logan. “He’s right there. Of course he can hear her.”

“Not in the way you want him to.” All eyes were on Logan now. The sensation made his skin crawl more than the electricity of the defibrillators would. He bit back the urge to growl and instead attempted to explain a bit more. “He needs orders. Not encouragement.”

“ Orders ?” Ororo took a step forward, her gaze flickering briefly to the kid as if he would lunge at her again. He did not. He stayed exactly where he was, as if frozen. “What do you mean?”

Logan shrugged. He didn’t want to explain. He didn’t want to try and walk these people— the X-Men, mutants that had been sheltered and trained by Xavier and kept from so many of the things that happened outside of the walls of the school— through exactly what he meant. There was too much. They wouldn’t believe half of it. But now that he had volunteered a bit of information, he knew they would want more. Maybe he should have just knocked the kid out instead. 

“He’s waiting for orders,” Logan forced the words out. “Probably from a handler, or somethin’.”

“A handler ?” Sure enough, Scott was speaking incredulously. “What are you talking about, Logan?”

“This isn’t a normal kid, Summers.” Logan waved a hand toward the kid just in front of him. Logan was the closest to the boy now, and he didn’t miss the tiny tremor that flickered through the kid’s tail when his hand moved. He didn’t miss the way that the boy didn’t visibly flinch either. He curled his lip in disgust, then swallowed the emotion as quickly as it came. “He’s been through somethin’.”

Scott crossed his arms. “You’re going to have to be more specific than that, Logan.”

A growl rumbled in Logan’s chest, all of his defenses screaming at him to stop talking. The questions that Scott was asking were the same sort that Logan had been trying to wrap his head around for ages. Scott wanted to know exactly what made this kid this way, and Logan would love to know that too — because, as much as he hated it, he recognized this. 

Scott was still staring at him from behind those stupid red glasses, waiting. Logan had gotten pretty familiar with how stubborn Summers could be; he knew the man wouldn’t budge.

“Somethin’ like where I’m from, ok?” Logan snapped, his hands still tight on the defibrillator handles as he glared at Scott. “That enough for you?”

There was a sharp intake of breath from at least one person, and Logan hated the way that it made his skin crawl, the way it made his lip curl in aggravation. He hated the way that the three sets of eyes boring into him felt, but he refused to back down. Talking to this kid wouldn’t work. They had to understand that.

But of course, they did not. Scott simply crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at Logan. “How do you know?”

“What, that wasn’t enough proof?” He did not know whether he was referring to the way the kid had attacked or the way that he had stopped. It didn’t matter. Either one should be sufficient. But Scott was still staring at him, so Logan huffed. The defilberators hung from one hand and he took another step forward, ignoring the way that everyone else in the room tensed as he stopped right next to the kid. He reached down, once again ignoring sharp inhales as he pushed the black hair away from the kids neck. The way that his head tilted forward, instantly exposing his neck was sickening, but expected. There was a mark there, a deep burn just above the metal band of his collar, perfectly circular and at least a full centimeter deep in the kid’s blue skin. Logan wasn’t even sure how he knew it was there, but it filled him with a sense of familiarity that made his bones burn with forgotten pain. He shoved that aside as forcefully as he could.

“See?” He tilted the kid’s head toward Scott, ignoring the compliance that came with the forced movement. “I recognize this. I’ve seen this before.”

“Where?” Jean asked, taking a step forward to look at the mark.

“I…” Logan hesitated, trailing off for a moment before he huffed. “I don’t know, but I know I’ve seen it. I know I’ve seen all of this sometime back…”

He trailed off again, his words refusing to form. He wasn’t sure exactly what he was trying to say; every memory that he was trying to reach was slipping out of his grasp and retreating to the corners of his mind. But still, even if he couldn’t grab hold of them, he could tell they were there. He knew, somehow, what this was. 

“I thought you didn’t remember anything about that,” Scott pointed out. His glasses hid his eyes, but Logan could tell that his gaze was locked on the mark on the boy’s neck. 

“I said I don’t remember anything about me ,” Logan growled bitterly. He pulled his hand back harshly, the kid’s head bouncing as it fell back into a bow of submission. “They made sure I’d remember this.”

Wherever he had been before the X-Men, it had ripped everything away from him. They had taken his past, his humanity, his name, everything that they could get their hands on and more. They made sure that he remembered what they gave him though. Not all of it was specific, not all of it was helpful, but pain had burned certain instincts into his mind that he was still trying to shake off. No amount of amnesia could erase their training from the recesses of his memory, as much as he wished it would.

The three X-Men stared at him, their shock and disgust pungent in the air. They didn’t understand, not to the length that Logan did. They could see the mess that the kid in front of them was, though, and that seemed to be enough to sicken them.

“So… that—” Ororo pointed at the defibrillators in his hand. “That was a part of… whatever you went through?”

“No,” Logan said. “Just a reminder.” The crackling of electricity was one of the first things they learned to fear. He could remember that much clearly, whether his skin bore the scars of the burning or not. 

“So he just… follows orders?” Jean asked in disbelief. “Anyone’s orders?”

“Not anyone’s,” Logan clarified. “Just whoever’s in charge.”

There was a shift in the air, and all eyes turned to the leader in the room. Scott and Jean exchanged a glance. It was brief, but Logan thought he saw something like sickness flicker over Scott’s face. The man glanced over to Logan, and he returned it with a shrug. 

“...ok.” Scott let out a breath, then moved forward. The kid did not flinch. “Kid. I need you to stand up, alright?”

There was no movement. The kid continued to stare straight at the floor, still frozen in the same position as when Logan had told him to stop fighting. Scott looked up, a crease in his brow as he looked to Logan for help. 

“That’s not going to work,” Logan growled. “You can’t talk to him like you’re talking to one of the students.”

The crease in Scott’s brow deepened. “He’s a kid , Logan.”

“Not right now, Slim.” Scott didn’t respond, and Logan let out a sharp breath. They didn’t understand. None of them did. But then again, of course they wouldn’t. They hadn’t lived through something like this. Logan looked down at the kid, and he forced the growl to leave his voice as he spoke in the clearest, most commanding voice that he could. “Stand.”

The shift was instantaneous. The word left Logan’s mouth and the kid leapt up, his limbs snapping to his sides as he stood in obedience. His shoulders fell into a perfect line, his head bent and his neck exposed as he continued to stare at the floor with his tail lifeless and limp on the ground behind him. Logan was behind him, so he couldn’t see the kid’s face, but the look in his eyes was something easy to imagine; there would be nothing there. They would be empty, dull, just a husk that had been turned into a weapon.

When Logan looked at the other X-Men, he could smell their nausea.

“See?” He gestured to the blue mutant as his voice slipped back into its usual rough timbre. “He’s been trained into all ‘a this. You gotta speak in a way that he’ll understand.”

“Logan…” Jean started to speak, but her voice trailed off. She was staring at the boy now, a look of shock and sorrow mixing with the disgust in her features. “Logan, this is…”

“ Awful ,” Ororo finished for her. The other woman was staring at Logan, and he could see a million emotions flickering through her gray gaze. The most prominent one was obvious; anger. “You cannot be ok with this.”

“I’m not ok with it,” Logan spit back. “It’s just how it is.”

“He really won’t respond to anything else?” Jean asked. Her voice had taken on a note of pleading. “You do, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but I’ve been out for years,” Logan pointed out. He let out a breath and tried to be gentle; as gentle as he could with this, at least. “Look. I was an exception. They could do things to me that they couldn’t do to the others, and they could do things to the others that didn’t work on me. He’s deep in it. He probably just got away, if he got away at all. Someone could’a dropped him off, which means he has no idea what’s going on. He could kill any of you at any moment.”

“But he—”

“Yes, he could.” Logan gestured to the scratches on Ororo’s hand. “That was lucky. That was when there were three of you against him. He’s a weapon that’s not pointed at anything.”

“But he can get better, right?” Jean asked. Her gaze finally moved from the kid to Logan, a desperation deep in them as she looked for answers. “You’re getting better. So he can too. Right?”

Logan frowned. He glanced at the kid, the blue mutant that was still standing at rigid attention in the middle of the room. There was blood caked beneath his nails, and Logan could already see blood seeping through the bandages that had been meant to cover his injuries. There was no care for his own personal well-being and there was no care for the damage that he caused. The collar bit into his skin, and Logan could tell that it had been in that position for a long, long time.

But he had three pairs of eyes boring into him, and he knew that they would only be able to take one answer. So he let out a breath, then nodded. “Yeah. Eventually.”

“Then that’s what we’ll do. We’ll help him.” Scott stepped forward, and Logan could see the determination in his expression. There was hesitance too, but there was no way that it would overpower the rest. Scott Summers saw a broken, beaten animal, and he couldn’t help but welcome it into his home. “We’ll fix him.”

“You don’t know how to handle this thing, Summers,” Logan said in a rough, pointed voice. “You don’t know what you’re doing.”

“But you do.” Scott’s head turned enough to make the shift in his gaze apparent. One moment, he was staring at the kid. The next, his burning eyes were boring into Logan’s. “You’ll have to help.”

Logan felt his lip curl instinctively. “ Help ?”

“You said he listens… he listens to the one in charge, right?” A complicated look flickered over Scott’s face before the leader motioned to the defibrillators that were still in his hand. “You established dominance. He answers to you.”

A growl began to rumble in Logan’s throat, but when he opened his mouth it didn’t form words like he wanted it to. He wanted to tell Scott to shove off. He wanted to tell the man that he wanted nothing to do with the stray brats that ran around the institute. He wanted to say that he didn’t care, that Scott would have to man up and figure it out. He wanted to say that he was too deep in trying to figure out his own head to try and help a kid. 

But the weight of the misused medical equipment in his hand reminded him of the inside knowledge that he was cursed with. Scott didn’t have the backbone to order the kid around, not in the same way that Logan could. The kid did listen to him, as much as Logan hated it. 

“You’ve been through this, Logan,” Jean said softly when he didn’t reply. She looked at him with pleading eyes and a bleeding heart, her red hair framing her face as she spoke. “You have to take him.”

“Take him?” Logan growled, his skin prickling at the idea. “What do you expect me to do with him?”

“Watch over him. Help him out of…” Jean’s eyes shifted over to the boy’s motionless form, and she looked away as quickly as she could. “ This .”

“It’s not safe to have him around the other students. Not right now, at least,” Ororo pointed out. The cuts on her hand were still bleeding sluggishly, but it didn’t change the pity that filled her gaze as she looked at the blue mutant. Logan hated that the pity remained in her gaze once she turned back to him. “We need someone who understands him to watch over him.”

“I’m not a babysitter,” Logan bit out, but even he realized that he was fighting a losing battle. The X-Men couldn’t handle this kid, not in this state. They wouldn’t know what to do with him. They would not be able to understand the things that he understood. He could tell that the three expectant faces around him realized this as well.

“You’re right, Logan. You’re not a babysitter.” Scott nodded toward the kid, and Logan prepared himself for some sort of moral tagline. “And he is not a baby. You said it yourself.”

Of course . Trapped in his own words. Scott always could use words more than anything else at his disposal. Somehow, he always managed to make others see his point, to see that he was right.

And as much as Logan hated it— which was quite a lot— he couldn’t deny the fact that the man was right. He may be the leader of the X-Men, the one responsible for the strays that they took in, but he did not know what to do here. This mutant was not a kid, not like the other ones that Scott and Jean and Ororo could coddle and nurture. This mutant was a machine, a person who had been stripped down to an animal. They couldn’t understand that. They couldn’t handle that. 

Logan could. 

Another growl itched at the back of his throat, and Logan indulged it. He growled, and he could feel the animal that he had been made into scratching at his skin. He could feel the eyes of the X-Men boring into him, and he could feel the itching need to understand what they needed and what they wanted just to get them to leave him alone . They were old instincts, but they remained all the same. Logan hated them. 

At some level, a level of empathy that he usually didn’t bother to access, he hated that the kid would be in the midst of those instincts. 

He let out a breath, and with it he shoved his emotions to the side. This required a clear mind. This required a firm, unattached presence. This required something that the X-Men would never be able to provide. As much as he hated to admit that Scott was right, this was one situation where he was.

“Fine,” Logan grumbled. “I’ll keep an eye on him.”

Scott gave him a small smile. “We appreciate it.”

“You better,” Logan growled, and he meant it. They had better appreciate that he was watching this kid. They had better appreciate that he was keeping the creature under control.

They didn’t understand what they were bringing into their home.

Chapter Text

The kid was docile. He concerningly, expectedly docile.

At first, Logan had kept the defibrillators on hand. Every move that the boy made he was sure to have his finger on the button, ready to activate the electrical hum. Scott had given him a look, but Logan wasn’t above using the noise to spark fear and submission. However, the longer that time went on, the more his finger began to move from the trigger. He didn’t abandon the device entirely, but it quickly became obvious that it wouldn’t be necessary. 

Anything Logan said, the boy did — anything at all. He followed orders without question. He bent to every test that he was given. He didn’t make any sort of protest as they ran him through medical tests, cleaned his wounds, rebandaged them, or anything else. He didn’t flinch at needles or pricks when Jean took a blood sample, and he shifted into position easily when Scott brought the forgotten IV forward, and he stayed still for the entire time they kept it on. Every movement that he made was practiced and mechanical, as though he had been through this process many times before. 

There was only one thing that the boy didn’t do when asked. Throughout the entire process, he didn’t speak a word.

The X-Men were concerned. Logan wasn’t. He did wish that Jean would stop trying to make conversation with the kid though; it made the situation more uncomfortable for everyone.

“Could you tell us your name?” She asked— not for the first time— as she redid the bandages that had been knocked loose in the fight. It was easier this time since he was conscious and moved whatever way that she needed him to. At the moment he had his arm held out, and his previous black shirt was gone to give Jean the ability to better secure the temporary cast around his wrist. The lack of fabric revealed more dark blue skin, and Logan could see the way that Jean would avert her gaze from the pock-marked scars that littered his skin. This was obviously not his first fight.

The kid didn’t respond to Jean’s question. He simply stared forward, his yellow eyes blank and dull as she finished with his broken wrist. Once she was done and began to move on, the arm dropped lifelessly back to his side. 

At this most recent bout of silence, Logan found Jean’s eyes shifting to look at him. There was a question and a concern deep in her gaze, and it made Logan want to sigh. It had been only a few hours since this kid had come into the Institute and yet the amount of side glances and silent questions that had been directed to him had already become exhausting. He hardly had a choice in this matter, and yet he was already regretting his agreement to this entire situation. Rather than show that though, he gave her a simple shrug and averted his gaze. His arms crossed over his chest, and he hoped that she would get the hint and stop trying to make conversation with the kid that was obviously not going to reciprocate.

Logan couldn’t remember much of his captivity, but he could remember the first few weeks of freedom. He could remember how long it took to relearn how to speak on his own. He didn’t want to remember that time. 

As Jean continued to work, Ororo gravitated toward Logan. He had told her that she could leave. She hadn’t listened. 

“We should get that thing off of him,” she murmured quietly, as if concerned that the boy would hear. Her face was angled toward Logan, but her soft gaze continued to stray back to the kid. It was as if she thought that her stares would make him uncomfortable, despite the fact that he was already quite obviously the object of attention in the room. 

Logan followed her gaze. Unsurprisingly, she was staring at the piece of metal wrapped around the boy’s throat. 

“The collar?”

“Yes. It is detestable.”

“Maybe, but it’s something he’s used to.” The collar was a constant. Logan could remember that much. Sometimes he still woke up feeling as though he needed that metal around his throat. Plus, the collar was the source of the electricity. There was a mentality behind it that, for now, should be preserved. “You want him to feel comfortable, right?”

Ororo made a face, one that seemed twisted in a mix of disgust and righteous anger. “That thing cannot be comfortable.”

“You don’t know.” That was the truth. She didn’t know. The X-Men knew nothing of this situation. They were asking Logan to take care of it, so he would. They wouldn’t like it, and that was fine; some things had to be done. It was true enough to make her stop, and it was true enough for his point to stand. 

Jean was still binding the boy’s injuries, and Logan could see her eyes catching on different marks in the blue skin beneath her hands. With the kid’s shirt gone, the marks were suddenly much more apparent. Logan could practically see the questions that were beginning to form in her mind with each pass that her fingers made over the indigo skin. Every few moments her eyes would begin to drift toward him, and then focus back on her patient. There was a dam holding those questions back, and each moment the dam seemed to weaken a bit more. Logan decided to put a stop to things before that dam could break.

“Do you think he’s good enough?” He asked Jean. The woman tilted her head toward him, then glanced back at the boy in front of her. 

“Apart from the fact that he won’t speak…” she paused, as if waiting for the boy to say something and contradict her. Or perhaps she was waiting for any reaction at all. What she received was a continued blank stare directed to the wall in front of them. A soft breath left her lips, and then she shook her head. “Well, besides that, yes. I think his injuries are taken care of, for now.”

“Good.” Logan didn’t want to be in this metallic, hospital-like basement any longer. He wanted to get out of here, out of the mansion, even, and clear his head. He knew that to do that, he had to make sure that this kid was stashed safely away where he couldn’t hurt anyone… or at least, somewhere that he would be less likely to hurt someone. “Let’s get him set up somewhere, I guess.”

“We’ve got a guest room ready upstairs,” Scott spoke up. Logan glanced over to where the man was leaning against the wall. He held up his phone like a declaration. “I let Kitty and Bobby know that we had a new student. They made sure everything was put together.”

“Kitty and Bobby?” Logan asked, his nose wrinkling slightly as he tried to remember which students those names belonged to. In reality, he had only stuck around the school because of Rogue. She said a lot of names as she was getting to know other students. Those two had certainly been a part of the arsenal, but it was difficult for Logan to remember exactly what name matched with what loud, obnoxious child. “The loud-mouth and the icebox?”

He could feel Ororo’s displeasure and see Jean roll her eyes, but he didn’t care. He never pretended to get to know these kids. It was enough of a strain to interact with the X-Men, after all. 

“Yeah,” Scott said after a moment, his voice tinged with some sort of mild annoyance that Logan couldn’t care less about. “I guess that’s something you could call them.”

“Great. Whatever.” Logan glanced back at the kid that he was supposed to be helping with. The blue mutant was still sitting on the cot where Jean had been bandaging his injuries. He was still as stone, his gaze fixated somewhere in the middle distance, as if he was completely unaware of his surroundings. He probably was. “Are they gonna tell anyone else?”

“That we have a new student?” Scott clarified. When Logan nodded, the man glanced down toward his phone. “They probably already have.”

Logan let out a harsh huff, his claws itching in the back of his hands. Of course . Once one of the runts knew something, the entire rest of the school was soon to follow. He should have thought of that the moment that Scott had carried this kid in here… no, Scott should have thought of that before he decided to text two kids about the new creature under their watch. “What details do they have?”

“None. They just know that there’s a new kid, but—”

“Keep it that way,” Logan growled, completely uncaring that he interrupted Scott’s thought. “It’ll be better for everyone.”

Scott’s brow furrowed. “How so?”

“You saw what he did,” Logan said firmly. “He shouldn't be interractin’ with the squirts.”

“Not yet, maybe, but eventually he will.” Scott frowned. “There are plenty of kids here with their own unique challenges.”

“I’m sure,” Logan said dryly. “But this one’s a weapon. The kids need to stay far away from him, and they don’t need to know why.”

“Logan, explaining would—”

“Explaining would spark curiosity , Summers,” Logan pointed out. “You gotta know how dangerous that is.” 

Scott’s red glasses didn’t break his gaze. “Leaving them in the dark would be even worse. They can’t exactly ignore an entire new person living in their home.”

Logan curled his lip. He wanted to argue, but as much as he hated it, Summers had a point. There would have been no way to hide this from the students that swarmed the Institute. Besides, the damage had already been done. If even one of the kids knew about the blue boy, the whole school would know about it before long. They would know, that was inevitable. That didn’t mean they needed to be around him though.

“Just tell them to stay away, alright Summers?” Logan made sure to keep his gaze level with the other man. “For everybody’s sake.”

As much as Logan hated to admit that Scott had a point, he could tell the feeling was mutual. As much as Scott’s bleeding heart wanted him to help this kid, Logan could see him taking into account the wisdom that would be keeping him away from the rest of the runts. Scott may not understand anything about this, but he was a smart guy. He could see that this situation wasn’t normal. 

“I’ll talk to them,” Scott relented. He gave Logan a small nod. “They’ll leave him alone.”

That wasn’t all that Logan was getting at, but it was the best he was going to get. So after another moment he let out a breath, then nodded. 

“Alright then.” Scott pushed himself away from the wall that he had been leaning against. He turned to look at Jean, then Ororo, then the boy that was still sitting on the cot. Scott’s filtered gaze then turned to focus on Logan, and he gave a single nod. “Let us know if you need any help.”

Logan found himself gritting his teeth. He didn’t want help . He wanted the X-Men to get far away from this kid, as far as they possibly could. 

But of course, he didn’t voice these thoughts. He could already imagine the heartbroken look on both Jean and Scott’s faces, and he didn’t want to be the cause of that. They had to learn that they couldn’t fix everything… but Logan didn’t exactly want to be that teacher. Not now, at least. Not with a truth this heavy sitting right behind him.

Thankfully, his silence was enough. With one last look, the three X-Men finally left. The door of the med bay slid shut behind them, almost silent as it settled into place. 

Finally, it was only Logan and the kid left in the room.

Without meaning to, Logan let out a small sigh of relief. He could feel a bit of the tension in his shoulders begin to fade, and he granted himself an annoyed huff. Then, once he felt like the stinging buzz of scrutiny had finally begun to fade from his skin, he turned to the creature sitting on the cot.

Dull, blank eyes met his. Stringy black hair framed the gaunt blue face. Everything about the boy was utterly still, perfectly tense. 

“Alright then,” Logan muttered to himself, his words hardly more than a grumble on his tongue. “Let’s get this over with.”

He took a step closer to the boy, watching the utter lack of reaction that the kid gave him. There wasn’t a single twitch as Logan scrutinized him, which of course made sense; the kid was probably used to being studied.

Logan shook his head. He wasn’t in the mood to think any more about this situation. He would just get the kid to the guest room and make sure the door was locked. Then he would probably drink a beer or four; that felt necessary after a day like this. He moved to the left a bit more, ready to pick up the defibrillators if the need arose, and then he spoke.

“Get up.”

The command cracked out through the room, harsh and flat and cold in a way that tingled the base of Logan’s skull. It felt wrong to bark out orders like that, and a part of him recoiled from himself. A part of him, a part that he still couldn’t quite silence, insisted that this was wrong, that he should be on the receiving end of the demands. He shoved that part away before it was able to fully form, and instead focused on keeping his hand near the table.

His proximity to the defibrillators was unneeded. The moment that he spoke, the kid was on his feet, his blank eyes pointed at nothing and yet his body tensed for action. He was obviously waiting for his next order. He was waiting for Logan’s order’s.

Logan refused to think about that.

“Follow me,” he said curtly, then turned to the door. He could hear the quiet click of the kid’s clawed feet behind him, and he didn’t bother turning around to check that the creature was following. There was something about all of it that made Logan’s skin crawl, and he didn’t want to look at the boy for too long. There was too much familiarity in those dead yellow eyes.

First, get him out of the way. Then, beer.

He kept his goal in mind as he led the boy through the now-familiar halls of the school. He kept his mind on the goal rather than the creature’s near-perfect step, the way that he followed obediently at Logan’s heels, the way that his breathing was kept low and even. If the focus stayed on the goal, it would keep Logan from thinking about what he was doing too much. Beer was a great motivator. Get the kid secure, then beer.

He didn’t want to think about what was motivating the kid to follow him. He didn't want to think about that at all.

The guest room that Summers had cleared out was — thankfully — far away from normal student activity. It was tucked far back in one of the corner hallways, one that was closer to the teacher’s rooms than the student’s. It was a familiar hallway too; it was where they usually let the guests or new students sleep. It was also where they let anyone who needed to be further away from the action stay.

Logan’s room was just two doors down. Convenient.  

He stepped into the room without too much delay, and felt an unexpected sense of relief at the fact that it was empty. He had been expecting an empty room, of course, but Scott’s mention of the other students had put him on edge. He didn’t know what he would have done if some pipsqueak had been waiting to say hi to the “new arrival”. He knew that there had been plenty of people curious when Rogue first came to the school.

He barely held back a snarl. He didn’t want Rogue anywhere near this new creature. 

“Stop,” Logan commanded, and the boy stopped exactly where he was, all of his muscles freezing at once and his eyes turning to stare blankly at the floor. It made Logan’s teeth grit together, but he ignored it because it accomplished what he needed. The kid was in the room now. He had done that much. Now he could go back and get a beer and try to forget this all happened…

…but Summers wouldn’t be too happy about that. Jeanie wouldn’t either. He could already see the look of disappointment on Ororo’s face. The kid was only wearing the slim black pants that he had shown up in, which left the dark blue skin of his torso exposed to the air. It also left the scars that criss crossed his skin exposed… Logan had a feeling that the others wouldn’t appreciate seeing those. As much as he hated to admit it, he could feel his own eyes itching to drift away from the sight of mangled skin.

A part of him wondered how he would have looked without his healing factor.

Once again, Logan shoved his thoughts to the side. He had to get out of here . He practically ripped open the nearby dresser, ignoring the lack of reaction from the mutant as he pulled out the first shirt that he found. It was a simple gray t-shirt that was at least four sizes too big for the scrawny, tooth-pick of a creature that stood in front of him, but Logan could care less. He didn’t bother to spend the time to see if the guest clothing selection had something to fit “malnourished imp”, and rather held out the t-shirt to the kid. 

“Put it on.”

The kid didn’t hesitate. He took the shirt and pulled it over his head, and Logan winced for him as he saw the way that the movement pulled at the newly wrapped bandages. Maybe he should have been more careful about that. Maybe he should have tried to make the kid take a bath, with the amount of blood and sweat that still covered his scent. Maybe he should have done something more.

But Logan didn’t want to. He was tired and ragged and could still feel the itching sense of familiarity in the boy’s scent and mannerisms. Everything about this felt too familiar and he wanted it to stop.

The shirt hung down across the kid’s gaunt frame, absolutely swamping him as it fell down to his knees. Still, it hid the ribs that poked out from the kid’s blue hide, and it hid the scars that cut through his fur. It was good enough. Logan could worry about it more in the morning. 

But even as he began to turn away, he paused. He glanced back at the kid, who was once again staring listley at the ground. It didn’t feel right to call this creature ‘kid’. He was far from a kid. In this state, he was hardly even a person. 

Of course, the same thing could be said about Logan. At least he had a name. At least he had something to go off of.

The kid obviously didn’t have a name; at least, not when Jean asked him. But there might be something else… something that would make sense in the mutant’s mind.

“What’s your designation?” Logan asked, his voice as clear and commanding as he could force it to be. 

For the first time, he thought he saw some sort of involuntary reaction; a twitch of the tail as the dead eyes moved up to him. For a moment, Logan wondered if the kid was going to answer. Then, slowly, he watched as the boy held up one clawed hand, the point of his nail moving toward his neck. Logan stepped forward, and the boy didn’t flinch when Logan’s hand reached up and brushed the vulnerable flesh to see what he was pointing at. 

It took a bit of squinting, but he soon found it. There, embedded in the silver of the collar and right up against his throat, were letters. They were small and stamped, but once he found them Logan was able to easily read the inscription.

46483824 | T89 | J | Nightcrawler

“Nightcrawler,” Logan muttered aloud, and the word came out in more of a growl than he intended. It churned in his mouth like a bad taste, and the numbers preceding it seemed to seer his eyes. It was a familiar pattern. It was a familiar combination. Even the sight of letters pressed into metal was too much, all of it ringing and smarting in the base of his skull. 

45825243 

His mind drug up the number instinctively. The sequence was burned into his memory from years of repetition.  

T78

He could practically feel the weight of his dog tags against his fingers. The numbers were something that he knew better than himself for years.  

A

He knew the sequence before he knew his own name. He knew the numbers back when he was only — 

Wolverine.

It was all too similar. It was all too familiar. 

Logan let out a growl, and this time he saw the kid flinch. It was small, hardly more than a jump of the eyebrows, but it was there. Worse than that, the kid’s fists didn’t clench. He didn’t prepare to fight. The only thing that he did was bow his head, leaving his vulnerable neck utterly exposed. 

Logan wanted to snarl.

Instead he choked himself back to a mere grunt. He forced himself to keep the animal inside of him trapped, muzzled, caged — all too familiar — and he made it to the door. He barely managed not to slam the door, and it was only the last moment that he thought to look back over his shoulder and leave the kid with one last command. “Just— stay.”

He couldn’t do anything else. He didn’t even bother to look back. He simply shut the door as quickly as he could, and turned to go to his own room. It was a bit early in the day, but he didn’t care. It was all too familiar. All of it reminded him too much of things that he did not want to think about.

He was going to get a drink. Everything else, everything about Nightcrawler , could wait until the morning.

Chapter Text

Things felt… fuzzy, for the mutant.

It was in a new place. That much, it understood. It was in a place that was… softer, for lack of a better term. It was in a place that looked like a mission destination, not a base. But then again, it must be a base, if it was indeed the location it would be stored. Maybe this was a temporary stop. It had no way to know. It didn’t need to know.

The remnants of the sedatives that had been used in transport were still making their way through its system. Perhaps that was the main source of the fuzzy feeling. Or perhaps it was the motionless way that it had been standing. It was unsure how long it had been there. All it knew was that it had been told to stay.  

At some point, it had dozed. It didn’t sleep entirely — it hadn’t been given permission to do so — but the fuzzy feeling had led to an insatiable exhaustion that it couldn’t quite shake. Its new handlers seemed to have left it for the time being; while it was without scrutiny was the best time to attempt to gain some form of rest. 

It was not foolish enough to slip under the blanket of unconsciousness. The moment that it heard the soft, nearly inaudible click of the door handle, it was once again snapped to its senses, back rigid and eyes fixed on nothing as it drew itself up to attention. It was ready for instruction. It always was. 

There was a noise at the door, a low tap, tap on the wooden frame that nearly made the mutant tilt its head. It was far too well trained for that though. Instead it kept perfectly still, entirely at attention as the low knocking sound echoed through the room again. Then, slowly, it watched as the door began to creak open, the light of the hallway beginning to spill across the floor. With it came a hushed conversation that the mutant had to quickly tune out. It knew it wasn’t supposed to eavesdrop. It wasn’t meant for human conversation unless an order was being given. 

It did register the two voices though. One was a woman’s voice. It recognized her, and it remembered the feeling of soft, uncalloused hands wrapping bandages around its forearm. However, her voice was unimportant in comparison to the other. That voice was low, calloused, deep in a way that was already beginning to make it shiver on instinct. That was the voice that gave orders. That was its “new management”. That was the voice that was important.

There was a small gasp, but it came from the woman. The mutant paid no heed, though it did feel its muscles subconsciously tensing at her tone. Sharp. Surprised. Upset. At it? At something else? It didn’t know. It didn’t need to know. It needed to remain silent and ready, awaiting its orders.

There was a hand on its chin, and this one was rough. This one felt worn and well-used by the world. This hand was none too gentle as it tilted the mutant’s face up, forcing its gaze to raise. It was careful to keep its eyes focused on the distance but — in spite of everything, all its training — its gaze briefly shifted to glance at its new master. The man was sharper than the last. His jaw was chiseled and his black hair swept into a sharp point, sideburns drifting down the sides of his face and leading to a rough layer of stubble across his chin. Unlike the last, he wore no glasses. There was nothing to filter that sharp, searching gaze that he pinned the mutant down with. 

The words “new management” once again echoed through its mind, and it took far too much effort to suppress a shiver that wanted to run down its spine. It couldn’t shiver. It couldn’t shrink away. This was where it had been designated to be; it couldn’t disappoint.

“You stood here all night?” The new handler dipped into something that was almost like a growl — not an animalistic one, of course. The mutant would never insinuate that its master was anything less than human. His voice just did that, occasionally. The mutant had vaguely heard it the night before, when the man had been talking to the others between orders. It was quickly beginning to associate the growls with the man being upset. That was bad.

Still, the man should know the answer to his question. The mutant was in the exact position it had been left in. It hadn’t dared to move throughout the night, not even a little. It had stayed. It had obeyed. The new handler should be able to see that, shouldn’t he?

There was another growl rumbling in the man’s throat, and the mutant found itself tensing. It didn’t make sense — it had done what it had been told, why would he be upset? — but of course, it didn’t need to make sense. It had to prepare for punishment even if it had followed orders…

But then the hand dropped away, and the handler was turning his back on it. The mutant didn’t let its shoulders slump in relief — it was too well trained for that — but it did drop its gaze back to the ground. It felt easier to have its eyes focused on the lush carpet rather than the confusion of what was going on above it. That was where its gaze was supposed to be, after all. It didn’t understand what it had done wrong thus far, but it was determined not to make the same mistake again, lest its new handler be less gracious next time he was upset.

“He stayed like that all night?” The woman’s words washed over the mutant’s ears. It didn’t hear those words; it was just waiting for its next order. 

“I told him to stay.”

“Like that?”

“Obviously I didn’t mean it like that. I wasn’t thinking.”

“Did you feed him? Logan?”

“...I wasn’t thinking.”

“You—“ the woman’s voice cut off with a sharp inhale. “You told us you could handle this, Logan.”

“No, you brought a possibly dangerous creature in here without thinking for a second about what it would mean.” The mutant wasn’t listening to the words. It knew better than that. But it heard the tone, heard the growl creeping into its master’s voice, and it tensed. “I’m only dealing with it because I’m the only one who knows how.”

“Well, at this rate, it doesn’t look like you’re helping.” The woman let out a breath, and then she was kneeling down near the mutant. It waited for the reprimand that must be coming — she had been the one to bind its wounds, it would be fitting for her to undo them — but instead more honey-laced words that were above its level washed over its ears. “Hey there. Hey. Are you hungry?”

It carefully avoided looking in her direction. It kept its gaze focused on the ground, and it continued to wait. It was supposed to wait. It would know when it was needed, and then it would respond.

“Did you…” she paused, and the mutant continued to stay beneath the words as she turned back to its handler. “He needs a bath, Logan.”

“Didn’t want to mess up his bandages.”

“Really?”

“…I wasn’t thinking.”

There was another long sigh. The mutant could feel eyes on it again. It resisted the urge to shy away from the attention; that was a desire that it had broken years ago. 

“Are you hungry?” It was the same vocal pattern that had been spoken a moment before. The woman wasn’t looking at the handler; she was looking at the mutant, almost like she was speaking to it . That, of course, made no sense. The mutant was unsure as to why the handler hadn’t yet corrected her. 

“Jean, that’s not…” the master growled, the mutant tensed, and then, finally, a command was barked out. “Sit.”

That was something that the mutant was capable of.

It was on the floor in an instant, its knees tucked beneath it and its head carefully bowed. It kept its tail tucked close to its side, the spade curled just around one knee as it laid its palms flat on the soft floor. It didn’t allow its relief to show, nor the way that its body rocked with the weight finally being taken off of its legs. It could feel the bones creaking and tingling from the long night, and it felt thankful for the small mercy that it had been given. 

“Jean, go down and get him something to eat, I guess.” The eyes lingered scrutinizingly on the mutant, and it was careful to keep still. “And some fresh bandages. He could probably use ‘em. I’ll get him cleaned up while you do.”

“Are you sure, Logan?” The mutant wasn’t listening to the words, but it could still discern the commanding tone that the master had given. It hadn’t been an order, not one the same as the ones it was given, but it still felt itself tensing for the woman. She shouldn’t be hesitating. She should be obeying. Her hands had been kind when they had wrapped its wounds, and it liked her honey-silk voice. She should obey before…

The handler only sighed. “Yeah. I’m sure. I’ll be able to get him to move better. Should’a done it last night.”

“It’s alright. None of us were expecting this.” The woman reached out, and from the corner of its vision the mutant could see her hand resting on the handler’s bicep. “Thank you, Logan.”

All that followed was a grunt, but apparently that was an acceptable response because the woman gently slipped out of the room. The handler let out another breath once she was a few feet down the hall, and the mutant could feel his attention turn back to it.

“Alright then. Let’s get you cleaned up.” The first few words were gruff, but the mutant didn’t have to wonder if it was supposed to decipher them because they were followed by a sharp, recognizable command. “Follow.”

It was on its feet before the word was finished, and the scream of protest from its overworked knees was quickly filed away along with its exhaustion. It followed quickly behind the man's heels as he led it to a new portion of the storage room — guest room? Spare room? It didn’t need to know — and opened a door in the wall. The door led to what the mutant recognized as a bathroom.

It knew what a bathroom was. It knew what it looked like to streak red blood across the tiles. 

The handler stopped near the end, then glanced back at the mutant. It stopped with him, assuming it was a part of the “follow” order. Thankfully, the assumption didn’t seem to backfire on him. The handler didn’t seem displeased… at least, not any further. There was a sour look that had been on his face every time that he glanced in the direction of the mutant. That was understandable. That was to be expected. 

“Shower,” the man said, and he accented the word by pointing toward the device. The mutant allowed its eyes to drift in that direction, hoping that was what its handler wanted. Yes. A shower. It recognized that. Would its next assignment have something to do with a shower? Was that why its new handler was showing it?

Apparently its silent recognition wasn’t enough. The handler let out a huff, and the mutant tensed, its muscles ready to take a blow when the man dealt out a rebuke for its stupidity. However, the blow didn’t come, only another sharp order. “Shower,” he repeated, this time pointing a finger at the mutant before turning it to the shower. “You. Shower. Now.”

The mutant carefully kept its tail from twitching. It took conscious effort, and it could feel its mind moving slowly. No, no, it needed to be better than this. It needed to be quicker. Its new handler was giving an order. It must comply if it wanted to avoid the consequences. He was pointing out the shower, he… wanted the mutant to shower? Here?  

Maybe… maybe this place was not properly equipped to handle a mutant yet. It had been left unchained and without surveillance for what it assumed to be an entire night. This was new management, not the previous facility. They must be setting up a proper holding cell, and that would have the proper mutant maintenance stations. And until then his new handler… was showing it the mercy of allowing it to use a superior facility?

It didn’t understand, but it was being too slow. It could hear the low rumble of a growl beginning again in the man’s throat, and it knew it was beginning to test his patience. It stepped forward, and when the man didn’t say anything, it stepped forward again. Soon it was next to the shower, and it tensed, waiting for the punishment that would come for its stupid assumption or misinterpretation. Then, when none came, it began to peel off the long shirt that it had been given the night before. A small, small part of its mind hoped it would be allowed to rewear the item rather than being confined to only the combat pants again. The rest of its mind vehemently reminded it that even those would be a mercy.

The handler had stopped grumbling, which seemed to mean that the mutant had — somehow — come to the correct conclusion. It continued to strip down while the handler turned and slipped back into the main room. A moment later he returned, though only to place a bundle of fabric on the counter.

The man glanced up at the mutant briefly. “Use these,” he said curtly, his hand tapping once on the new pile of clothes. Then, without another word, he shut the door. He was doing nothing to stop the mutant.

Somehow, this must be what it was supposed to do. The new handler must just not have a spicket or a hose set up. Not yet, at least. 

Getting in the shower felt wrong. Allowing the water to fall over its scalloped, misshapen ears felt wrong. Raising its deformed, clawed hand to scrub at its greasy hair and realizing that the water was warm felt wrong. This was all too good for a creature like it. It could see the way the water beneath its mangled feet began to turn almost black with the grime that it washed away, and it felt an instinctive burn of guilt for the dark stains against the bright white porcelain. Every second, it expected for the new handler to burst into the room and show it just how wrong it was. 

It didn’t allow the warm water to lull it into a sense of security. It did not allow itself to linger beneath the spray. It scrubbed at its fur as quickly as it could, ignoring the dull throb of the injuries that still tugged at its skin. It hated to get the bandages soaked when it likely would wear these till it was deemed well enough, but it had its orders and it wasn’t going to resist the kindness in any way.

The moment that the water began to turn clear beneath its clawed feet, it shut the water off. It shook out its pelt there in the shower, and once it was as dry as possible, it stepped out into the cold air. It didn’t allow itself to feel the cold, nor the ache from its bandaged limbs. Instead it focused on the pile of clothes on the counter. Its previous clothes were heaped in the corner, dropped where it assumed it would pick them up later. But now… the handler had placed another bundle of clothes. It had specifically told the mutant to use those new clothes. 

It couldn’t move too slowly. It had already taken more time than it should have in the shower. Its fur always took too long to clean, it didn’t have time to hesitate.

The mutant stepped across the tile, then reached over to the clothes on the counter. It winced slightly as his claws caught on the fabric. Damaging it already, its mind whispered, but it shook off the thought. It wasn’t supposed to think. It was supposed to follow orders and — for some reason — it was ordered to put on the new clothes. It wasn’t just a pair of boxers either, like it was so often granted. It was given those, plus a pair of long, loose-fitting sweatpants, and even a new shirt that was a size smaller than the previous one. It still fell just above the mutant’s knees, but it could still feel the small sense of relief that came with having a bit more of its fur covered. Realistically, the fabric would give no protection, but it still felt as though there was a layer keeping its back and torso from sight. 

It shouldn’t find pleasure in something so easily ripped away, especially when that thing was nice. The fabric was soft against its skin and fur, nothing like the rough, uncomfortable things it was rarely granted at the facility. This was something better, something meant for humans. This would be a temporary luxury. Its new handlers would quickly realize these garments were too good for a creature like it. 

For the time being, the mutant allowed itself to be grateful for the kindness. It couldn’t let it show its gratefulness, of course, but it could still feel this one kernel of emotion. 

The door clicked, and the mutant froze instinctively. Its hands dropped to its sides, away from the hem of the shirt that it had been fiddling with, and its tail — which had begun to sway ever so slightly — was quickly stilled. By the time the door had fully opened and its new handler had looked inside, it had masterfully tucked everything away behind its usual blank eyes and bowed head, its gaze carefully trained on the tile floor. Silence followed the movement, and the mutant could feel itself tensing for punishment. You thought any of this was for you? Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong—

“Good. You’re done.” The first few words were said in that rumbly voice, the one that made the mutant’s fur prickle as it wondered what was wrong, why was he upset, but it was soon replaced with a sound that it understood and knew what to do with: orders. “Come here.”

The mutant could feel its ears twitch ever so slightly before it managed to still them. It knew this one. It knew this order well. Its old handlers always liked how it showed initiative with this one; it was good that it could show its training to this “new management”. Perhaps, if it performed well enough, it would be permitted to keep the shirt. 

It stepped forward as the handler stepped back into the main room. As soon as the handler stopped the mutant stopped as well, falling to its knees in one swift movement. It kept its palms spread against the soft carpet and it bared its neck, carefully tilting it toward its handler to make the process easier. Then it waited, listening for the familiar click of a chain connecting to the collar. 

Instead, it heard an unfamiliar noise. It sounded almost like a snarl, but it was choked back before it could form. That didn’t make sense, of course. Snarls and growls of that nature were mutant noises, animal noises, not noises that a handler would make. Still, any sort of noise like that meant that the handler had to be displeased, and that was bad. The mutant bowed its head further, careful to keep its tail curled tightly around it and out of stomping range, and hoped desperately that it hadn’t just messed everything up.

“No, you’re—“ the voice cut off and grumbled something in that low, dangerous rumble that the mutant knew wasn’t meant for it to understand. It stayed bowed, refused to tremble, and waited for whatever consequence was to come. “Stand up.”

It was on its feet in an instant, and it felt a twinge of anxiety when there was no clack of chains following its movements. “Come here” always meant the leash, or the shackles, or some sort of containment. It was never left without contingencies for this long, unless it was being deployed. Was it going to be deployed now? Was that why the new handler had been angry that it had prepared for containment?

The old handlers had liked when it was docile. They liked when it seemed aware of the process, even if they disliked when it was aware of anything else. This annoyance was different. It didn’t know what to expect from this new handler. It had never been shifted to different ownership before, and it was quickly struggling to adjust.

There wasn’t enough time for it to process the obvious annoyance from its handler though, because before anything else could be said, the door opened. The mutant could instantly smell the new arrival — sharp vanilla soap, a light touch of cinnamon, something warm like the sun — and recognized the scent of the woman who had come in with its handler. In addition to her scent, it recognized that she was carrying something; food.  

“Oh, good! That was fast!” The door shut behind the woman, and the mutant carefully tuned out the conversation that would follow. It didn’t need to hear this. “You’re a lot more blue than I thought!”

“Looks like he had a layer of dirt over his fur,” the handler said, his voice still low and unhappy.

“Well, glad that’s off, finally.”

“Hey, I told you—“

“It’s alright, Logan. Really, I’m just glad we’re making progress now.” She sat down on the floor, and the food-smell followed her. The mutant carefully avoided looking in its direction, and even more carefully ignored the dull ache in its stomach. “Here little guy, this is for you.”

Her honey-sweet words washed over its ears. It could smell the food, but it ignored it. It had been trained in this plenty of times before. It knew its place.

“Did you hear me?” The scent of food grew stronger, and the mutant could see the way that the woman was leaning forward. Its stomach twisted, and it could not tell if it was hunger or nausea that pulled at its insides. A test. That’s what this was. That was the only reason she would be moving the food closer. Of course. It made sense; they were its new handlers. They would want to ensure that it was well-trained. That was why it was there, unchained, with food that it shouldn’t eat in front of it. Perhaps that was even why it had been left unrestrained all night. 

It would prove its understanding. It had to be worth something, and it was worth nothing without obedience.

“Are you not hungry?” There was a pause. “Logan…”

The mutant could hear a heavy sigh from behind it. “Eat.”

Its muscles locked up at that, two halves of its small, animal brain warring with each other. That was an order. It was supposed to obey. It was meant to obey. And yet… it was a test. Did they want to see if their orders would override its programming, or did they want to see if its programming would override its orders? Was it meant to obey? Was it meant to disobey? Was this a test or a trick? 

It wasn’t supposed to eat human food. This smelled like some sort of pastry, pastry and eggs and bacon or some other meat that it didn’t let itself focus on for fear of losing control. This was food that was far above its standing. It had been trained to resist the temptation of human food. It had been trained harshly to ignore any snacks or meals that its handlers had brought for themselves. It knew what it was meant to have. It knew what it deserved, and this was not it.

But at the same time… an order. It had been trained to obey the word of its handler above all else. To disobey its handler meant pain worse than death. This was the handler that it had been transferred to. This was who it was meant to obey.

It was too slow. It was slow and it was stupid, and it could hear the handler behind it getting annoyed. That was the third or fourth time that had happened since the morning. What if it was all a test? What if it had already failed by accepting the shower that it had been told to take? What if it had already been deemed broken and unusable, and this food was just a taunt? The master had to be near his breaking point. Punishment would be imminent by now. The mutant was too slow to understand—

“He’s not gonna take it.”

“What? He’s so skinny, he needs—“

“Put it away, you’re just overwhelming him.” The handler’s voice was a command, but it was a gentler one. It wasn’t directed at the mutant. He didn’t wait for the woman’s response but instead turned to the door, and stalked out with heavy footsteps. The mutant continued to stand, frozen, the smell of food slowly pulling away, petrified of what he would return with. Punishment. It had to be punishment. It had done something wrong, it—

“Logan, what is that?”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“But—”

“I know what I’m doin’, Jeanie.”

The door shut again. The man’s footsteps echoed heavily over the hardwood, bringing him swiftly closer to the mutant. There was a low screech, the sound of a can being opened, and then a smell that the mutant recognized filled the air.

Food. Food that it could have.

The can was placed in front of it, and it took all of the restraint left in its exhausted body not to fall to its knees then and there. The nausea in its belly turned to full, true hunger, and it realized that it had been over two days since it had last eaten. It was unsure of how long it had been unconscious when it was extracted from its mission; perhaps it had been three. It barely managed to keep its tail still as it waited, agony curling around its middle as it waited until—

“Eat.”

It hesitated just enough so that the handler could change his mind, and when he didn’t it fell to its knees. The carpet pressed into its palms and it carefully kept its claws from tearing at the flooring before it shifted to grab the can. The edges of the thing were torn and sharp, and it had to slow down just enough to keep from cutting itself in its haste to get the nutrition. When it finally began to gulp down the contents, it was surprised to find that it wasn’t the same dry, tasteless kibble or slimy, canned contents it was used to. It was flavored, at least more so than anything the mutant was usually fed. Yet, despite the doubts that it was still too good, it was given after a test. It was ordered to eat this. It was supposed to eat this. 

It sucked down the contents until there was nothing left, and it could feel its stomach churning and settling with the new influx of nutrients. It had to force itself to keep its tail still against the carpet, and it hoped that it had not been wagging while it had been eating. However, whether it had or not, the food hadn’t been taken away. The mutant had eaten its fill without consequence, even with the two humans staring down at it. This must have been a test. They must have been trying to see its limits, and the reward was better than anything it would have gotten back at the old facility.

The mutant made sure to slip back into proper posture without being told, its head bowed as it awaited its orders. It was careful to tune out the conversation that began in hushed, human tones.

“Logan… did he really just eat that?”

“I told you.”

“That was dog food.”

“You better be glad that Jubilee keeps asking to feed that stray.”

“I… won’t that make him sick?”

“That’s what he’s used to. Regular food is more likely to mess him up.”

The woman sounded concerned, the handler sounded defensive, and the mutant could hear the tensions rising. It didn’t know what the conversation was about. It didn’t need to know. It only needed to brace itself as the tones began to dip into something closer to an argument. 

“You can’t feed a kid dog food, Logan.”

“He ate it, didn’t he?”

“That’s not right — “

“Jean—“ The handler’s voice sharpened, and the mutant tensed. It was unsure if it was somehow the cause, or just a prop in another argument. It had thought it had done a good job. It was following orders to the best of its ability, and the food must have meant it was doing good. Was it still at fault for the tension? Was this something else, something above its animal comprehension? Either way, the cause didn’t matter. The tensions were rising and, more likely than not, it would be punished to relieve some of that anger.

It was instinct that had it tilting its face down, carefully resting its forehead against the floor. Its palms pressed into the carpet as it tucked its knees against its chest, its back and neck entirely exposed and easy to access. A moment too late it remembered that these masters seemed less inclined to initiative, but at that point it was already in position. They wouldn’t have to bother to beat it down; it was already on the ground, just waiting for the pain to follow.

The conversation above it went silent.

“Logan…”

“Jean.” The handler’s voice was clipped, and the mutant desperately tuned it out. It was ready. It was prepared. It knew how to block out the pain even better than it knew how to block out the voices. “Let me handle this.”

“But—“

“I’m telling you, I know what this is. I knew with the food and I know with this.”

“What is…”

“You don’t want to know.”

“You can’t…”

“Jean, this is exactly why you asked me to do this. I understand this. I can handle this. You can’t.” The mutant nearly shivered at the harsh tone, but the movement was stilled before it could interrupt its form. “Let me handle this.”

There was a moment of silence. Then, slowly, it heard the door open. There was another beat, and then it closed again. The scent of vanilla and sun began to fade, and the mutant was left with metal and cedar and sweat.

This handler would hit a lot harder than the last. The mutant had to work to keep its muscles from getting too knotted. 

It could hear the sound of a sigh being released. Then a few slow, agonizing seconds of silence followed. Then the man said something, and the mutant wasn’t sure if it was supposed to listen or not. 

“What exactly are you waiting for?”

The voice was a low rumble, one that the mutant couldn’t discern whether it was meant as an order, or if the man was just talking to himself. It didn’t sound like an order… but there was no one else in the room. This could be another test; a test as to whether or not it would listen in to regular conversation. Or had it already been through that test while the woman was in the room?

There was too much to think about. Every single move, even the ones that it knew were right, felt wrong. 

The man knelt down next to it, and the mutant tensed. However, instead of delivering a blow, a hand simply tugged at the shirt that it had been given. The hand didn’t even take it away, it simply moved the fabric to the side, briefly exposing the creature’s back to the air, before tugging it back down. There was a rumble above its head, and the mutant could feel the displeasure in the air. 

“I can’t even tell through that mess. They could’ve done anything to you.”

It listened to the words just enough to see if there was an order embedded in the statement. There was nothing, nothing that it could understand, at least. It made its skin crawl, and it barely bit back a shiver as the hand ghosted over its back again. Scouting for a spot to hit? Debating what method of punishment to use? Maybe, if the handler was merciful, he was checking so that he could avoid the previous injuries that still pulled beneath the soaked bandages. 

“Your fur’s wet,” the handler murmured, cruising under his breath as he said it. “I didn’t tell you to dry off, did I?”

The mutant almost heard the words. It shouldn’t be listening — they weren’t spoken in a tone that demanded it listen — but it heard enough to make it tense more. Had it been supposed to dry off? That wasn’t part of the orders. That wasn’t part of the usual routine. That was more than it had ever been given before, it didn’t think to even consider that.

Everything seemed to be so much more than it was used to. Everything was too much…

“I know. You’re overwhelmed. Overthinking.” There was a heavy sigh above the mutant, and it almost shivered as the handler’s hand rested on its shoulder. It expected the thing to squeeze, maybe move to its neck, maybe pull back and return with more force… but it didn’t. It simply rested there. “Nothing makes sense, even the things that should make sense. You probably can’t even hear what I’m saying right now; or at least, you’re trying not to.”

The mutant thought about focusing on the words, but… the hand was easier to focus on. There was weight pressing against its skin, but it wasn’t an unkind weight. It was simply… there. That was easier to think about then the words that it wasn’t sure were meant for it.

“I know you’re expecting… something, right now. But I dunno what they used to do as a standard, and Jean would kill me if I hit a kid.”

The hand moved slightly and the mutant braced for a blow, but… none came. There was still nothing. It didn’t understand… where was the punishment? Why was it being delayed?

“I know. This limbo. It’s…” there was a small huff. “I don’t know. I didn’t have to deal with people. You’ve got expectations. You’ve got people hoverin’ over you and…”

The man cut himself off, and the hand left the mutant's shoulder abruptly. The creature tensed, waiting for the blow that was sure to follow, but… none came. There was still nothing.

“I don’t want to deal with this,” the man was muttering, his voice a low rumble that carried over the mutant’s ears and made it shiver. There was a beat of silence, then there was another huff. With that the man stood up, and when the mutant dared to cast its eyes slightly in his direction, he was already halfway to the door. It was just before he walked over the threshold that he glanced back, his eyes dark in the dim lighting of the room.

“Sleep,” he said, and the word was undoubtedly a command. The rest of his sentence, when he went on to mutter something like “since you forgot to earlier”, was a mutter that must not have been meant for the mutant. It heard it regardless, and it carefully made sure not to wince until the handler had closed the door. The man seemed upset. The mutant was not sure if the greater crime was listening to words it was not meant to, or not sleeping at a time it had not been told to. 

Really, it wasn’t sure what was expected of it at all. It didn’t know what it had done. It didn’t know what it had failed to do. It had no idea what punishment would come, but it seemed as if one was imminent.

And yet… it had been granted clothing. It had been rewarded with food. It had been told to sleep. It knew to follow orders, and it knew not to let chances of rest go lightly. It was grateful for the chance, and it would not waste it. 

The mutant curled up on the floor, and even that felt too good. The carpet was soft and gentle against its injuries, and it was able to let the confusion of the new management slip from its mind. It had been told to sleep. It was supposed to sleep.

The mutant was unconscious within minutes.

Chapter Text

Logan.

The voice in his head was familiar and highly, highly unwelcome. Logan didn’t want to have to deal with people at the moment. He had hardly closed the door on the mutant creature he was supposed to be dealing with, and he still found his skin crawling at the familiarity that came with some of the elfish boy’s movements. It made him want to get out of the mansion and far, far away from people.

However, as much as he wanted to leave, he knew that any summons from the professor were best answered. Xavier really didn’t like to be ignored, and it saved everyone a literal headache if his mental summons were heeded. 

As much as Logan didn’t want to deal with the headache that was people at the moment, he also didn’t want to have to deal with the headache of an annoyed Charles Xavier. So, with that in mind, Logan resigned himself to a lecture and turned his pathway to the study, where he knew the man would be.

“Logan.” Sure enough, Logan had hardly even pushed the door open before Xavier was speaking. “Would you mind to explain the situation of our new student?”

Logan groaned audibly. Any hopes of this chat being on another subject were dashed at once. “Haven’t you talked to Summers?”

“Scott gave me the brief, yes.” Xavier glanced up from the book that lay open on his desk, his hands in front of his face as he stared up at Logan with a sharp eye. “He told me that the boy was in your hands, though. I thought you may have more information.”

“Is this gonna take long?” Logan could already feel his skin crawling beneath Xavier’s gaze, and he tried to make sure that his mental shields were pulled up. They wouldn’t do shit against Xavier, he knew that, but he could at least pretend he had some sort of defense against the man. No matter how much Xavier claimed to have morals about searching people’s minds, Logan could never quite believe that he didn’t poke around. “I was gonna take Rogue downtown.”

Xavier raised an eyebrow. “Really?”

No, it had simply been the first excuse that had come to mind. Still, now that he said it, it sounded like a good idea. Rogue was just about the only person he could stand at the moment, and he hadn’t spent much time with the girl the past week. 

Plus, anything would be better than being grilled by Charles Xavier. 

“Very well,” Xavier said despite Logan’s lack of response. “We’ll keep it short. Just tell me about the new child.”

“He’s not a child,” Logan growled instinctively. Xavier arched his eyebrow higher, and Logan huffed in annoyance. “He’s not what you would think of as a child. That thing’s got the scent of programming all over him.”

“Programming, you say?”

“Yes.” Logan hated to spell it out, but he could see the hunger for more in Xavier’s gaze. “The kid’s been made into a weapon. He nearly took out three X-Men when he attacked.”

Xavier hummed. “Yes, Scott mentioned that. And what triggered the attack?”

Logan huffed. “Nothin’. It was just the standard check-up. He was unconscious, Jeanie stabbed him to get a blood sample, and then he woke up and went berserk just like—”

“Like you did, when you first came here?” Xavier’s gaze was far too piercing. It sliced Logan to the bone, and he could feel his skin prickle where phantom blades cut through it. 

“Exactly,” Logan growled, refusing to let Xavier see just how much that bothered him. “That’s why the kid’s dangerous.”

“That’s why he needs help,” Xavier pressed gently, as if he was chiding Logan for his hostility. “And that is why you are the best equipped to help him.”

I’m also the best equipped to slice his throat if things go south, Logan’s mind hissed. He continued to stare Xavier down, waiting for a reaction. He wanted to know if the man was snooping around in his thoughts.

There was no waver in Xavier’s gaze. Either the man was actually keeping his thoughts to himself for once, or he agreed with Logan. Logan found that he didn’t care either way.

“Are we done here?” Logan asked, stepping back as he did. His skin was crawling again, and he really was ready to get away from the suffocating walls of the school.

“Just about,” Xavier promised. “How is the boy now?”

“He’s sleeping,” Logan said cooly.

That made Xavier frown. “Did he not sleep last night?”

“He wasn’t given permission,” Logan growled, half beneath his breath. He felt… not exactly guilty about how the boy had been left overnight, but certainly not good. He could remember nights like that, long sleepless nights left on his feet because that was where he was told to be—

— No. This was why Logan was itching to get away. He wanted to think about anything else.  

“I see,” Xavier said, concern edging his voice as he nodded. “Well, I hope he gets rest now. He’ll need it; I’m hoping to introduce him to some other students tomorrow.”

“What?” Logan, who had been in the process of turning back to the study’s door, whipped around and pinned Xavier with a burning gaze. “You can’t be serious.”

“Of course I am,” Xavier said, as if there was nothing to be concerned about. “He is a student here, isn’t he?”

“No, he’s not,” Logan snarled. “He’s dangerous.”

“He’s a lost boy,” Xavier said naively. “Being around someone his own age could do him some good. Take Rogue, for instance—”

“I don’t want Rogue anywhere near that thing,” Logan snarled sharply. The idea of Rogue being in the same room as Nightcrawler made his claws itch beneath his skin, and he was barely able to keep them in. He steadfastly ignored the mental image of Nightcrawler’s gaze when he was looking at Logan — a brief flicker of fear that had been too potent for the boy to mask — instead focusing on the blank stare the creature had worn as he tried to slice Jean’s face open. 

“That is not what I was suggesting,” Xavier said simply, as if Logan’s growls meant nothing. “I simply meant for you to think of how far she has come since she has been here. She has adjusted to life, has adjusted to her powers, and all with the support of peers that are in her same situation.”

“There’s no one in his situation,” Logan growled, his voice low and gravelly as he glared at Xavier. 

The man stared right back at him. “No one but you, Logan.”

That was enough to make Logan jerk back. He huffed, but the sound was more like a snarl. “Then take it from me,” he spat venomously. “You want that kid as far from the others as possible. The elf couldn’t even recognize food when it was put in front of him. He’s not ready to be with others.”

A look of concern passed over Xavier’s face. “He wasn’t eating? Has he eaten anything?”

Logan snorted. “Let’s just say that Jubilee’s going to have to share her stash of dog food.”

Xavier’s face shifted as he seemed to process that. “Well. I suppose you have your work cut out for you.”

Logan bristled. “And why—”

“—do I think you’ll help? Remember, you volunteered for this, Logan.” Xavier met his eyes again, and there was a steely determination in their depths. “You are right. You understand this much better than most of us do. I want us to help this child, and that responsibility has fallen to you.”

A low growl echoed from Logan’s chest. “And what if he can’t be helped?”

Xavier’s gaze did not waver. “I don’t believe that is the case.”

Logan huffed again and, with that, he stalked out of the study. Xavier didn’t protest, and Logan made sure to close the door harshly as he stepped out. The slam echoed down the hall, and Logan could feel Xavier’s words echo in his mind. The man had good intentions, of course he did; he always had “good intentions”, it was one of the most annoying things about the guy. He wanted to help the new kid under his roof… of course he wouldn’t be able to accept the fact that not every sad mutant within his walls could be fixed.  

The thought made something deep within Logan’s chest burn, and he tried not to think about the holes in his own mind as he turned down another hallway.

“Logan?”

This time, the name was outside of his mind. This time, it was the one voice that Logan felt that he could handle at the moment. If it had been Scott’s voice or even Jean’s he would have kept walking. Instead, he paused and turned.

“Hey kid,” he said, half-smiling at the girl as she smiled back at him. 

“The professor said you wanted to see me?” Rogue said, tilting her head as she did.

Of course. Logan tried to keep from cursing the professor in his head, just in case the guy was listening. He let out a huff, then nodded. “I was gonna ask if you wanted to go into town. It’s been a while, and…”

He trailed off, and Rogue gave him a knowing look.

“You just want an excuse to get outta here, don’tcha?”

Logan let out a long breath, and he could feel a bit of the tension along his shoulders relax. “That obvious?”

Rogue chuckled. “Well, what’re we waitin’ for? I’ll always take a free ride.”

“I know,” Logan said. His words were pointed, and he held back a smirk when Rogue rolled her eyes. 

“You’re not gonna let me live that down, are yah?”

“Nope,” Logan said flatly, trying not to let the fondness that he felt seep into his tone. Months ago, when he had ripped the canvas off the back of his truck to find a stowaway child tagging along with him, he had been annoyed. He had fully intended to leave the girl on the side of the road in the snow.

He hadn’t intended for Rogue to worm her way into his cold, dangerous heart. He definitely didn’t intend to grow attached to the child.

Oh well. He could at least pretend he was still annoyed for her hitchhiking, no matter how glad he was that she had. 

The two of them made their way down to the garage easily. No classes were in session now that the weekend had begun, so they were able to miss the usual rush of students that often flooded the halls. There was a group playing some sort of game out in the field, but they reacted with nothing more than a few waves as the pair opened up the garage. Logan shot Rogue a side-eyed look as he watched her wave back.

“Friends of yours?”

“Come on, Logan, you remember Bobby and John.” Rogue tilted her head toward two of the boys, both of which were once again focused on the game in front of them. “They’re some of the first people I met here.”

Logan snorted. He vaguely knew the names. “Bobby’s the one that’s gunnin’ for you, isn’t he?”

“Logan!” Rogue glanced over her shoulder wildly, as if the boys could hear them all the way from across the field. “Come on, tha’s just cruel.”

“So I’m right,” Logan said flatly, holding back a smirk at the flustered noise that Rogue made. He quickly resolved to keep a bit of a better eye on the blonde-haired kid that she kept glancing at.

“You really gotta start rememberin’ people’s names.” Rogue rolled her eyes and tugged open the door of the truck that Logan had approached. “I swear, it’s like you only know me.”

“I know people,” Logan shot back as he slipped into the driver’s seat. Rogue hummed, and he gave her a look. “I know you. I know Jean. I know One-Eye.”

“He’s got a name, y’know.”

“I don’t care. I know Ororo too. And Charles.”

“Literally no one calls him Charles.”

“There’s the other girl, too.” Logan turned the keys in the ignition, and the truck rumbled to life. “The one always wearing that bright yellow jacket.”

“Jubilee?”

“That’s not her real name, right? I thought it was her codename or something. There’s no way that’s legal.”

Rogue let out a sigh, shaking her head. “You’re hopeless, Logan.”

The man grunted, his eyes on the road as he pulled the car out of park. “I got more important things to think about, kid.”

“Well come on, at least tell me you got the new kid’s name!”

That was almost enough to make Logan slam on the breaks. He whipped around, his eyes sharp as he met Rogue’s. “How do you know about that?”

His voice edged on a growl, but Rogue didn’t flinch. In fact, she seemed to be grinning at his annoyance. “Come on, Logan, everyone knows there’s a new kid! It’s been all anyone wants to talk about!”

Logan let out a heavy huff. Of course it was. This was exactly why he had told Summers to keep this quiet. The moment that one kid heard about something in this forsaken school, it spread faster than that one kid’s wildfires. 

“Logan, I can hear you stewing.” Logan grunted at the flippancy in Rogue’s tone. She was quiet for a moment, and he kept his eyes on the road. “Really, what’s so bad? No one seems to know any details about him.”

“You don’t know any details because you’re not supposed to,” Logan pointed out sharply. He took a turn, one that led down a long, snaking path to the end of the Institute’s property. “I told Summers to keep it on the down-low. I didn’t want you kids to know at all.”

“Know what? That there’s a new kid here?” Rogue shifted forward in her seat, and Logan could practically smell the curiosity radiating from her. “We would’ve noticed. What, do you expect him not to go to classes, or to eat with us?”

“That’s the plan,” Logan grumbled. He didn’t want to imagine what sort of disaster having the elf down in the crowded dining hall would be. If the boy couldn’t even recognize food when it was placed in front of him, the crowded Institute dining experience was the last thing he needed. 

“Oh, come on!” Rogue leaned back against her seat with a frown. “Not even for food? Does he have some sort of weird diet?”

Logan remembered the look of disgust on Jean’s face as the boy had downed the can of dog food he had been given. “You could say that.”

Rogue huffed. “Well, you’ve got to at least have his name. Come on, I’m dying over here.”

“Not having gossip won’t kill ya.”

“You never know,” Rogue pointed out. When Logan didn’t respond again, she let out a breath. “Please?”

Logan… shouldn’t be as susceptible to that as he was. He shouldn’t buckle at a simple word, especially one as cliche as please. He should not be soft like this, he was better than that.

Or maybe he wasn’t. He sighed. “Nightcrawler. That’s all I’ve got.”

“Nightcrawler?” Rogue repeated, her face twisting slightly as she tested the word on her tongue. “That’s not a name. That’s a codename.”

“Tell that to Jubilee.” Logan gave her a side-eye. “Or yourself, Rogue.”

“Says Wolverine,” Rogue shot back. She paused, tilting her head slightly. “It almost sounds like that, you know. “Wolverine”. “Nightcrawler”. It’s like someone was tryin’ too hard to be dramatic.”

Logan’s grip on the wheel tightened minisculely. “Yeah. Coincidence.”

“Why won’t anyone tell us what’s going on?” Rogue’s green eyes burned into his side. “Seriously. There’s someone new living with us, and that’s the closest thing I’ve even gotten to hearing a name. We only know he’s a boy, and that Scott brought him in. That, and I keep hearing that you are the one helpin’ him settle.”

Logan’s grip tightened a bit more noticeably. “Is this why you decided to come with me? Just to grill me?”

“Obviously not. I didn’t even think of it till the professor said you were thinking about it.” Silence fell in the car for a moment, and when Logan glanced over he was surprised to see Rogue fiddling with her gloves. “I just… I was just thinkin’...”

“Thinking?” Logan echoed when she didn’t go on.

“‘Bout the last time you brought in a… a new student.” Rogue glanced out the window, her white bangs covering part of her face as she avoided eye contact. “You kinda pick the dangerous ones, Logan.”

“Rogue.” The truck came to a stop at a fork in the road, and Logan didn’t bother to turn yet. Instead, he put a hand on her shoulder— carefully, far away from any exposed skin. The girl glanced down at his hand, then up at him. “Rogue, don’t think of yourself like that.”

The teen let out a bitter laugh. “Come on, Logan, you know it’s true.”

Logan opened his mouth to argue, but Rogue fixed him with a piercing green glare. Her eyes were framed by the white bangs that fell around her face; bangs from Magneto, the guy who had kidnapped her and tried to make her murder hundreds of people. Those bangs were a mark that he had almost succeeded.

“Kid,” Logan said slowly, his hand still on Rogue’s shoulder. “If you’re dangerous… well, I really don’t want to know what I am.”

The glare that Rogue had been giving him softened. “Logan…”

“Let’s leave it there,” Logan said, his voice pointed as he glanced at her. “Alright? Neutral ground, with neither of us hating ourselves for things we can’t control.”

She stared at him, her eyes still wide. Then, after a moment, she spoke in a hesitant whisper. “Is tha what this new kid is? Is he hating himself for somethin’ he couldn’t control?”

That wasn’t what Logan was expecting her to say. That was enough to make him turn back to the road and finally move the truck, if only to get a distraction. After a moment, he let out a breath, and truth slipped through his teeth with it. “I don’t know if he’s aware enough to hate himself.”

Silence fell between them again, and—to Logan’s relief— Rogue dropped the subject.

Chapter Text

It had slept for too long.

The mutant knew this the moment that it opened its eyes. It jumped up, its heart pounding, its muscles on overdrive as it whipped around the room, waiting for something to come out of the woodwork and reprimand it for the offense. In its haste it stumbled, and the usual weight of its restraints didn’t catch it. Instead it went crashing to the floor, a yelp barely choked back as pain exploded through its bandaged chest, pain that was quickly overwritten by anxiety that burned through its mind as it realized that it couldn’t hear the usual clank of its chains. There was no weight around its wrists, nothing but the collar at its throat — the handlers never left it unchained and unsupervised. Had it accidentally broken the chains? Had it somehow managed to teleport in its sleep and leave the confinement behind? It wasn’t supposed to able to do that, they had made very, very sure—

There was a muffled voice, a sound at the door — door? There was a door in the wall, a heavy mahogany one, a plush carpet beneath its deformed feet and paneled walls all around it, all of which looked unfamiliar and so, so unlike the gray walls it was meant to be surrounded by, the bars that were supposed to cover the front of its containment area, the chains that were meant to link it to the wall and keep it from moving too much, from thinking about trying anything stupid, to keep it from thinking at all—

There was another noise at the door, and the mutant suddenly remembered. The new management, the new facility, the room that it had been left it. It remembered the sound of knocking at the door from before, the two people who had come through it the first night, the smell of sun and honey and wood and metal—

New management. It was under new management. It was in its temporary storage facility. It had slept too long, it was unchained, and there was someone at the door. 

Anxiety clawed at the mutant’s chest, and it twisted. The movement pulled at the bandages still wrapped around its chest, but it was easy to push through the pain that it caused. Pain was secondary. Form was first; if it didn’t have proper form, it was worth nothing. A mutant that had no worth was a dead mutant. 

The voice at the door wasn’t one that the mutant recognized, but it seemed to be done waiting. The handle was turning.

The mutant was on its feet, carefully trying to keep its chest from heaving as pain throbbed through its side, trying desperately not to think about the fact that it was still completely unchained. It couldn’t see any of its usual restraints anywhere in the room, it couldn’t remember if its handler had hooked it up before it had fallen asleep, it couldn’t remember—

The door opened, and the mutant forced itself to still, its eyes on the floor. 

It didn’t recognize the shoes that moved into the room. The handler’s shoes were easy to recognize; heavy combat boots, ones that looked like they had years of dirt caked on. These shoes were cleaner, simpler, a red pair of sneakers that looked more suited for a target to be wearing than anyone from within the facility. Regardless, they stepped further into the room.

“You alright?” The voice was unfamiliar, and far too human for the mutant to be listening to it. It sounded vaguely like this was the second time that the man had uttered the question; maybe the mutant had actually been doing its job and tuning out the words. “I heard a crash, I thought—“

The mutant wasn’t able to stop its muscles from locking up, especially as the man cut off. It should be better than this, shouldn’t be reacting to words that clearly weren’t intended for it, but it could feel the man’s scrutinizing gaze settling on its shoulders. It knew that he had heard the commotion it had made. He was noticing now what poor condition it was, unchained and unrestrained and dangerous—

“Are you bleeding?”

The question was a bit uncertain, but it was commanding enough for the mutant to justify comprehending it. It made the creature’s limbs lock up even more, and it barely managed to keep its gaze from darting down further. As it was, it was already looking mostly down. It couldn’t move, but it could just barely see a dark red splotch beginning to show through the gray t-shirt it was wearing.

It was staining the shirt. It had barely been permitted to keep a shirt, and it was staining it.

“Can you hear me?” 

The man’s voice was low, dipping closer to the gentle tone that the woman had used when she was doing up its bandages; bandages that it, apparently, had destroyed. It had knocked them out of place, scrambled too much as it woke up, tore something in its side — likely the stitches, that seemed to be where the pain was coming from — and it was staining the shirt. 

The man cursed beneath his breath. “Jean? Where the hell is Logan?”

The mutant knew it shouldn’t listen, but it caught the name Logan and barely managed to hold back a whimper. It shouldn’t whimper — it was far too well trained for that — but it knew that name. That was the handler, that was the one that gave the orders. If this man was calling the handler, that could only mean punishment was going to follow. 

Which, of course, was exactly what it deserved. It had been given kindness, and it was staining it.

“What do you mean he’s not answering?” The man’s words washed over its ears, and it forced itself to focus trying to keep its breathing even. It was harder than it should be. “It’s not even late yet, he’s got to be around. It looks like Nightcrawler busted his stitches somehow.”

It had to be more obedient than this. It knew it shouldn’t be listening to the words, but it was starting to catch a bit of familiarity from the man. The moment it had first woken up in the facility was fuzzy, but it was fairly certain it had heard that voice among the others as its injuries had first been documented. This man had a strong voice, one that the others seemed to listen to. He wasn’t even the mutant’s handler, and from the sound of his voice the man didn’t want to be here. It couldn’t be causing this much of a disruption, not after it had just been transferred, not after it—

It couldn’t remember what had happened with the Kelly mission, but it knew it wasn’t good. It deserved whatever was coming its way.

“No, he’s not reacting at all. He’s just…” the man trailed off, and the mutant could see the red shoes shuffling slightly. The man took a step closer, but hesitated — understandable. It wasn’t safe to approach an unrestrained mutant, that was one of the first things anyone was taught back at the facility. “Jean, he’s completely listless. Do you know…? No, I heard a noise and when I got in here he was on his feet…”

The mutant tried desperately to slow its breathing, to relax its muscles. The effort made its side burn, but it couldn’t afford a single waver. If its handler was being called in, it had to be perfect, and that meant keeping completely still as the red sneakers began moving closer.

“Hey,” the man said, low and gentle. The mutant continued to tune out the words as best as it could. “Hey kid, I need you to take that shirt off, ok? I’ve got someone bringing a fresh round of bandages, we’re going to patch you back up.”

The mutant didn’t move, its eyes trained carefully on the floor. It was harder to ignore the words when there was nothing else in the room to focus its attention on, but at least it had to look like it was obeying protocol. This was probably another test, and it couldn’t afford to fail a test.

Failure. The word clawed at the edge of its mind, cold and absolutely terrifying. The word kept circling, and it tried again to remember exactly how the Kelly mission had gone. Why couldn’t it remember how the mission had ended?

It desperately hoped the handler wasn’t being called in to get its mission report. No one had asked for it yet, which was… strange. There were so many missing pieces of protocol in this facility.

Like the fact that it was still unchained. On top of that, the man was still standing in front of it, muttering something under his breath.

“Right. You’re waiting.” The man let out a long, slow breath. When he spoke again, his voice was much firmer, much stronger, much clearer: “Take off the shirt.”

That was an order.

The mutant snapped into action, careful not to damage the shirt any more than it already had — the blood was definitely going to stain, the splotch had grown into something big — and pulled it up over its head. The movement pulled painfully at its side, but there wasn’t time for hesitation. It didn’t matter that this person wasn’t its assigned handler; it was still an order, presumably from someone in authority. The mutant’s duty was to listen to orders, and to act quickly.

The man — maybe another handler? Maybe a guard? He didn’t seem familiar enough with mutants to be either of those — cursed beneath his breath, the red shoes moving back ever so slightly. Expected — the mutant should have moved more slowly, if only to keep from startling the man. It was an unchained creature, a frightening one at that. Even if the man was familiar with mutants, it knew it wasn’t one of the “pretty ones”. 

It tried to make itself as small as possible without breaking form, as though that would somehow make it less hideous. It was a faint hope, but the mutant still clung to it.

“Sorry.” The man cleared his throat, though the mutant wasn’t sure what he was saying sorry to. It didn’t matter; it shouldn’t be eavesdropping. “I just… it didn’t look as bad in the med bay.”

There was a moment of hesitation. The mutant could hear something move, and out of the very corner of its eye it could see the man’s hand shifting. It almost looked like he was going to reach up, and the mutant prepared itself just in case a blow was going to be directed its way. The hand didn’t move any further though, and after a moment it dropped back to his side.

“Seriously, Jean, where is Logan?” A pause. “He’s… kind of listening to me, but… I think Logan was right. I don’t think I can do this.”

Logan was being mentioned again. The mutant refused to tense any more than it already was, but it was hard. It knew that it deserved whatever punishment was coming its way, but this — the knowledge that it was coming, the anticipation while it tried to guess how many crimes it was guilty of — was the true torture.

Maybe that was why this man was still standing in front of it, quietly talking in a voice it shouldn’t comprehend to a person that it couldn’t see. Maybe he just liked talking to himself. 

The memories were vague, but the mutant was pretty sure it had liked talking to itself, once. It vaguely remembered calling out to something else, someone above it that could hear its words despite its lowly station. It remembered the comfort that had once come with those quiet prayers.

But of course, calling out to heavenly beings was a human privilege. It had been harshly reminded of that, so much so that now the memories were blurred and tucked away. It couldn’t allow itself to linger on those thoughts, thoughts that it was no longer supposed to have; if it did, a sense of longing that it didn’t deserve would open up in its chest. Animals weren’t meant to talk to people, let alone God.

But perhaps that was who the man was talking to; it would be his right, after all. 

The door creaked, and the man let out an audible breath of relief. Another set of feet slipped into the room — the mutant recognized these ones — and then the door was shut. A switch was flipped, a lamp turned on, and the mutant couldn’t hold back an involuntary blink at the sudden shift in light. Thankfully, its head was bowed, and the mistake seemed to have escaped notice.

“Thank you, Jean.” There was relief in the man’s voice. Maybe his prayers had been answered. “You don’t have to stay—“

“Logan’s still not answering. You’re not going to do this on your own. I wouldn’t make you do that.” There was fondness in her voice, and the mutant desperately tried to focus on anything other than the voices.

The red sneakers took a step back, and the other pair of feet — no shoes there, just a pair of white socks — took a step forward. The mutant knew this woman; the kind one, the one that had changed its bandages and had helped give it food. Jean was the name that both the handler and the man with the red sneakers used for her. The mutant wondered what her role was — doctor seemed the most logical, but it was too stupid of a creature to make assumptions.

It knew shouldn’t hope, but it hoped she wasn’t a doctor. The thought of being back in the white medical halls filled the pit of its chest with a choking sense of dread. It didn’t want to be torn apart by her hands. 

“He took the shirt off himself?”

“When I told him to, yeah.”

“Should we take him downstairs? This would be a lot easier in the med bay.”

“There’s students out right now.”

“Yes…”

“You brought everything.”

“Yes.”

“So we’re thinking the same thing.”

A sigh. “I wish we weren’t.”

“I know. I hate thinking that Logan’s right.” The man let out a breath. “Yeah, we’ll do it here. Hopefully in a week or two he’ll be more stable.”

“Hopefully.” 

Jean’s sock-clan feet stepped closer, and then she was crouching down. The mutant was careful to keep its eyes trained on the floor as she drew closer. Her hand reached out, and the mutant carefully kept itself from shivering as her fingers hovered over its chest.

“Jean?”

The woman inhaled, shaking her head slightly. Even as it was looking down at the floor, the mutant could see her hair moving with the movement. It was bright red, and it couldn’t help but be reminded of the blood stain that it had left on the shirt. Jean’s hand was still hovering just above its sternum, her fingertips barely brushing its fur. There was only so much fur on its chest; it had a hard time growing back over scars. That was a problem everywhere, of course, but the fur loss was particularly bad on its chest and back.

It wondered if there was any chance it would get a shirt back. The chances were so slim that the idea of hope was nothing more than laughable, but the heavy gazes that pressed down on its shoulders made it desperately wish for that small bit of defense. A shirt wouldn’t protect it in any way, but the fabric would at least hide the scars. The scars were a horrible visual map of its failures. They marked it for what it was; volatile. Dangerous. A creature that had to be beaten into submission to truly learn its lessons. 

Maybe, back when those scars were fresh, it would have whispered a soft prayer to ask that the people in front of it would take those scars kindly. That was back before it had learned the lesson that animals don’t pray. It had taken a lot of scars for it to learn that lesson.

“Sorry,” Jean said after a moment. “I just… there’s so many, Scott.”

The man — Scott — grunted. “I’m… trying not to look.”

“Do you think… do you think Logan…?”

“He heals.”

“Exactly. We don’t see all of—“ her hand was still hovering over the mutant’s marred skin. “—this.”

“He’s a tough guy. He bounces back.”

Jean hummed, but she didn’t sound convinced. “This doesn’t seem like the kind of stuff you heal from, Scott.”

There was a long pause. “No. It doesn’t.”

The two fell silent. The mutant wasn’t sure what their conversation had been about, but it could feel a level of unspoken tension hovering in the silence. It crawled over its back, making it want to shiver.

Instead, it stayed perfectly still as Jean began to pull at the bandages around its chest. She murmured soft words occasionally, but they were too human for it to listen to so it assumed they were meant for Scott to hear. It wished it knew exactly what the human’s roles were. Back at the old facility, everyone was so clear about their designations. The doctors had their lab coats, the handlers had their black suits and batons, the mutants had their leashes and chains. It knew how to act around those people; the doctors required compliance and cooperation, but they also wanted a bit of reaction. The handlers demanded obedience and perfection, and punishment was usually immediate. The other mutants… it had stopped seeing them as much once it was deemed “volatile”. 

The bandages fell away, and it could hear Jean hum in a displeased way. “He definitely tore the stitches.”

“How bad?”

“Bad enough that I’ll have to redo them.” She held out a hand. “Can you look in my bag? I brought a morphine shot up.”

“One of the field ones?”

“Like you said; it’ll be… safer to do it up here. I didn’t want to bring any of the main equipment, but I'm not about to stitch him up until he’s on some pain killers.” She let out another low hum, her voice going softer. “Sorry, buddy. I’m sure this hurts. I should’ve reminded Logan to bring you more painkillers earlier.”

“He should have remembered to bring the kid more painkillers himself.” The red sneakers shifted to the side, Scott moving to shuffle through a bag that was sitting just behind Jean. “Seriously, where is he?”

“The professor said he was out with Rogue.”

“While this is happening?” 

“At least he got the kid to eat.” Jean paused at that, the statement a bit uncertain. “I… think that’s a good thing.”

Scott let out a huff. “He could have remembered to give the kid painkillers.”

“That’s not exactly something Logan would be thinking about.”

“What, painkillers?”

“I mean, it’s not like he ever uses them.” Jean shrugged, her red hair shifting around her shoulders.”He usually heals before they’d even be able to kick in.”

“Yeah, I guess.” Scott handed her something small and silver. He hesitated for a long moment, and when he spoke again, his voice was a bit smaller. “I don’t like this, Jean.”

“I know.” There was a fierce amount of sincerity in the woman’s voice. Her hand shifted, dropping the old bandages on the floor and then moving to touch the mutant’s arm. “Hey, I’m going to give you something, okay? This’ll help with the pain.”

She held up the silver object right in front of the mutant, and it quickly registered what it was. A needle. For a tiny, heart-stopping moment, the mutant thought it was the serum. For a single second it nearly moved back, nearly broke its form in an instinctual rush of panic — it shouldn’t be getting the serum, it was being good. It had tried to follow every order, it hadn’t been volatile in months, it was trying and trying and trying —

But the needle didn’t have that same yellow liquid, and when it inhaled, there was none of the familiar scent of burning flesh that always seemed to cling around the vials. This needle was something different.

The mutant refused to tremble, refused to flinch, refused to even breathe. Anything was better than the serum. Anything they did was better than that.

The needle moved, and a moment later it felt a familiar pinprick at its wrist. It kept itself still, kept itself steady, and reminded itself that anything was better than the serum. It repeated that over and over in its head, and braced itself for the pain. 

Nothing came immediately, which wasn’t too much of a surprise. Usually the pain would take a moment to kick in — the only strange thing was the setting, the fact that it wasn’t chained down. Usually it would be chained down if they were testing anything, and the fact that it could move freely made its fur prickle as the needle was emptied.

But then, something was off. Within a minute of the injection, it was starting to feel some sort of effect. But there was none of the pain it was bracing for; in fact, some of the pain it had already been feeling was actually slipping away, like water in a stream. 

The doctors usually liked when it gave some sort of reaction, but Jean wasn’t asking for one. She wasn’t even watching for results; it was pretty sure she was asking Scott for something else from the bag. It wasn’t even positive that she was one of the doctors. It shouldn’t make noise, it shouldn’t be heard, but… but whatever they had given it wasn’t working right. In fact, it felt like it was leaching away more of the pain. 

The mutant let out a tiny, tiny, noise of distress.

The woman froze. The sounds of shuffling from her bag stopped, and the mutant could feel her eyes on it. It nearly shrunk beneath her gaze, but it forced itself to stay completely still.

“Jean? Are you—“

“He made a noise, Scott.” Jean’s voice was hushed, and the mutant wasn’t sure if it was supposed to listen or not. It knew it wasn’t supposed to hear human conversation, but if she was a doctor and needed data then it may need to hear something… “Did you hear it? He made a noise.”

“Really?” The red sneakers took a step forward. “Was he saying something?”

“I don’t think so, it… it sounded more like he was in pain.”

Scott crushed under his breath. “Did I give you the wrong needle?”

“I only grabbed the morphine, nothing else.” Jean flipped the needle around in her hand anyway, double-checking it. “This is right.”

The mutant was trying to only catch a few words — little enough that it wasn’t eavesdropping, but just enough for it to try and understand what it was meant to be doing — but it heard the word “right”. Only, this couldn’t be right. Moment by moment, it could feel its senses dulling, but it wasn’t doing anything debilitating. It was only muffling the pain that it had been ignoring in its chest, pulling it away and out of reach. That wasn’t right.  

It nearly made another sound, but the first one had already been such a risk. Neither of the humans were writing down notes, neither of them were prodding it or searching for a reaction. They were only exchanging words above the mutant’s head, a strange layer of concern in their voice as they continued to shoot glances at it. They weren’t checking for results at all, which didn’t make sense. Maybe it had been wrong, and Jean wasn’t a doctor… but then why would she be the one to inject it with chemicals? Why would she bear the burden of making sure its wounds wouldn’t kill it?

Speaking of its wounds, it could see Scott handing something to Jean again. It was silver again, but much smaller. An entirely different kind of needle, the kind that was meant for sewing.

“Alright.” Jean breathed out slowly. “Scott, can you get him to lay down? That should be easiest.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yeah; I can’t do nearly as much as I’d like to keep him stable while we’re up here. The morphine should be kicking in already, and I can’t have him swaying while I stitch him. A flat surface is at least better, and hopefully it’ll hurt less.”

“Ok.” There was still hesitation in Scott’s voice, but a moment later it was gone. The hesitation was replaced with a clear, commanding tone. “Lay down — slowly.”

The second part of the order was hurried and tacked on, but the mutant made sure to follow it. It got down on the floor, carefully adjusting so that it would be easily in reach, waiting to see if one of the two humans would finally pull out some sort of restraints to keep it in place. Instead, it watched as Jean moved closer.

“This shouldn’t take long, it's only a few stitches.” 

She took another item that Scott handed her — some sort of cloth or something similar — and began to wipe away some of the blood that had begun to seep out of the wound in the mutant’s side. The motions were far too gentle, and even worse it could hardly feel them at all. Whatever drug they had pumped into its bloodstream made everything feel far away, muffled, and somehow not painful. It was putting the mutant on edge, except the mutant couldn’t be on edge because the drug kept calming its heart rate, lulling it into some false sense of security even as two humans towered over it.

The mutant was a compliant creature, but it knew better than to ever give into a sense of security. It was better than that; it had to be ready for anything at any moment. It fought against the tides of strange weightlessness as Jean finished cleaning the wound.

“Did you feel any of that?” She murmured, and the mutant could feel her eyes on it. It carefully kept its gaze trained on the ceiling, fighting to keep its eyes from sliding shut. “Okay. I’m going to get this stitched back up now.”

The mutant could barely feel the needle against its skin. It was vaguely aware of the motion as Jean began to stitch up the wound, but it still couldn’t feel the pain. Everything was so far away and wrong that it had to swallow back bile. Usually, it had to manually concentrate to push itself far away and distance its consciousness from the pain. It was good at that; it had a lot of practice, after all. But this — a distance that wasn’t under its control — was new, and terrifying.

Its head was spinning so much and so far out of its reach that it didn’t even realize it was whimpering until a tiny noise crawled out of its throat. It clamped its jaws shut right away, nearly chomping through its tongue in an effort to shut itself up, but it knew the damage was done.

”I know, I know, I’m sorry.” Jean’s voice was a low croon, soft and comforting, and definitely not something it should listen to. “I’m almost done, buddy, I promise. I know it hurts, but we’re almost there.”

The needle slipped through its flesh again, and this time the mutant couldn’t feel it at all. The drug only seemed to be getting stronger by the second, and at this point it couldn’t even feel the pain from its ribs. It couldn’t even feel the dull ache that always radiated from the base of its neck, the place where they always applied the serum. That pain was a constant, something that always haunted it and reminded it just how many worse options there were if it didn't obey. 

Why on earth would they take that away from it? What were they going to do that constituted pulling it this far away from the usual pain?

“Ok, that’s fixed.” Jean cut the string of the medical thread, then turned to Scott. “Do you know what he did to break them?”

“Like I said, I just heard a noise and decided to check. He was just standing there when I came in.”

“Standing?”

“It looked like he just got up.” Scott hesitated. “It doesn’t look like he used the bed though.”

Jean let out a hum. It sounded concerned. “I just hope he actually slept.”

“He didn’t last night? What—”

“Don’t worry about it. Logan took care of it… at least, I think he did.” Her fingers brushed over the injury once more, then she gave a decisive nod. “Can you get him to stand? I’ll rebandage him.”

There was another long moment of hesitation. Then: “Stand. Slowly.”

The mutant snapped out of its half-listening state, fighting back against the weight of the drugs in its bloodstream to make sure it could get to its feet. It found itself glad for the “slowly” part of the order; it wasn’t sure that it could move quickly in this state. 

Jean began to wrap a new layer of bandages across the mutant’s chest. It breathed slowly and evenly, trying not to disturb her at all, still trying to fight through the unfamiliar sensation of hardly being able to feel the motion. It could tell the bandages were tight and strong, and it was distantly surprised; usually, there wasn’t that much care put into the upkeep of weapons. Enough to make sure they were functional, yes, but not much more. The doctors didn’t usually need to do much more than that. As long as results were shown, they didn’t seem to care what sort of tracks they left behind.

Maybe it was just the absence of pain, but a tiny fleeting thought flickered through the mutant’s mind; if Jean was indeed one of this facility’s doctors, then maybe being torn apart would be a bit more bearable.

Of course, it didn’t need to be bearable. Still, it would be nice. 

“There.” Jean’s hands fell away. “He should be good.”

“Thanks, Jean.” There was a distinctive note of relief in Scott’s voice. He moved, and the mutant could hear a bit of shuffling from the side of the room. A moment later the red sneakers were back in its view, and something was being held out to it. “Put this on.”

The voice was a bit too gentle, but it almost sounded like an order. However, the mutant found that it couldn’t obey right away. It couldn’t obey because the item that was being held out to it was a shirt — a new one, a clean one, not even the same one that it had stained just moments before. 

It didn’t deserve this. Having the shirt in the first place had been a kindness — a privilege. It hadn’t done anything to deserve the item of clothing before, and now all it had done was prove why it didn’t deserve it. This had to be a test. It had to be.

Scott cleared his throat, and when he spoke again the words had a slight edge. “Put it on.”

The mutant didn’t hesitate for another moment. It took the folded shirt, quickly pulling it over its head and letting it settle over its newly-bandaged chest. This one seemed to fit even better than the last one it had been wearing, and the fabric was still soft against its fur.

“Slowly—!” The man cut off with a sigh, but he didn’t reach out to hit it. He only turned to Jean, his voice heavy with a layer of exhaustion as he spoke. “Any word from Logan?”

“Nothing.” Jean stood, turning around to grab the bag as she did. “I’m sure he’ll be back.”

“Any clue when?” 

There was a pause, and Jean gave no answer.

Scott let out a breath. “Yeah. I don’t know what I expected. He can’t keep doing this.”

“It’s only been a couple of days, Scott.”

“And how much has he actually been here, helping? You said Nightcrawler didn’t even get the chance to sleep last night because he forgot to tell him.”

“Yes, and I’m still upset with him for that. But this is an adjustment for all of us, Scott.” She stopped for a moment. “I’m not sure any of us know exactly what we’re getting into.”

There was a beat before Scott responded. “We need him here. I… I don’t think I can handle this.”

“I know. I agree.” Jean paused, and the mutant thought that it could feel his gaze settling on its shoulders. “But… Scott.”

“Yeah?”

“Logan’s familiar with…” she gestured vaguely. “This.”

“Yeah. Apparently.”

“He’s really familiar.”

A pause. “Your point?”

“My point is that he said he came from something similar.” Jean hesitated for a long moment. “They… I’ve seen some similarities.”

The tension in the air was pliable. “I think I know what you mean.”

“Do you think he…?”

“I think he wouldn’t want us to pry.” Scott’s red sneakers took a step back, nearly out of the mutant’s limited view. 

“I just…” Jean let out a small breath. “I know you don’t like this, Scott. I know that I hate this.” There was venom in that word, so much venom that the mutant nearly shrank away. “But… it makes me wonder about him.”

There was a long moment before Scott spoke again. “Yeah. Me too.”

At that, the tension seemed to ease. Something more mutual seemed to fill the air, like the two parties had reached a common conclusion. The mutant wasn’t sure what it was; that conversation wasn’t meant for its ears.

“Let me know when he comes back. I’ll go easy on him, but… we need to talk.”

“Yeah.” Jean offered a decisive nod. “I’ll let you know.”

With that, the two made their way to the door. At the last moment, Scott turned back toward the mutant. 

“Go back to sleep,” he said, his voice gentle. Then he seemed to remember himself, and he cleared his throat. “Sleep more. Someone will be back soon.”

With that, the light was switched off and the door was closed. The mutant was left in silence, nothing but the weight of the shadows pressing down on its shoulders. There were still no chains around its wrists. There were drugs in its veins, but they were doing nothing but providing a cushion against the pain. Its wounds were freshly stitched, even though it had made the mistake that had ripped them open. It, for some reason that it couldn’t comprehend, had been allowed to keep a shirt — a new one, not even the one that it had horribly stained.

It didn’t understand.

Of course, it wasn’t meant to understand. It was meant to follow orders. 

All it could do was try to obey.

Chapter Text

“Where were you, Logan?”

Apparently a simple “welcome home” wasn’t the sort of thing that Scott Summers felt the need to bother with. It didn’t matter that it was late or that most of the students were asleep at this point; it was always straight to business with that man. Logan had hardly even said bye to Rogue before the guy was on his heels. 

Somehow, Logan had a feeling he wasn’t going to like this conversation. 

Logan tried to brush him off, stalking forward a few steps in the hopes that he could show Summers that he wasn’t in the mood for talking. 

Scott didn’t back off. He only moved forward, matching Logan’s strides through the darkened hallway. “It’s late. We didn’t even know you were gone.”

“Didn’t think you needed my location twenty-four/seven, Summers,” Logan pointed out, continuing to walk straight ahead.

“You know I don’t,” the man continued, keeping pace. “But a heads up would have been nice.”

“You’ve never needed one before.”

Scott gave him a look, and even though the red shades made it a bit difficult to read his expressions, Logan could tell it was a sharp one. “Things are different now.”

Logan grunted. Any hopes of the conversation going anywhere else were dashed, and now he just wanted out. Scott, however, didn’t seem to be eager to let him escape, sliding up beside him as he took a sharp turn into the kitchen.

There were two students milling about the small space, and both of them looked up the moment that Logan entered the room. Logan didn’t recognize either of them but, by the way that they instantly turned to whisper to each other at the sight of him, he had a feeling they recognized him. Great. Exactly what he needed.

Logan set the bags that he’d been carrying on the counter with a heavy thud. The students jumped at that, eyes darting to the cargo before darting back up to Logan.

“Need somethin’?” Logan growled, eyes sharp.

One of the students let out a squeak. Behind him, Scott sighed. 

“Kitty, Pitor, go hang out somewhere else, okay? Curfew’s in half an hour.”

The younger of the two, a girl with her hair pulled back into a long ponytail, frowned. “Wait, but—”

“Now, Kitty.” There was a slightly pointed edge to Scott’s tone, but it softened quickly. “I think Bobby and John were out at the basketball court, they could probably use a few more players.”

The girl still looked a bit hesitant, but the boy nudged her arm and gave her a quick nod. There was still some reluctance, but the girl slowly got herself up from her barstool to follow him. Both students shot glances over their shoulders as they went. Logan waited until they had slipped around the corner, then waited until he heard the back door open and close to confirm the kids were really gone, not just eavesdropping around the corner. 

Then he shot a glare toward Scott. “Subtle.”

Scott shrugged, unbothered by the glare. “You said you didn’t want the students hearing about it.”

“Yeah, well, congratulations, that damage has been done.” Logan pushed the plastic bags across the counter, turning away from Scott as he started to shuffle through them. “You were too late on that the second you brought that blue boy into this place.”

“Anything is better than nothing,” Scott pointed out. “Speaking of Nightcrawler—”

“There could still be some of those squirts listenin’, Summers.”

“His name isn’t going to hurt them,” Scott said. “They’ve probably already heard it.”

“They hadn’t this morning,” Logan shot back. 

He pointedly ignored the fact that Rogue had probably already told someone in the five minutes they’d been back in the building; if he could pin the blame on Summers instead, he’d be happy to. 

“Speaking of this morning…”

Logan could feel his hackles rising. There was something in Scott’s tone, something about the way that his words trailed off and he hesitated mid-sentence that bothered him. “What, Summers? What’s got yer shades twisted?”

Scott frowned. “You’ve been gone half the day, Logan. Nightcrawler’s been completely alone.”

“Good,” Logan growled. “That’s what we agreed on, ain’t it?”

“Not really,” Scott said, stepping forward. “I said we’d try to hold the students off, not that we’d keep him in solitary confinement. I know the Professor wanted to introduce him to some of the others…”

Logan growled. “I already told the prof what I thought of that bullshit.”

“I agree,” Scott said placatingly. “It’s too early, and he’s too unstable. But the whole point here is to rehabilitate him, not keep him locked up.”

“Don’t think that kinda thing’s gonna happen in a week, Summers.” Logan shook his head. “It ain’t that easy.”

“Not in a week,” Scott agreed, though his voice trailed off slightly. “But… at some point.”

Logan tried to hold back another growl. Even though he had a bit more of a level head, Scott Summers still took after Xavier; an eternal optimist that always managed to see the redeemable, even if that meant ignoring reality. The reality was that Nightcrawler was quite literally a trained weapon. Logan wasn’t sure if that creature would ever get to a point that he could be introduced to kids, let alone hardly three days since he'd been in the Institute. 

“The point is, I don’t want us to keep him in solitary confinement,” Scott pointed out. “Not introducing him to the other students is smart, but he shouldn’t be entirely alone.”

“He hasn’t been,” Logan pointed out. “I’m doin’ what you asked, Summers.”

“By leaving for half the day while Nightcrawler just sits in his room?” Scott gave him a look from behind the red shades. “You haven’t even taken him food yet, have you?”

Logan shot the man another withering glare, then gestured to the plastic bags he’d set on the counter. “What the hell do you think I got out there, Summers?”

Scott frowned. He reached out, pulling one of the bags across the counter and back toward him. After a moment of shuffling, he pulled out a six-pack of beers and raised an eyebrow. “Logan, this is a school.”

“Shit, you weren’t supposed to see that.” Logan reached out and snatched the six-pack away before Scott could say anything else. He glanced in the second bag, then shoved that one toward the other man. “There.”

Scott was still frowning, but he did look in the bag. Logan thought he saw the man pale a bit beneath the red sheen of his glasses. “Logan, what is this?”

“Food.” Logan shrugged. “Jubilee’s brand is shit. Too much flavor, no nutrients.”

“Logan, this is—” Scott cut himself off, and he craned his neck to look around the corner before turning back to Logan. “This is dog food.”

“Yeah.” Logan raised an eyebrow, unimpressed by Scott’s incredulous whisper. “Jean didn’t tell ya?”

“No, no she didn’t.” Scott stared at the bag for another moment, as if he couldn’t comprehend it. “Is this… there’s no way…”

“Call it a special diet, Summers.” Logan reached out, grabbing the bag and pulling it back toward himself. “See? I’m doin’ what you asked.”

“That’s not what I asked you to do,” Scott said quickly. His eyes still seemed to be focused on the bag. “We all agreed to help this kid.”

“You said you were gonna help ‘em,” Logan pointed out. “I said I was gonna keep ‘em in check.”

“And were you doing all day?” Scott challenged. “We couldn’t get a hold of you. Jean called, and she couldn’t even contact you telepathically.”

Logan couldn’t help but bristle a bit at that. “I ain’t a dog, Summers. I don’t have to answer every stinkin’ thing the telepaths blast into my head.”

“I know, I know, but…” Scott inhaled sharply, turning away so that his gaze was focused on the window across the hall. “He busted his stitches. Jean and I had to fix them.”

Logan’s head snapped up. “He did what? How?”

“We don’t know,” Scott said, his voice even. “I heard a noise, went in to make sure he was ok, and he was standing with a bloodstain on his shirt. I don’t know what he was doing.”

Logan couldn’t help the growl that was beginning to rumble in his chest. “He wasn’t supposed to be doing anything.”

“He wasn’t,” Scott pressed. He looked bothered by the statement, and there was a sigh in his voice as he continued. “He was just standing there, completely listless. I don’t think he even knew he was bleeding.”

“Did anything look out of place?” Logan pushed on, ignoring the look on Scott’s face. “Anything moved around, anything weird?”

“The only weird thing was the way he was acting.” Scott let out another long sigh. “Logan, that kid…”

“He’s not a kid.” Logan growled. He could feel Scott’s gaze sharpening, so he let out a huff. “Not right now. If he’s tryin’ to get out or anything—”

“He wasn’t trying to get out.” Scott’s voice raised a notch, his expression hidden behind the red glasses. “He seemed barely awake.”

“You said you didn’t know what he was doing,” Logan argued. “He could’ve been.”

Scott's frown deepened. “He can hardly even move without someone ordering him around.”

“So he shouldn't've been moving on his own in there.”

“He wasn’t—”

“He tore his stitches, he had to have done something.”

“Well if you’re that worried about it, then you should have been here.” Scott’s voice was stern, sharp, and managed to cut through Logan’s before he was even able to speak. “You were gone, Logan. You said you’d help with the kid, and you weren’t here.”

Logan huffed, waving a hand over the bags on the counter. “I was busy.”

“You were busy running from the problem.” His voice was still infuriatingly even and calm, even in spite of the way his hands clenched. “Logan, we asked you to help for a reason.”

“What,” Logan snapped, glaring at Scott. “You aren’t man enough to deal with a kid?”

“Not in the way you’re doing it.” Scott glanced over at the bags, a complicated look on his face. “Logan, this doesn’t seem—”

“I told you to trust me, didn’t I?” Logan was growling again, his own fists clenching next to the bag of dog food. “I told you, I know what I’m doin’.”

“Except you weren’t here. You didn’t even give us a word of warning.” Scott paused, as though gathering his thoughts. “Logan, we don’t… we don’t understand this situation. You do.”

Logan snorted. “Finally, you got somethin’ right.”

“But that doesn’t mean anything if you’re not here,” Scott pointed out. “You told us you could handle this, and then you go off to who-knows-where while the kid manages to hurt himself. Jean and I handled it, but we could only do so much.”

Logan swallowed back a growl. “No one asked you to go in there, Summers. In fact, I think I asked you to do the exact opposite.”

“I remember you saying you’d help.”

“And I remember tellin’ you to keep your nose out of it.”

“Oh, so your memory is working again?” Summers leaned forward, his gaze boring into Logan from behind the red shades. “You want to tell me exactly what could drive a kid to be like this?”

Silence echoed after those words, and Logan could feel their weight settling between them. He could tell exactly what Scott wanted from that question; answers that Logan didn’t have, and the ones that he did have were too raw and bloody from either of them to be able to stomach.

Logan gave the man a long glare. “Back off, Summers.”

“I’m serious, Logan. We need to know more of what’s going on here. This…” He gestured to the dog food in front of them. “This isn’t normal.”

“Not for us, maybe.” Logan kept his fists clenched at his sides. “But he ain’t us, is he?”

“I don’t know.” Scott stared at Logan from behind his red-tinted glasses. “Is he?”

“I just told you, he ain’t.” Logan snapped.

“Logan, you said you know this. You said—”

“I know what I said, and I know what I’m doing.”

“Then why don’t you explain it to us?” Scott asked, stepping forward. “Actually tell us what’s going on instead of just jumping to things like this.” He gestured to the dog food on the counter, a slightly sick expression on his face. “If this is where we have to start, fine, but there’s got to be something more we can do.”

Logan snorted. “And how exactly do you plan to find what that is?”

Scott gave him a long look. “You said you were there, Logan. You said—”

“Stop.” Logan snarled the word, his fists clenching. “Shut up now, Summers.”

There was a frustrated sigh. “Logan, you can’t keep dodging around this. If you know ways we can help, you need to tell us.”

“The best way you can help is to let me do what I’m doin’ and stay away.”

“I can’t stay away if you’re not here!” Scott raised a hand and, for a brief moment, Logan thought he was about to snap. Then he let out a sigh, glancing away as his hand dropped. “You can’t run from this, Logan.”

Logan’s lip twitched. “I don’t run, Summers.” 

“Then prove it, okay?” Scott tapped the countertop, nodding at the bags on the counter. “I’m… I’m trying to trust you here, Logan. I need you to—”

“What?” Logan growled, his teeth bared. “Prove myself to you?”

“Just try and be here, ok?” Scott met his gaze. “I’m not asking much. I’m just trying to make this work for everyone.”

Not asking for much.  

Scott was asking for Logan to stare his past in the face. Scott was asking for Logan to drag up memories that his own brain had shut out just to keep his sanity intact. Scott was asking Logan to try and fix a kid that had gone through his personal hell when Logan himself was still trying to climb out of it. 

Yeah. Scott had no idea what exactly he was asking of Logan.

And, frankly, Logan didn’t care enough to clue him in. 

“Whatever.” He plunged a hand into the bag and pulled out one of the newly-bought dog food cans. He slipped it into his pocket, and when he pulled his hand back out he quickly tossed a different object at Scott. The man reacted quickly and caught the object, and a second later he was frowning down at it.

“Wait, is this my wallet?”

“Thanks for financing yer new pet project, Summers.” Logan had already grabbed a bowl from one of the cabinets, filling it with water from the filter as Scott spluttered behind him. “Oh, and some new jackets for Rogue. Cute stuff. She’s grateful.”

“Logan—”

“You asked for this, Summers.” Logan finished filling the bowl and turned to shoulder his way past Scott. He paused for just a moment next to him, and found himself glaring at the man’s red-tinted glasses. “You asked for all of this.”

Finally, Scott seemed to be at a loss for words.

It was far too short of a walk from the kitchen to the living areas, and when Logan got there he found that the door to the guest room Nightcrawler had been put in was unlocked. Scott and Jean must have forgotten to lock him in. The realization made him huff in frustration, and he had to force himself to take a steadying breath before he stepped into the room.

Nightcrawler was curled on the floor, completely still in the light from the door. He didn’t look any different than he had the night before. A different shirt and some new bandages, maybe, but still the same gaunt figure and blue fur and collar. Logan was really starting to loathe that specific shade of dull, unhealthy blue. 

Logan knew that Nightcrawler wasn’t asleep. He could see the slight layer of tension beneath the creature’s fur, the way that his limbs were tucked strategically beneath him in a way that would let him move quickly. He hated that he could recognize those signs.

“Up.” Sure enough, the mutant was on his feet in seconds. Even with his eyes locked firmly on the floor, Logan could still see that they were the exact same; yellow, blank, and entirely vacant. 

He tried to keep his disgust in check as he set the food and water down. “Eat.”

While Nightcrawler dropped to his knees to eat, Logan checked the room. He prowled around the perimeter, sliding his finger along the latches at the window and double-checking the outside latch on the door. The locks seemed secure, and everything else in the room seemed untouched. 

Logan breathed in, and sure enough Nightcrawler’s scent seemed to be contained to the exact same area that Logan had last left him. The smell was the same as it had been the first day; a dull scent tinged with a mix of blood, sweat, a slight lingering smell of something burning, all mixed up with some mix of chemicals that still hadn’t quite faded from the boy’s fur. There was fear too, the sort of fear that clogged Logan’s lungs and made him want to choke. The creature could control its movements and flinches all it wanted, but no sort of training could get rid of the scent of fear. 

Logan huffed, turning away before he could linger on the scent any longer. The mutant was done eating. That was enough for one night.

“Stay,” Logan said sharply, scooping up the empty bowls with one hand before turning to the door. “Stay, lay down, sleep.” Then, just in case the stay command wasn’t enough: “Don’t leave.”

The mutant didn’t make any form of acknowledgement, but that didn’t matter. Logan knew he’d react the exact same thing he’d been reacting; mindless obedience. Just a weapon waiting for its next orders. 

Logan shut the door behind him, and headed right back to the kitchen to get his six-pack. Maybe once he'd downed the whole thing, there’d be some way that he’d be able to sleep tonight. 

Chapter Text

Metal. Water. Something burning.

Bright lights, searing and nonsensical. Voices that were too far away, not the right tone, not something meant for it to listen to, all twisting and overlapping and burning through its mind.

Pain. Endless pain, the sort of pain that shot through limbs and spread out like wildfire, ripping and tearing and yet leaving no trace behind.

Voices shouting, urging, pushing it on even as its body screamed to collapse. Lights and noise pounded down on it, slamming into its brain and driving out everything else but the need to move.

Blood poured. The injury was gone.

Electricity crackled. There were no scars left behind.

Water choked. It heaved through empty lungs.

Chemicals burned at the back of its neck, harsh and biting and burning flesh as it sunk into skin. It burned, it twisted its mind, but it was gone before it could form and then it was screaming, tearing something apart—

It was in a white room, and it had been there too long. It had been there so long that it couldn’t remember how long—

It was out in the woods, but brambles and twigs snapped at its limbs as it ran. The pain was never much, never as much as the screaming pain that came from inside, from its very bones—

It was drowning, water filling its lungs and darkening its vision, muffling the rest of the world as it tried desperately to breathe—

Something clinked heavily, and it pulled on its limbs. It dragged it down, down, down, further into darkness, further into nothingness, further into pain and isolation and water that filled its lungs, filled its mind, made it choke and gasp and—

The gasp that entered his lungs was real and tangible, and Logan sucked it in like it might be his last. His chest heaved, his heart hammered beneath his metal ribcage, his pulse pounding beneath his skin as he bolted upright. His hands were already curled into fists, the familiar burn already echoing the familiar sniktt of his claws as he whipped around, his eyes darting from shadow to shadow as he tried to find the enemies in the dark — there were always enemies in the dark. There were always people waiting, watching, ready for the moment that he slipped and ready to take advantage of it. They could be anywhere, waiting with sharp words and sharper fists that he could always brush off, but that would always come back. He wasn’t going to let them, not this time, not while he was alive, breathing, aware of—

—the empty bedroom. He was sitting in an empty bedroom, his legs tangled in blankets, his claws out and his chest heaving. The shadows of the room were just that; shadows.

There was nothing waiting for him in the dark.

Adrenaline made it impossible for him to relax, but Logan did find himself slumping. He took another sharp inhale, and that only served to confirm what his sight told him; the only thing he could smell was his own stale sweat and fear. There was no one else in the room. It was completely empty, save for him.

A long, long breath left his lungs. He raised a hand to his face, dragging it through his hair. His claws brushed at the edges of it, but he couldn’t quite bring himself to draw them in. He wasn’t sure how long they’d been out, but by the look of the bed he was in, it had been a bit longer than he’d been conscious.  

He’d torn up the bedsheets again. Jean was going to give him a long, disappointed look for that. 

Another sigh left Logan’s lips, and with this one he let his hand fall limply by his side. Each inhale he took felt a little bit more like he was actually able to breathe. Each moment felt a bit less like he was inhaling water. Each moment felt a bit less like he was drowning — drowning in the liquid, drowning in the memories, drowning in his own mind —

He pushed himself up. His claws caught on the shredded remains of the blanket, but he didn’t care; the thing was nothing but scraps now anyways. He threw it to the side with a bit more force than necessary. His feet hit the ground, and he didn’t care that he was barefoot.

He only bothered to pull on his boots because the texture of the carpet felt too rich. The stupid stuff always was too plush, far over done, way too much and way too good for a creature—

His door opened, and he closed it before the thought could follow.

He wasn’t sure what time it was, but it seemed to be one of those rare times of night that most of the Institute was — miraculously — asleep. Logan had begun to wonder if those were even possible, but here he was; the halls were quiet, the windows were dark, and nothing was interrupting him. 

Good. Something about the way his skin was prickling bode poorly for anyone who happened to cross his path.

The kitchen was barren when Logan stepped inside. He checked his usual stash spot, then let out a low growl when he found it empty. He shouldn’t have downed the whole six-pack in one go, he should have thought to save at least one. No one had bothered to fix the coffee machine either, or at least so Logan could guess from the sheer number of take-out cups he saw littering the counter. There wasn’t even a can of soda left in the fridge; only the nasty room-temperature stuff from the cupboard.

Another growl left Logan’s throat, and he hated how animalistic it sounded. He hated how animalistic he felt, pacing the tiny kitchen space like a tiger prowling around a cage.

The thought made him shake his head, and he was four steps out of the kitchen before he even bothered to ponder the image. He turned down two random hallways, dodged past the Professor’s study, then turned down another hall. This one led to the foyer, and the foyer led to the front door. 

Logan pushed it open without another thought, and he welcomed the punch of night air that hit him. 

Maybe he should have shut the door a bit more quietly, but he found that he didn’t care how loud it was. So what if someone heard it close? So what if someone knew he was gone? So what if they wondered what he was doing?

He wasn’t an animal. He wasn’t chained, he wasn’t collared, he was free. There was nothing keeping him at the Institute. If he wanted to just keep walking now, he could. No one could stop him, not truly. He had no loyalty here beyond what he had freely given. If he decided to leave, no one could really stop him.

Despite this, his feet stilled at the edge of the property. He hesitated at the ivy-covered gate that towered over his head, and he found himself glancing back at the mansion behind him. From here, it looked unassuming; just some old rich guy’s house covered in ivy and shadows. The columns that held up the balconies looked the same as any other over-priced antique, and the basketball court simply looked like a modern addition to the pompous place. It looked a little pretentious, maybe, but harmless. No one would guess there was a whole slew of misfit mutants hiding in those walls. No one would guess there was a literal jet hiding beneath the basketball court. 

No one would guess there was a living weapon sleeping on the second floor. 

Logan snarled, ignoring the way the sound sliced through the silent night air. He turned back toward the gate, and once again weighed the option of just leaving. It didn’t have to be forever. It wouldn’t be the first time. Sure, Summers would get on his ass when he came back, but Summers had already gotten on his ass. Sure, Rogue might hate him in the morning, but maybe he’d at least hate himself a bit less if he could forget it all again.

His brain was crawling, and it wasn’t just from the stupid nightmare. His skin seemed to cling to his bones in a way that made him want to climb out of it. His heart was thumping heavily, still hopped up on adrenaline even here, out in the open night air. The air was brushing up against his bare neck, and it felt almost strange. More than once, he had reached up to brush the skin, as though waiting to find something there. The sensation only served to make him growl more, a knot growing in his chest that he wished he could just cut out to stop these uncomfortable feelings.

The Professor had spent hours poking around in his brain, trying to figure out exactly where he was from. Logan had welcomed it a month ago, when his mind was so spotty that he could barely hold on to a name. He’d wanted to dig into his past, to find out what made him this way, to hope there were some sort of answers buried deep in his subconsciousness that would explain where he came from. 

Hours from the Professor’s mind-probing had gotten nothing. Three days of Nightcrawler being in the Institute, and he was remembering things that he hadn’t even known he’d forgotten. 

None of it was shit that he wanted to remember. 

He growled, and he could feel his claws itching to come out again. He wasn’t even entirely sure when he had retracted them. He turned, his eyes scanning the shadow-cast landscape of the Institute, unsure of what he was even looking for. It was like there were eyes boring into him from the shadows, some unseen force watching him from the ivy that twisted around the gate and over the stone wall next to it. His skin was crawling with non-existent scrutiny, his brain buzzing at the thought of what could be watching him from the darkness. He could smell nothing but the usual crisp night air, but that wasn’t enough to satiate the twisting sensation in his gut.

There were always eyes on him. There was always someone watching, studying, waiting for the moment that it needed correction. 

He huffed, trying to turn. He could almost hear the phantom noise of chains clanking, his steps stilling at the thought of the weight he could barely remember being around his wrists.

It always was a volatile creature. They’d always had to be more careful with it.

He refused to be held back by non-existent weight and phantom eyes. He turned back to the gate, glaring at the ivy that crawled across it, his claws itching where they wanted to pop out from beneath his skin—

Because it would always want to slash its way through any problem. It was a weapon, after all. It could never escape that, not truly. It could never—

He shook his head so sharply that he nearly threw himself off balance, a snarl breaking forth from deep within his chest. He was out. He had run. He had thrown off whatever chains had tried to contain him, and he’d made it.  

He didn’t want to remember this, this feeling of being somehow lesser. Watching the shadows, measuring his movements, waiting for the moment that he would make a wrong step and—

His hand drifted to his neck again, and this time he pressed it there. He let his rough, calloused hand press against the vulnerable flesh, and he reminded himself that it wasn’t vulnerable. There was nothing that could touch him now — no collar, no tasers, nothing but his own rough, calloused hands. He could cut off any others that tried to grab at him, and there was nothing that could stop him. He wasn’t defenseless, he wasn’t malleable, he wasn’t — he wasn’t that thing that was sleeping in one of the second floor rooms.

Logan didn’t know when his claws slid out, but he felt the bite of them piercing through his flesh. A moment later a chunk of the ivy that had covered the gate was on the ground, a few severed leaves still fluttering gently in the night air. When Logan breathed in, the taste of fresh-cut greenery washed over his senses. 

That thing that Nightcrawler was — that dead, lifeless husk — wasn’t him. He was never that docile, never that obedient, never that much of a tool. 

Maybe if he repeated it enough, he’d actually believe it.

Slowly, a sigh left Logan’s lips. His claws bit his skin, but he didn’t draw them in just yet. He only looked down at them, staring at the thick metal blades that split his knuckles. They were a familiar sight, a tiny bit of his own blood staining the metal as it glittered beneath the moonlight. 

He wasn’t a weapon. Not anymore.

Maybe, if he repeated it enough, he’d actually believe it.

It had worked for years. He had forgotten so much of this, left it far behind in his twisted and jumbled past. It couldn’t hurt him there, couldn’t push him down into the dirt and tell him to stay there, like it was somehow where he belonged.

He was stupid to try and uncover his past, and now this was the universe punishing him by throwing it directly in his face. Nightcrawler was dragging up too many memories, too many half-thoughts and jumbled commands that he somehow remembered reacting to. There was too much twisting around in his jumbled brain, and he had half a mind to just take a set of claws and cut through that blue throat before the creature could get out of control again.

The sight of blood on his claws was too familiar. Somehow, even in those first few months, he had known it was too familiar. Those first few months, it had only become more familiar.

Killing the mutant would be a mercy. There was no sort of life to be had for a shell like that. There was no way to escape something like this.

Logan knew it far, far too well.

He sighed, and his fist unclenched with it. Slowly — more slowly than usual — his claws retracted. He felt the settle back in his flesh, a familiar weight that he’d carried as long as he could remember.   

Logan was many things. A merciful man was not one of them. 

He closed his eyes, the night air twisting through his hair as he stood there for a moment longer. When he reopened his eyes, the Institute’s gate was still in front of him. The cut ivy was still on the ground, mangled and twisted in a way that felt too familiar.

Everything about this was too familiar. Everything about this made Logan’s blood boil, his fists want to clench, his entire being urging him to run.

Logan was many things. He had done many things. He had run before, moving from town to town in an attempt to both chase down a past he didn’t know while also trying to escape it as it snapped at his heels. He had spent fifteen years running, and now he was being punished for it. Now, that past was staring at him from the eyes of a child.

Logan was far from the best person for this job. Maybe, deep in the trenches of his pock-marked mind, he was less of a person than he wanted to admit. 

He was, however, the X-Men’s only option. 

With one last breath of night air, Logan turned his back on the ivy-covered gate. His claws remained sheathed, he ignored the way his skin crawled, and he ignored the phantom chains that still rattled after him. 

He walked back in through the front door, and this time he closed it more softly. Somehow, that seemed more final.

Chapter Text

The mutant was having trouble with its orders.

The idea of that seemed almost laughable. It should have no issue following orders. Following orders was what it had been created for. It had been trained for years to follow orders, and it tended to do it well. It was a weapon, a tool, something that was meant to do nothing but follow orders.

In addition, these orders were nothing difficult. It had been told to sleep. That was its instruction. That was its order. That was even what its body required, which was nothing short of a blessing. It should be able to act out these orders easily.

The issue was that it had not been told how long it was permitted to sleep. It kept thinking that it had gotten more than allowed, and then it was ordered to sleep more. There had been no specifications made as to how long it was meant to remain in the sort-of storage room, let alone any sort of hint as to what its new purpose would prove to be under this “new management”. It was left in the dark with only a base-line instruction and no knowledge as to what would be expected of it.

The mutant was in a swamp of unknown, and it hated how difficult it found treading water to be. 

Still, it tried its best to fulfill its orders. It slept soundly for what must have been at least another two hours before its subconscious began to kick into overdrive, gradually pulling it into more of a wakeful sleep. It remained where it was, though it was in more of a half-doze than a sleep. It could convince itself that this half-doze was still an enactment of its orders, even if it was hardly asleep. It was still giving its body rest, and the half-doze would be easier to snap out of when it was needed.

Rest. That had to be the reason it was being left. Its new master must want to make sure it would be up to par when it was sent out for the first time. That was something that could justify the fact that it was being allowed this much sleep and that… that was something, at least. It could ground itself on that concept, and it could use that to keep itself just below consciousness. Any rest that it was allowed, it should take; especially if its master had plans to deploy it soon.

Still, it had been ordered to sleep three times in its time at this facility, all in close proximity. This was far more than it had ever been allowed before. The justification wasn’t enough to keep the mutant from jumping at every noise it could hear. There were many; it had no idea where it was— it had no need to know— but from the echoing sounds around it, there were a lot of rooms. It could hear footsteps from many different pairs of feet, and for a while it wondered if there could be more mutants on the premises. Then it paired the cadence of footsteps with the sound of loud, laughing voices, and that theory fled its mind. No mutant would be allowed to speak that much, not if they were under any sort of management as they should be. There were likely mutants in the area— as unprepared as this branch seemed to be for mutant containment, it would be stupid to send a volatile mutant to a branch without any experience — but they must be stored somewhere else. The volatile ones were probably kept separately from the normal ones in this facility.

The last master had called it volatile enough for the mutant to know the difference. The volatile mutants required more; more upkeep, more direction, more punishment when they inevitably stepped out of line. They weren’t meant to be stored with the other, normal mutants. They required more restraints and much, much more training. They were usually the ones that fought back at some point throughout the process.

The mutant hadn’t fought back in a long, long time. Maybe the new handlers knew that. They had seen its scars, they knew it was volatile. Maybe that was why they were testing it so much; to see if any old habits would arise.

The moment that the mutant heard a footstep outside the door, it snapped back to steady consciousness, ready to appear as though it was still following the sleep order while also prepared to jump up the moment that it was needed. Its reputation of volatile had likely spread when its ownership had been transferred, but there was hope. That reputation was from years ago, when it was young and stupid and it had held onto things. These owners had seen the scars, but they hadn’t seen that side of it, the side that had been so thoroughly stomped out over the years. It would be good, it would be obedient, and maybe — maybe — it would be able to hang onto the kindness it had been permitted thus far. 

The door cracked open, and the mutant kept its eyes carefully closed and its breathing carefully even. There was no immediate yelling, and it didn’t even sound like the door had opened fully, so it supposed that it must be meant to still be asleep. There was a twinge of guilt in its chest at that thought, but it was quickly outweighed by the survival instinct that had it so on edge in the first place. It wanted to be ready to spring up at the first sign that it was needed, and it had already been permitted so much sleep that it wasn’t sure it could stay unconscious any longer.

The door closed quickly and quietly hardly a moment after it was open. There was the low sound of a person’s breathing, and the mutant perked its ears as subtly as it possibly could at the sound. This was different than the huffing, heaving breaths of its handler. It didn’t sound like Scott or Jean either, and it didn’t come with the same scents that those two had brought. 

“Oh.” The voice was certainly not one that it recognized. It was a light voice, a female one that was tinged with a heavy southern drawl, and the mutant could hear it dip down as the girl continued to speak. “Oh. You’re asleep.”

There was a clear, distinct disappointment that filled the young girl’s voice, and the mutant felt a spike of concern. Was this girl sent to fetch it? Was it meant to be somewhere? Had it misjudged its orders?

It wouldn’t have been the first time that it had misjudged orders. The consequences were never kind for that sort of disobedience. The mutant found its eyes shooting open before the thought had truly crossed its mind. 

It knew that the room was dark, but the darkness did nothing to its senses. It was able to see the room clearly despite the lack of a light source. The space looked just about the same as it had for the entire night that it had stood without sleeping, besides two details. One, there was light shining from beneath the door and around the curtains, which meant that it was still daytime. Two, there was a new person standing just inside the door. She seemed to brighten as he blinked in the darkness.

“Oh, you are awake!” Her voice was less hushed now, as if her first comment had been an attempt not to disturb any sleep that the mutant could have fallen into. It was a strange thought; usually there was no care if a mutant was woken up or not. The girl’s eyes were green, and they glittered in the darkness as she grinned. “I was worried I just broke in for nothin’. I mean the lock wasn’t hard to pick or nothin’, but it’d still be disappointin’.”

The mutant blinked at her, low and slow. It was still crouched against the carpet, but it was no longer curled up quite like it had been when it was half-asleep. It made sure that it was poised to jump to its feet if the need arose, though it hardly even remembered the shift in its posture. 

“Why are you on the floor?” The girl frowned then, a confused look flickering over her face. “I thought Logan said you were sleeping.”

Logan. That was the name of his new master, but she was saying it in more human words, words it wasn’t meant to listen to. Why was it listening to her? It should be tuning her out, if someone found out it would have to be punished…

Still, it was difficult for the mutant to tune the girl out when she stepped forward and sat down right in front of it. The mutant tried not to flinch back at the girl’s squinting, and it carefully made sure that its eyes were on her black boots rather than her face, even as her hand brushed aside a strand of white hair and she continued to stare at it. 

“Were you sleepin’ here?” She asked, and the mutant wasn’t sure if it was expected to give an answer or not. Those words were spoken in a human tone, a tone that it wasn’t meant to respond to… besides, why would the answer matter? What other answer was there? Had it been meant to sleep on its feet? That had been something required of it once and a while, and it wondered with a flash of panic if that had been the expectation of it. Perhaps curling up on the too-soft carpet really had been a presumption, and the thought made the panic curl tighter in its chest. 

The girl seemed to be frowning as she spoke, and that could not be a good sign. “Was there somethin’ wrong with the bed?”

Whatever the mutant had expected the girl to say, that was not it. Its eyes nearly darted up to her face, but it was too well-trained to make that mistake. It kept its eyes firmly down, despite the confusion in its chest.

“I mean, maybe you got uncomfortable.” Her eyes were darting over its skin, and the mutant was once again eternally grateful for the ample clothing that it had been given. It didn’t want the girl to see the scars down its back, not if she would report back to the others that the mutant was volatile. They had all seen the scars already, the mutant couldn’t pretend they hadn’t, but it could still hope that the fact that they were covered might lessen the implications they had. “I mean, you’re different than a lot of mutants I’ve seen. Woah, Bobby wasn’t crazy when he said he heard you were blue.”

Mutants. The girl had seen other mutants. That likely meant that there were other mutants on the premises. She had seen them. It wondered if she would know where they were kept. It wondered if she would know what its purpose was meant to be in this place.

“I’m Rogue, by the way.” The girl gave the mutant a smile, and it could feel the expression even while it kept its gaze low and respectful. “What’s your name?”

It was not an order. It was a question. It was phrased in a way that it wasn’t supposed to listen to, and yet it was directed toward it. It was a question about a thing that it was not supposed to have, something that made its chest tighten. Its name was not something that it should have. It was something that it very, very carefully did not think of, just in case anyone got the impression that it was attempting to hold onto some form of identity. It didn’t have a name… not a name that anyone would know… because it wasn’t meant to. 

“That's alright,” the girl said after a silence that the mutant hadn’t quite realized was dragging on. Her smile didn’t drop, though the mutant thought there might have been a tinge of sadness to her tone. Its non-answer must have been disappointing, and it had to be very careful not to flinch. “Logan said you’re called Nightcrawler. Is that it?”

Its designation. Of course, that was all she had wanted. She didn’t know about the thing that it had hidden away in the back of its mind; no one knew that, it hardly even let itself know that. It was still unsure if it was meant to be listening to her or not, but she looked as though she was waiting for something so it gave the slightest, tiniest nod it could manage. Hopefully, if it was wrong, the movement wouldn’t be noticeable.

The girl’s grin widened out of the corner of his vision. “Oh, you can hear me! Great! I was startin’ to think you mighta been deaf or somethin’, and then I woulda just been embarrassin’ myself.” She let out a huffy breath of laughter, and the mutant could see her red and white hair shifting around her shoulders as she shook her head. “Wouldn’ta been the first time. Bein’ new here sucks.”

The mutant didn’t respond— it still wasn’t sure if it was meant to even listen— but it blinked slowly. The girl seemed to take that as a question.

“Oh, yeah, I’m new. I’ve been here…” she tapped her fingers together, and the mutant allowed its gaze to list slightly toward the movement before dropping it back to the floor. “Two months? Really only one and a half if you don’t count the first bit which… I don’t really.”

The girl’s voice faltered at the end of her sentence, and the mutant could hear her shift and see the way that she reached one gloved hand up to brush the white part of her hair to the side. She let out a small breath, and then continued.

“It’s good, though. Really, it is. And the others are nice, even if they’re a little hard to adjust to at first.”

The mutant knew it shouldn’t listen. This girl wasn’t speaking in a way that it was meant to listen to. There was no reason for it to listen. Still, even as these thoughts slipped through its mind, it found the usual tension bleeding out of its shoulders. Her laugh was quiet and huffy, and her words carried a southern drawl with them. Her voice wasn’t perfect, but it was… nice. It was really nice. The mutant couldn't help but listen to her.

“Tha’s why I wanted to come check on you. Logan told me not to, but…” the mutant stiffened at that, though the girl did not seem aware enough to notice. Logan, the man who gave the orders, had told her not to be here? Why was she here then? “…well, he’s the one tha’ brought me here, and I just thought you’d like to talk to someone.”

The mutant blinked at her, and it couldn't help the way that its head tilted back slightly. Despite all of its training, it couldn’t help but glance up at her, and for the briefest moment their eyes met. It dropped its gaze almost instantly — it wasn’t meant to make eye contact, it was meant to keep its head down — but it had still made the mistake. It had still seen that look in her eyes, a sort of strange understanding, misplaced as it might have been. It was almost as if she was looking at something more than a creature.

She had disobeyed an order to talk to it.

“Are you ok?” There was concern in her voice now, and the mutant realized that its breathing was uneven. Its emotions were slipping through, the panic thrumming behind its trained expressions of nothingness. It should know better than this, even here in the dark where there was no one looking over their shoulders. This was still a human that it was near, and even if she was a human she had disobeyed an order. The man in charge, Logan, was massive. His build was strong, probably stronger than most of the men that had handled the mutants back in the last facility. Punishments that were issued by that man would be painful.  

Wanting things was not something that a mutant— a weapon— should do, but it didn’t want this girl to be caught disobeying an order.

“Hey. Hey, you alright?” The girl reached a hand out, then jerked it back quickly with a self-conscious wince. “I’m sorry. I kind of busted in on you while you were restin’, I probably shouldn’ta done that.”

The mutant could feel its tail flicking, and it didn’t even bother to try and still it. This girl had been brought in by the handler, she had to be in a similar position to it. Well, not nearly as low of a position if she was human, but she still must be under the man's order. That was the only reason it could put together for her to be here, speaking to it like it was an equal. She was kind, and the mutant didn’t want her to be punished for her kindness. 

“Is something wrong?” The mutant could feel her gaze on its flicking tail and it winced at the nervous note that slipped into the girl’s voice. It was a terrifying creature, it knew that, but it didn’t want to scare her. 

“You…” its voice trembled, and it winced at the way that the words scraped its throat. The short fur at the back of its neck prickled and it cringed, half expecting a blow for its attempt to speak. Still, in spite of the consequences, it had to speak. It had to get the girl out before she was found. “You should leave.”

It hated the way that her face shifted, and it carefully made sure not to look directly at her. “You sure? You’re alone up here, I just thought—“

“He told you—“ the mutant started, and its skin practically burned at the weight of its interruption. It wasn’t meant to speak, let alone interrupt, but she could be in danger, so it pressed forward. “He told you not to. If he did…”

“Just ‘cause he told me not to?” Rogue rolled her eyes, and the mutant could feel a spike of fear in its own chest at her flippancy. “Come on, this is Logan. If I listened to everything he said, I wouldn’t be here.”

Flinching was bad, but the mutant flinched anyway. It knew it should have better control over its body language, but it was already speaking. It was going to be punished regardless, speaking was much worse than letting a few tremors run through its body. There were a lot of tremors running through its body. “Please,” it rasped softly. “Don’t get hurt.”

“Hurt?” The girl’s voice was tinged with some sort of confusion. Did she not understand the danger? “What do you mean—“

It all happened at once. The girl shifted forward at the same moment that the mutant— foolishly, horribly— moved. It hadn’t meant to make contact, it would never attempt to push someone so high above it— and yet, whatever intention it had, that was what happened. The girl let out a noise of surprise, and the mutant nearly froze as it realized that it had bumped her shoulder. Its gut twisted and it tried to pull back, the weight of its offense settling on its shoulders as it tried to prepare to be struck— but every movement halted when its erratic, unchecked tail twitched just a bit too close as the girl recovered. Sinewy blue muscle brushed pale skin, and then everything shorted out.

There was a startled screech that cut off so suddenly that the mutant hardly realized it had come from its own throat. It kept its jaws clamped shut as it fell back, its body seizing. It thought that the feeling was familiar, but that was when it realized that the collar around its throat was cold. It wasn’t buzzing; the pain coursing through its body wasn’t electricity. It wasn’t an overload of energy that was slamming into its veins, the way that it was used to; it was more like energy was being pulled out of it, stealing its thoughts and instincts and everything that had been inside. He felt turned inside out, as if he had been scrapped raw and he— it, not he, it— was being stripped down to what he—it— had forgotten— and — and now—

There was another shout, but this one wasn’t strangled or aborted. The mutant clamped its jaws shut tighter, but the taste of blood ensured that it was not his— its— noise. The pitch was all wrong, and the mutant realized with a start that it was the girl shouting. Its eyes cracked open just enough so that it could see the girl holding her head, and it felt its gut twist. No. This was happening to her too. 

The girl was breathing hard, but her eyes cracked open. The mutant was in too much pain to throw its gaze to the side. It couldn’t move before their eyes locked. Bright golden eyes stared back into its own, and it could see an expression far, far too familiar to ignore. The girl’s mouth opened, and the flash of tiny fangs glinted in the darkness.

“You…” Her voice trailed off, her mouth opening and closing in shock.

If she continued, the mutant didn’t hear it. It wasn’t meant to hear it anyway. It fell into darkness.

Chapter Text

Logan.  

The thought in his brain was so incredibly unwelcome that Logan very nearly blocked it out altogether. It was too early in the morning to be dealing with any telepathic shit. He was trying to get the damn coffee machine working again, and he was already in a sour mood from the restless night. 

LOGAN!

What? He thought back, his lips curling as he tried to express his displeasure at the screaming in his mind. What is—

It’s Rogue.

The curl in his lip dropped, and every thought fled his mind. Suddenly nothing felt more important than the intrusion in his mind.

Where?

It took him less than sixty seconds to cross the manor. Jean’s words were still ringing in his mind as he came to a skidding halt in front of the door that he had been trying to escape. The door was only slightly ajar, the gap guarded by Ororo. She glanced up as Logan thundered in, and then stepped out of the way without a word. 

Logan practically threw the door open the rest of the way, completely uncaring for the way that it slammed into the opposite wall and let out a loud boom into the room. The sound faded quickly, and then only the shuddering sound of heavy breathing permeated the air. Jean was crouched in the middle of the room and she glanced up at his noise, her eyes wide, but Logan wasn’t focused on her. His only care was directed toward the other girl that was there, the one who was the source of the heavy breaths. 

“Rogue,” he breathed out, shocking himself with the way that his tone managed to shift into something soft. He dropped to his knees, one hand hovering in the air as he carefully refrained from reaching out and touching her. Jean seemed to have that covered, one hand on the girl’s shoulder as she shuddered. Logan held himself back, instead trying to force out another few words, just to let her know he was there. “Rogue, can you hear me?”

“Ja,” she murmured, and Logan blinked. Her voice sounded different than usual. Her southern drawl was overridden, and her words curved in a way that he recognized as a German accent. His mouth opened, but before he could say anything the girl glanced up at him and he stalled. Her eyes, eyes that were normally a deep forest green, were yellow. Bright yellow, nearly blank, her pupils hardly visible.

Logan recognized those eyes, but not on Rogue.

His lip curled, and he was standing up before he realized what was happening. His gaze whipped around the dark room— no one seemed to have bothered to turn the light on— and it only took him a moment to find the limp shape a few yards away. There, crouched on the carpet and hardly moving, was the cursed mutant that Logan had loathed bringing into this place.

Logan took a step forward, and he couldn’t help the snarl that broke from his lips. He could hear something behind him, but it felt distant. His vision seemed narrowed, and all he could feel was the burning beneath his skin as he stopped in front of the mutant. The thing was blinking and shaking, looking just about as aware as most of the other kids did when Rogue brushed up against them by accident. The contact must have been brief then, but it was still there. No matter how brief it was, it had still happened, and Rogue had that pained look in her eyes to prove it. 

His hand was on the mutant's good wrist before he knew what he was doing. The sinewy blue muscle felt fragile under his thick fingers, and he could feel the way that the mutant stilled under his touch. 

“What were you thinking,” Logan growled, his gaze sweeping sharply over the mutants' many, many weapons. The claws on the hand that he had yanked up were clear of blood, and it looked as though the other hand was clear too, but that only meant that the creature hadn’t scratched her. He still had his fangs, or his hind claws, or the razor-sharp end of that tail that was wrapped tightly around his legs. Logan knew better than anyone just what a weapon like this was capable of. If Rogue had been alone in the room with him, any number of things could have happened to her. The stupid mutant was still now, but Rogue bore some of his traits. He had touched her. He could have been about to kill her, and—

“Logan!” It took a full-on shout from behind him for Logan to still at all. His grip—he hadn’t realized it was tightening— slackened minutely, and he forced himself to glance over his shoulder.

Jean and Rogue were staring at him. Rogue’s mouth was open, ready to shout his name again, and her golden eyes were glinting with… were those tears?

Logan’s grip loosened further on the mutant’s wrist. The creature didn’t respond, and he could hardly choke down the disgust in his chest.

“Rogue,” Logan growled, and his voice was no longer soft. Everything about his tone was low, gravelly, dangerous in a way that he could see made Jean shudder. “I told you not to come in here.”

The girl was staring at him. Her eyes were still wide and still very, very golden. The pupils weren’t round and dark like they usually were, but they weren’t completely gone. They were there, just slitted and narrowed. She looked like a panicked cat, and Logan could see that in her slightly open mouth, there were the points of teeth that were much sharper than they usually were.

Another low growl rumbled from his throat, and his grip began to tighten again.

“Logan, please don't hurt him.” Rogue was speaking again, and at least her voice was beginning to fade back into her natural candace. There was still the tinge of a German tone, but her drawl was beginning to catch up with her, along with a tremor that made her words shake. “Tha’s what he thinks you’re gonna do.”

That was enough to make Logan still again. He glanced down at the mutant, and he wasn’t surprised to see the creature’s head was still bowed. He wasn’t surprised to see that he was still and compliant. He wasn’t surprised, but it made that same sense of horrid, churning disgust curl in his gut again. 

“He was scared,” Rogue said, her words trembling as her chest heaved with uneven breaths. “He was scared, and ah think he—”

“Rogue,” Logan said sharply, his tone harsher than he intended. The girl flinched, blinking her yellow eyes in surprise as if she didn’t understand why she had moved. Meanwhile Jean, whose hand was still on Rogue’s arm, glanced between the girl and Logan as he spoke. “We need to talk.”

“Logan, he’s… he’s not right.” Rogue’s voice was still shaking heavily, and she pressed a gloved palm to her forehead. “My head… he’s not—”

“Jean.” Logan interrupted Rogue again, quick and sharp. Jean looked up at him, and Logan desperately hoped that she wasn’t trying to poke around in Rogue’s mind, let alone the mutant’s. He knew how bad it was for her the one or two times she had attempted to pull apart his memories. It was bad enough that Rogue had a piece of the creature’s brain in her own, he did not want that to spread. “Come on. Let’s get her out of here.”

“Just Rogue?” Jean asked, blinking in surprise. Her gaze slipped down, and Logan could feel the dormant spark of his anger flickering again. “What about—”

“He’s staying here,” Logan snarled, his fist still curled tightly around the mutant’s wrist. As he spoke, he looked down at the creature. The mutant’s blue neck was still bent and bared, the silver collar still tight around his neck. His black hair hid his face from view as he sat utterly, completely still. His wrist was lax and limp in Logan’s grip, though he could recognize the limpness as a forced lack of tension. The tail was still curled tightly around the boy’s leg, and there was a very practiced lack of tremors running beneath the boy’s skin.

For a single moment, Logan wondered just what would happen if his fist squeezed a bit tighter. For a flash, he thought about letting his barely-controlled anger swing a fist at the kid, just so that he knew not to touch Rogue again. 

The boy’s wrist dropped from his grip like a hot coal, and Logan took two fast, generous steps back. He curled his hands into fists, his claws practically throbbing as they pushed against the very edges of his skin, and he whipped around to where two of the only people he cared about were staring at him with their eyes wide. 

“Come on,” Logan growled. The words ‘ before I do something that won’t forgive me for’ remained unsaid at the back of his throat.

Jean carefully helped pull Rogue to her feet, and then the three of them were stepping through the door. Logan was the last one, and he could feel his neck prickling as he turned his back on what could be a threat. The image of the collar around the mutant’s neck flashed through his mind; it was right there. It would be so easy to tie something to that, and it was all that he could do to throw out the idea of doing something to ensure that the creature wouldn’t slip out of the room that they had set him up in.

Instead, Logan had to keep himself content with turning around and addressing the mutant one last time. “Stay,” he barked, his voice clear of his usual growling to make sure that his point came across without blemish. “Stay here. Don’t move. Don’t touch anyone, don’t touch anything. I’ll deal with you later.”

He didn’t wait to see the mutant’s reaction; he knew there wouldn’t be any, not in those dead, lifeless eyes. The bang of the door slamming echoed through the hallway, and Logan breathed out a sharp, angry breath before turning to the women at his side. Jean was staring at him. Rogue was looking down at her gloved hands. Ororo looked up from where she had been guarding the door, her soft eyes crinkled in concern.

“Is everyone alright?”

Logan growled between his teeth, his anger still bubbling beneath his skin. He stepped toward Rogue as he did, and the way that the girl locked up made him nearly stop in his tracks. 

“Did he hurt you?” He growled sharply, careful to keep his distance while Rogue’s mind was twisted up with the mutant’s. 

“He….” Rogue seemed to be almost struggling to speak, her jaw locking up before one hand moved to brush at her neck. A strange look of confusion flickered over her features before flickering away. “No. He didn’t.” 

“Are you sure?” Logan held himself back from stepping toward her. “Where did he touch you?”

“It was just a brush,” Rogue insisted shakily. Her hand moved from her neck to gesture vaguely at her wrist. “His tail just flicked, it wasn’t— he didn’t mean to.”

A growl slipped from Logan’s lips, and Rogue winced. “You don’t know that.”

“Yes, I do,” Rogue protested. Her hand pressed against her forehead with a wince, and another flicker of emotion crossing her features. “He wasn’t thinking, he—“

“Of course he wasn’t thinking,” Logan snapped, and it was meant to be a comment kept under his breath; not out in the open, where it would make Jean and Ororo stare at him. The man huffed, meeting their gazes unabashedly as the truth slipped through his teeth. “Something like that doesn’t think.”

“Logan, calm down,” Jean said slowly, one hand lifting up in a manner that was probably meant to be placating. “He’s just a boy. He doesn’t—“

“That’s not just a boy.” Logan cut in with another glare. He could feel his skin prickling with the scrutiny of his friend’s gazes, and he tried to shove his discomfort aside. “He’s not a kid. He was made into something different than that.”

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t think—“

“It does mean that fightin’ is his baseline instinct,” Logan shot back. “Cornered animals lash out, especially ones like this. Look at what he did!”

He swept out an arm in Rogue’s direction, and only faltered when he saw the full-body flinch that rippled beneath her skin. That was enough to make him pause, and as he did he realized just how quiet the girl had been. 

Rogue was never this quiet in an argument, especially one involving her. It was unnerving to see her this way, so jumpy and lifeless and scared, and it made Logan’s anger simmer all the more. These weren’t Rogue’s actions. These were the leftover instincts of a broken creature that had wormed its way into her mind. These were patterns that Logan never wanted to see on Rogue, and the sight of them made him want to sink his claws into something. He had to hold back to make sure that something wasn’t blue fur. 

“Logan,” Rogue spoke up softly, her teeth still flashing unnaturally as she looked up at him. Her eyes were still struck with that dark, golden shade, and the pupils were still slitted in fear as she stared in his direction. “Did you really just… you… you told him you’d deal with him.”

The topic change caught Logan slightly off-guard, but he took it with a sharp huff. 

“I didn’t want to talk next to him,” he snapped, hoping that was enough of an excuse.

The creature probably wouldn’t hear a word that they said if they were to talk next to him, but even being in the same room as the thing, realizing slowly that Logan had been standing over him the same way that people had once stood over himself… it made his skin crawl and his claws itch and he couldn’t handle that. He especially couldn’t handle that with Jean and Rogue shooting frivolous, pitying glances at the dangerous creature in the corner. Logan hated turning his back on the mutant, but he hated being in the same room with it even more. 

“Distance is better,” he insisted. “I wanted to make sure you were safe first.”

“But—“ Rogue’s voice was still trembling. “You said… you said you’d deal with him…”

“Not—“ Logan inhaled harshly, and he wished that Jean and Ororo weren’t standing right next to him. He didn’t want them here, listening to this conversation, wondering what Logan meant when he asked, “What’s in your head? What did you see?”

Rogue didn’t reply, but Logan could see the fear sparking in her eyes, and he had to resist the urge to snarl again. Whatever horrible punishments the mutant had gone through must have been projected onto Rogue when she touched him. Logan hated, absolutely hated the idea that any of that creature’s sorry existence would be pressed into her mind.

“I told you not to go in there, Rogue.” Logan’s voice evened out a bit, but it still edged on a growl as he shook his head. “I didn’t want you to see that.”

“No, Logan,” she shook her head quickly. “He was just scared—“

“And now all of that’s in your head,” he muttered. “He was scared I was going to hurt ‘em, right?”

“What? No.” Rogue shook her head again. “He was scared you were going to hurt me.”

Logan’s mouth had been open, ready to snap or growl or something else that came naturally to him. Instead his jaws closed on air, and he found himself blinking. 

“He was scared you were going to hurt me,” Rogue continued at his silence, her limbs trembling slightly as she stared up at him. Her eyes were still wide, still golden, still a vibrant copy of the dead ones that the boy possessed. “He thought you had ordered me to stay out of the room and— and he was scared you would… you would do something if you found me in there.” 

“What did he think I would do?” Logan asked, his voice low and steady.

“He…” Her voice trembled as she spoke, and when her golden eyes flicked up to Logan’s face he realized with a start that there was a flicker of uncertainty in her gaze. “He thought you would hurt me.”

There was something about the way that she said it that pushed the tension right out of Logan’s chest.

“Rogue,” Logan said, his voice devoid of any sort of tremor despite the way that his gut twisted at her expression. “Rogue, I would never—“

“I know, I know,” she interrupted with a wince. “I know you wouldn’t but… but he didn’t know that, he doesn’t know that, he…” her hand moved toward her neck again, rubbing at the bare skin self consciously. “Logan, he’s just scared. He wasn’t even scared for himself, he was scared for me.”

“That’s not possible,” Logan growled, but his voice was still low. It didn’t feel possible, it didn’t make sense in his mind…

“How is that not possible?” Logan tensed at the reminder of their audience, and he looked up at Jean with a scowl. She and Ororo were both staring at the exchange, varying levels of confusion crossing each of their features. “He could have wanted to help her.”

“He shouldn’t have,” Logan pointed out. “These things aren’t built for empathy. They aren’t built to care about anything but what their handler wants.”

I should know. He grits his teeth before those words can slip out. I should know, because I still hardly do.

Logan wasn’t built for empathy. He had no care for the amount of damage that he caused in accomplishing a goal, only that he accomplished it. He was a machine. He knew this, and he hated it about himself… but there was a reason that he had stuck around the Xavier Institute. He was trying, as hard as it was. He may hardly be able to differentiate between the forty different mutant kids that ran up and down the halls on a daily basis, but he was trying. He hadn’t lashed out at Jubilee the other morning when she screwed up the coffee machine. He hadn’t stopped Summers from letting this dangerous creature into the Institute, no matter how much he wanted to. Even just now, with rage simmering beneath his skin and his hand wrapped around the mutant’s fragile wrist, he had held himself back. He hadn’t hurt anyone—not intentionally— in longer than he ever had before. He was trying, but it had taken him years to get to this point.

This mutant was still so deep in his training that he refused to eat anything but dog food. The idea that this creature could have even an ounce of empathy in its sinewy, weapon-like body was a foreign concept. 

And yet, despite the knowledge that Logan had in his metal-plated bones, all of that seemed inconsequential next to the wide-eyed, fear-tinted look that Rogue was giving him. 

“Logan,” she said softly, her southern accent faltering for a moment into something more foreign sounding before slipping back to her normal tone. “His head… it’s all messed up.”

“I know,” Logan said, and while he meant it to come out gruff and sharp he was surprised to find that his words were somewhat soft. He let out a breath, and a bit more of the anger that still simmered in his gut went with it. “I know it is.”

“He… they must have done terrible things to him.” Rogue’s voice was shaking, and her eyes had dropped to the floor as she spoke. “He was scared—scared of you, scared of me, maybe both—and he was just waiting. He was sleeping on the floor, if he was sleeping at all, and—and I don’t know what he was expecting, but he was expecting something and then he thought I was going to get it and—“

“I know, Rogue.” Logan held a hand out—slowly, gently, more to the side than in her direction so as not to startle her. She still flinched, and Logan watched her stare at the hand as he let out another soft breath. “I know what that kind of mind feels like.”

“He just…” Rogue’s eyes were blinking frequently now, and for a moment Logan hoped that meant that the golden shade was finally fading. Instead, he realized that there was a shine of tears in her eyes, and his gut tightened even more. “He’s confused. He’s messed up.”

“I know.”

“He doesn’t even think of himself as a person, Logan.” She looked up at this, and the fresh tear tracks on her face were suddenly much more visible. “Everything’s jumbled up an’ my powers don’t read minds or nothin’, but I got that. He thinks he’s an object. He thinks he’s…” she trailed off, her mouth opening and closing slightly as if she was trying to find the words to describe the feeling. 

“I know,” Logan said, his voice so low that he wasn’t even sure the girl could hear him. Her eyes seemed to shift, and she stared at him as he spoke.

“Did they try to do that to you?” She asked softly, her voice hardly more than a whisper. Logan almost didn’t hear it. He wished that he hadn’t heard it.

“Yeah,” he said, even more softly than her question.

There was a beat of silence. “Did it work?”

There was a longer beat of silence. “Not anymore.”

Rogue stared up at him, and as she did Logan thought he could see the beginning flecks of green in the depths of her eyes. He watched as she blinked slowly, the unshed tears still pooling at the brim of her lashes, but no longer threatening to leak over. 

She leaned forward, and there was no hesitation from Logan before he was reaching out and wrapping an arm around her shoulders. She flinched, but this one was less volatile. This one was a familiar flinch, the sort that Rogue usually made when someone tried to touch her in any way. This was Rogue now, the Rogue that he knew and not the one that had been hollowed out by a dangerous mutant’s mind.

A dangerous mutant that, as much as Logan loathed to admit it, shared far too many similarities to him.

Rogue let out a long, exhausted breath, and finally leaned into Logan’s touch. She shifted slightly and Logan made sure to keep his hand away from her skin, allowing her to move in a way that let her bury her face in his shoulder. The tension that had been thrumming beneath her skin seemed to finally leave her with one large sigh, and Logan rubbed a hand over her arm as she slumped against his side. 

“He’s confused,” she murmured softly, her words already laced with exhaustion. “We gotta help him.”

And that, more than anything, was the Rogue that Logan knew.

Chapter Text

Despite Rogue’s protests, Logan had insisted that she get checked over in the Medbay. Jean had backed him up on this and, despite Logan’s expectations, there really was no sign of harm. The mutant hadn’t hurt her. In fact, it seemed as though it hadn’t even attacked her. As much as Rogue—with her increasing stability of accent and fading golden eyes—had insisted that was the case, Logan still found it hard to believe.

Of course, he then had to spend nearly half an hour arguing with Jean about why she shouldn’t try to get a look inside the mutant’s head. That was a horrible idea on many levels, and yet it took five or six times of Logan explaining just how poorly it could go in order to get the telepath to back off. Then, he had to have a whole other conversation with Ororo about the safety of the children. That one, at least, he had gotten something out of since Ororo agreed to double-down on making sure the students stayed out of the new resident’s room. That was something that they both thought would be beneficial. 

Hours beforehand, Logan would have still been fighting against the idea of the blue-furred mutant being a resident. A few hours before, he might have argued that they should simply padlock the door, if only to give himself some peace of mind. In the heat of the moment, when he looked into Rogue’s terrified, unnaturally golden eyes, he was ready to hook a chain to the mutant’s collar and leave him to rot.

Now, with the exhaustion of the last hour or so truly beginning to settle into his bones, Logan didn’t want to think about that instinct. Regret wasn’t something that Logan felt often for his thoughts, but this time… if not regret, it was something close.

His footsteps should have echoed with how heavily he was pacing the hallway, but instead they were swallowed up by the plush carpet beneath his boots. He knew Xavier might berrate him for having shoes on in this part of the Institute, but he also knew that not even Scott paid attention to that rule. Besides, in the past hour or so, there had been some significantly more important things on his mind than getting a bit of dirt on the carpet; things like the fact that Rogue had been attacked by the volatile mutant that Logan had been haunted by for the past week.

Well, not attacked, according to Rogue. Jean’s check-up had confirmed the lack of marks on her skin. There was no blood on the mutant’s claws. All evidence pointed to exactly what Rogue had said; it had been an accident. The mutant’s tail had brushed against her. It seemed as if there was no malicious intent at all; Rogue had even said that the mutant had been trying to get her to leave, for fear of Logan catching her there. She said that he had spoken to her, and had then been confused by the shocked look Jean gave her.

Perhaps that was the reason that Logan was still lingering in this hallway, wearing a path into the carpet with his pacing, like he had been for nearly an hour. Something had shifted in that hour, and it wasn’t just Rogue’s insistence that the mutant needed help. It certainly wasn’t anything that the mutant himself had done, talking or cowering or anything else. Really, it was more what he had done than anything else.

According to Rogue, the mutant feared punishment; not only for himself, but for her as well. That, Logan had expected. That was what had led him to use an artificial electrical noise to get him to freeze up during the first attack. Logan was well aquiainted with those sort of containment methods, and he wasn’t above using the threat to keep the mutant in line. 

What he hadn’t expected was how willing he had been to actually make good on those threats. The defibrillators were one thing, but those were different than this. This time, he had laid a hand on the creature. This time, his claws had nearly come out. This time, the mutant hadn’t even outright hurt anyone.

He had stepped right into the shoes of authority far more easily than he would have liked. The fear in Rogue’s eyes when she had looked at him towering over the blue creature had been a testament to that.

The mutant had fears, and Logan understood them. He understood them well, even if he hated that he did. The very thought of what the boy stood for, the place that he was from, was enough to make Logan’s skin itch and his lip curl. He could hardly stand to look at the mutant, and it was because he knew exactly what it had been like to be in that position. Logan had lived through that cowardice and obedience; he had surprised tremors and stood vacant, hardly present in his body, just waiting for the next trigger words to send him onto whatever task that had been his only purpose.

He doesn’t even think of himself as a person. He thinks of himself as an object. Logan wanted Rogue’s words to leave his head but they were stuck there, repeating around in the back of his brain like a pendulum, each phrase crashing into the next with a continual pattern that made him want to either lash out or shut down; he couldn’t tell which. The words sunk far more deeply into his flesh than he wanted them to. They pulled up memories of moments that Logan didn’t want to remember, times when he forgot who he was, what he was, and could only remember that he was a mutant, a weapon, an instrument that was meant to carry out its purpose, a thing that had no thoughts of its own and only—

The taste of blood shocked him out of his thoughts, and Logan blinked as he realized that he was grinding his teeth a bit too hard. He must have caught the side of his cheek, but the injury was gone before he even realized it was there. Only the faint tang of copper remained on his tongue, and Logan used that to guide himself back to the present, the hallway with its plush red carpet that was now dented with a path from his pacing. He focused for a moment on the ornately built wooden walls, and steadfastly ignored the thought that a place like this was too good for a creature like him. He hated the overboard nature of the Institute, but that had nothing to do with his worthiness to be there. He was not an object. He was more than just a mutant, and he no longer had to listen to any voices telling him otherwise.

With a sinking, almost sickening twist, Logan thought about the creature behind one of those carved wooden doors. Creature. Mutant. Thing. The designation ‘Nightcrawler’ put a rancid taste in his mouth, but it was better than calling the kid a thing, which was exactly what Logan had been doing.

He wanted to say that it wasn’t his fault. He wanted to brush off the blame and defend himself. It wasn’t like the boy knew any better. It wasn’t like he was saying anything different than anyone else had before. He wasn’t calling the boy an it, which he was willing to bet had been the only pronoun applied to the kid for as long as he had been in whatever program had made him this way. He was better than the boy’s captors. He was just trying to keep things in terms that the battered, hardly-there creature would understand. He tried to take every look at it possible, and tried as hard as he could to shut out the fact that he knew his defenses were weak. He knew why he could hardly look at the creature. He knew why it was easier to think of him as just that —a creature— rather than a child, a boy, a kid. It was easier to think of everything that the mutant had been made rather than what he could have been before.

If he thought of the kid as a creature, it was easier to pretend they were different. 

Logan had once been in that boy’s shoes, and he hated it. He hated to see everything that he knew he was reflected back at him in those empty yellow eyes. He hated it in a way that clawed beneath his skin, simmered along his spine, and burned like fire in the back of his throat. It was easier not to think about it, to instead separate himself from the boy in every way he could. He didn’t want to think of Nightcrawler as a person. He didn’t want to think about the implications that had, about the way that this was a kid—a child— that had been hollowed out and emptied in the way he had been. He didn’t want to look at the way that this kid highlighted his flaws, his broken parts, the habits that still remained after years of being out of that damned place.

The worst part was the fact that, in trying to distance himself from what he was, Logan had started acting the exact opposite. He was stepping right into the role that the husk of a mutant saw him as; a commander. A leader. A master that he was meant to follow in fear of punishment. 

He had nearly proved the kid right.

Now, after an hour of pacing and contemplation, Logan was glad he hadn’t lashed out at the boy. He was glad he hadn’t chained him up. He was glad he hadn’t done any of those things because he knew what it was like to be on the other side. He knew what the boy was expecting, and he didn’t want to be the one to deliver it. 

A harsh breath slipped between Logan’s lips, and he grit his teeth a bit more gently at the way it echoed in the silent hallway. He rubbed a hand across his face slowly, his fingers slipping over grease-slicked hair and unshaved stubble as he closed his eyes briefly. When he opened them, he was staring at the door. It was hardly more than three feet in front of him. It was just as unassuming as any of the mansion’s carved mahogany entrances could be, but as he inhaled, Logan could catch the scents that had been layered here over the past two days. Rouge’s curiosity was there, heavily overlaid by her fear and shock. Ororo’s was there, cool and calm though tainted slightly with worry. In contrast Jean’s scent was warm, strong, almost like cinnamon in the way that it twisted in complicated turns of confused, concerned, caring, and other things that Rogue’s fear muddled into non-existence. His own scent was prevalent of course, easily the strongest odor in the hall, and Logan could taste his own frustration and anger. The feeling at the base of his chest, the thing that was almost like regret, curled up again and he had to shove it away. 

Then, of course, there was the mutant—Nightcrawler. His scent was far more telling of his emotions than anything else about him. The creature may have been trained to hold back flinches and tremors that would break his posture. He may have been trained to stay still and vacant, to forget to think or feel the way that he naturally should. He may have been trained to hide all traces of emotion, but there was no way to train a person out of their scent. When Logan inhaled, he could taste the stale remnants of the blood and grime that had clung to the boy when he was first brought into the room. He could still smell the light bite of chemicals that lingered from whatever place the boy had come from. The most overwhelming scents were the current ones. Above all, Logan could smell one distinct, constant underlying scent; fear.

The corner of his lip curled, and he couldn’t quite tell what exactly his disgust was pointed toward. 

Logan’s knuckles burned, and he glanced down at his hands. He could see the point of his claws there, just below the surface of his skin. It stung slightly, as it always did when they came out, and Logan let out a breath before forcefully shaking out the tension in his arms. In an instant the stinging was replaced with the pleasant nothingness of healed flesh, and he let out another small breath. 

There should be someone else to take this problem. There should be anyone other than him standing outside of this door. Ororo would be able to keep him calm with her firm voice and commanding presence. Jean was wonderful with kids. Scott was the actual leader of their outfit, not to mention the one who had decided to bring the boy in. The place belonged to Xavier. Heck, Rogue had managed to get him to speak; she seemed to be having more luck than any of them combined. Any of them would be a better choice for this job than him, someone who barely had enough empathy to keep from running out the door.

But their tactics would only work if this was a normal kid. As it was, Logan was the only one that had an inkling of what the kid was going through. He was the one who knew just what the kid was. Whether he liked it or not, this was something he had agreed to.

We’ve gotta help him. Rogue had said it so simply, as if convincing a creature that he was a person was an easy task. It wasn’t. Logan knew firsthand how many years that could take.

But Rogue wanted him to help this kid. For some reason, the girl trusted him. Logan could see the look on her face, and he knew he could not do anything against that. He couldn’t allow himself to disappoint Rogue.

Nightcrawler could have been beyond help… but then again, Logan would have thought the same about himself several years ago. 

The X-Men would want to handle this gently, but Logan had never been about gentleness and he wasn’t about to start now. He wouldn’t coddle the kid, but… he could try communication. 

He and Nightcrawler were both versed in the same language; pain. That was what the kid was expecting, and Logan had nearly met his expectations. 

They were both going to need a bit of re-education… but they were in a school, weren’t they? 

Logan huffed, glaring at the door. It hadn’t moved in the hour that he’d been pacing. He knew it wasn’t going to move. Nothing could change what had already happened; nothing could change the fact that Nightcrawler was probably sitting behind that door, vacant and broken, waiting for a punishment that Logan had nearly dealt out. Nothing could change the fact that Nightcrawler was expecting him to speak the language of pain, other than Logan going in and showing him something else. 

Logan wasn’t exactly sure what that “something else” was. Maybe mercy was the closest thing. 

Logan wasn’t a merciful person. He was fluent in the language of pain, and the thought of trying to communicate in any other way made him want to turn tail and leave it to someone more capable. But, like it or not, he’d already made this decision. He’d said he wasn’t going to run. He was going to stick with that.

If the mutant — if Nightcrawler — had really been concerned about Rogue… well, maybe he wasn’t as far gone as Logan had thought. Maybe there was something that could be salvaged here. 

Maybe, if Nightcrawler was able to hang on to a shred of empathy, Logan could manage to find one within himself. 

He let out a harsh breath, then glared at the door. Nothing was going to change if he kept pacing outside of it. If anything, the waiting was just going to make the situation worse. He said he wasn’t going to run, and now it was time to make good on that promise.

He reached out a hand, pushed his way into the dark room, and tried to remember how to speak a language other than pain.

Chapter Text

The first thing that greeted Kurt when he woke up was a pounding headache. The second thing was an ice-cold grip around his wrist, and then an instinctual need to duck his head and go limp in the grasp. There had been voices above him and pain as the hand had squeezed, but all of it sounded distant, as though it was coming toward him from underwater. Every movement made his head pound harder and made him want to sink into the carpet beneath his knees — when had he gotten on the floor? — and there was something hard and tight around his neck that made breathing difficult, which didn’t make sense because the thing felt familiar, as if it was meant to be there despite how wrong it felt. 

Then, just as his wrist was released from the crushing grip it had been in, he realized just how wrong he felt.

He… that wasn’t right, was it? That was individual. That was the sort of thing a person was called. He… that wasn’t right, no, he wasn’t a person… but wasn’t he? He was breathing, tight as it was. He was thinking, jumbled as his thoughts were. He was alive and he could feel his heart thrumming in his chest, heavy and harsh as though he had just run a marathon… why did a part of his mind buck up at the thought of himself as a person?

Everything was a jumble, and Kurt’s head only pounded more as he tried to think it through. The voices that had been above him were gone, and he was grateful for that. Whatever had been nearly crushing his wrist was gone, and he could feel a bruise forming. He was grateful for the fact that the lights were off as well, though his vision was still sharp enough to make it easy to see in the dark. He didn’t recognize the room. He didn’t recognize it at all. For some reason his mind was pulling up images of cold gray walls, of bars and barriers and places that didn’t make sense, that didn’t correlate with—

With what? The more that he tried to recall memories of his home, the more they seemed to skitter out of reach. They seemed blurry and distorted like funhouse mirrors, like memories of a lifetime ago, so far that he couldn’t grasp anything but a vague sense of longing… which didn’t make sense, because he was—

A mutant. He was a mutant. He was a mutant with blue skin and deformed hands and a whip-like tail that could be used as a weapon. A weapon . That was what he was— what it was.

The thoughts seemed to burn the mutant’s mind and he— it— grit its teeth to fight against the way the room seemed to spin. Its head was still pounding, but things felt more cemented as it remembered what the metal collar around its neck signified. 

For just a moment, a small blissful moment, it had forgotten its place. It couldn’t afford that, not as it remembered the new handler, the girl, the way it had tried to get her to leave only for… whatever new form of punishment this was to shock it out of its senses and leave it here, scrambling and gasping for breath and with nothing but guilt on its shoulders.

There was a sound just beyond the door and Kurt— the mutant— stiffened. It inhaled as silently as possible and tried to force its erratic heart to steady. As it did it took that name, the name it was no longer supposed to have, and shoved it deep, deep within the back of its mind, where it was unreachable and hidden. It was a name that it hadn’t even dared to think for longer than it could remember. It was a name that it wasn’t supposed to have, from a life it couldn’t remember, and the mutant couldn’t help the fear that rose up in its chest at the thought of its handler somehow knowing that it was still stored in the back of its mind.

The door creaked, and the creature very — very — carefully swallowed its fear. It forced itself to still, to make its breathing even, and wait for the punishment it knew was coming.

“Hey there.” 

The voice was soft, gentle, and far different from the harsh growl that the mutant was beginning to expect. For a moment, it almost wanted to let out a breath of relief — the handler wasn’t back yet. It had a moment to gather itself, to make sure it was completely under control again.

“Are you okay?” 

The mutant nearly opened its mouth, stopping just a moment as it remembered itself. Those words were human, achingly so. They weren’t an order, or a command, or a direction. They were soft, nice, conversational… everything that was meant for beings worthier than it. It wasn’t meant to respond. It wasn’t meant to speak.  

The woman’s voice fell on its ears again, sweet and honey-like, and the mutant fought not to listen. The tone was too gentle to be meant for it, especially not now, when punishment was surely imminent for…

…for what, exactly? How many offenses had it committed? Its brain felt too jumbled, like it had been turned inside out and back again. Thinking hurt, and trying to remember what had led up to this moment hurt even more. It remembered pain, so much pain, and then darkness, and—

The girl. It couldn’t remember what had happened to the girl.

The mutant didn’t move — even like this, it was still well trained. It could prove that it was well trained — but it felt its heart dive into its stomach. It had seen the girl’s face, her expression mirroring its own as she convulsed, shaking in the same way it had — had she felt the same pain? Had the handler found out that she had disobeyed his order? Had the handler found out that it had spoken to her, and then punished them both? It couldn’t remember what had happened to the girl. It couldn’t remember, it couldn’t—

But of course, it didn’t need to remember. It didn’t need to know. The girl was none of its concern, not truly. What it should worry about was the orders it had been given; stay, don’t move, don’t touch.

I’ll deal with you later.

The words sent shivers down the mutant’s spine that it carefully ignored. There was dread pooling heavily in its stomach, but it tried not to feel it. Dread would do nothing to change the inevitable; it would be better if it could feel nothing at all.

Punishment was coming. If the handler said he would “deal with” the mutant, then there was nothing to do but wait until the lot was dealt and attempt to recover after.

The mutant took a subtle, but deep breath, and used that to push down the fear that was threatening to climb up its throat. It couldn’t think about the looming punishment, or the anger in the handler’s voice, or the fact that this handler seemed like he would be so much stronger than his last one. It couldn’t think about the girl, the girl with a kind voice that had spoken to it almost like an equal. The mutant wasn’t supposed to think at all. It needed to stop thinking.

“Alright.” Maybe the woman had said something between her last few words and these ones. The mutant couldn’t be sure. The words weren’t meant for its ears after all. “Alright, I’m just… I’m going to check in with Logan again. I’m sure he’ll bring you food soon, or… or something.”

The word food was familiar enough for the mutant to unintentionally catch, but it tried its best to tune out the rest of the woman’s words. It knew it shouldn’t be getting food; not after this. There was no way it would be allowed a ration after this.

The woman whispered a soft goodbye, and then the door was shutting again. After several generous moments of waiting to make sure she was truly gone, the mutant let out a long, shuddering breath. 

It shouldn’t allow itself to breathe freely, but its chest was tight and its head was throbbing and it was alone. For a blessed moment it was alone, and it needed to take that time to gather itself. The woman — she was the nice one, the one that smelled of honey and warm things — would likely bring its handler soon, and it had to be ready. It was too aware right now, its senses all jumbled up and far, far too scattered for its liking. It had almost responded to the kind woman; it couldn’t be that loose-tongued once the handler returned. It had to be ready; he had sounded far, far to angry for this to be a gentle punishment.

The mutant sucked in a gulp of air, its chest heaving with the effort and its head pounding. It allowed its eyes to flicker shut briefly, just long enough for it to even out its breathing again. It had to be good. It had to be perfect. It had to take that pain, that hurt, that shakenness that rushed through its veins and carefully stash it all away. It pushed everything off, carefully moving the feeling of awareness that was making its chest ache to some space in the back of its mind. It felt itself retreat, and with that retreat came slow, even breaths. Distantly, it could feel its heart beginning to calm into a more steady beat. Somewhere far away, it could feel the press of carpet beneath its knees, the ache in its wrist and the throb of the aggravated injuries, but the feelings were detached from its consciousness. Slowly, gradually, it pulled itself away, tucking those things like a name that it was no longer supposed to have in a far, far away place in its mind. 

It had no name. It was not a person. It was only Nightcrawler, a moniker given to a weapon, a mutant that was meant to serve its master. That was all it was. That was all it needed to be.

The handler would return, and he would delve out a fitting punishment for whatever crimes it had committed. It was perfectly within his right. The mutant would comply, would cooperate, would watch at a distance as its body took the brunt of all the mistakes it had made. It could survive; it had before, and it would again. It was a mutant, a hardy thing according to its first handler. It would hurt, it would hunger, and then it would continue on. It would receive its due punishment, it would learn its lesson, and it would be better. This was the correction it needed in order to remain useful, and it needed to remain useful in order to cling to the heartbeat that still echoed in its chest.

Distantly, the mutant breathed. It was a good feeling, only slightly painful against its still-bruised ribs. It allowed itself to be grateful for that small mercy, and to enjoy it while it lasted. It wouldn’t last long, that much it was sure of; the likelihood of its ribs staying intact were slim, and that was okay. It knew how to operate with broken ribs. It had done it before, it could do it again.

Broken ribs would be one of the better scenarios. It would be far better for its body to be broken than the tiny shards it had left of its mind. Its thoughts were already so scattered and fragile, it wasn’t sure if it would be able to handle a bout in solitary with nothing but white walls and silence bearing down around it. Even solitary would be better than if they decided to just use the serum on it, to lock it away within its own mind. It deserved whatever was coming for it, and if it was only beaten it would be a mercy. 

It focused on these thoughts, refusing to let its heart beat pick up. It carefully kept its tail still, its hands folded, its knees bent. It refused to move; it knew better than that. It forced itself into perfection, or at least as much perfection as an imperfect creature like itself could manage.

Its mind drifted, and it tried to stay unmoored. It tried to let go of the fear, to let go of the thoughts, to let go of itself. 

But even with all of its training, even with all of its practice, it couldn’t quite shut its mind off. There was still that tug at the corner of its mind that kept turning back, trying to remember what had happened to the girl. 

It knew it shouldn’t hope, it knew it shouldn’t even think, and yet… it hoped that she wasn’t being punished. It hoped that she was alright. It hoped that she had escaped, or at least obeyed quickly enough to deflect some of the punishment. It had already seen her be hit by whatever that new wave of punishment was, the one that twisted its head and flipped it inside out and made it feel so wretchedly aware.  

It couldn’t afford to be that aware. It had to be nothing. It was nothing.

The girl wasn’t at the same level as it was. She had disobeyed, yes, but she had already been punished. She had been hurt just like it had, and it was painful. Surely that was enough. Surely that would satisfy them. So far this “new management” had been unreasonably benevolent toward the mutant, allowing it to be stored in a nice room and eat multiple meals and take a shower. Surely there would be grace for the girl. Surely they would find some form of mercy for her.

Something cold twisted in the mutant’s gut, and perhaps if it were a bit less distant it would shiver. As it was it stayed perfectly still, and let the distant chill simply sink into its bones. It knew how places like this treated mercy. It knew what mercies were; moments of rest, moments of respite, brief seconds of breathing space that were graciously allowed. They were small, rare, and never deserved. It was a mercy to have a moment to breathe, a mercy to have a short while of intact bones, a mercy to have a few moments of clear-headedness between doses of chemicals and drugs. Those were mercies that occasionally — rarely — could be earned.

Escaping a punishment was not a mercy. It was an impossibility. 

But the girl was above it; she had to be. It was a creature, an animal, a weapon. She was a person, a human being. She was of a higher caliber, a higher status, a higher worth. Besides, it had made far more mistakes than she had. She had simply disobeyed by talking to it. It had made eye contact, spoken without permission, touched without reason, had poor form in front of its handler, plus a multitude of other sins and missteps that the handler had yet to react to…

It deserved to be punished. 

It deserved whatever was going to be delved out to it. 

This mantra circled through its mind as it sat, carefully still, carefully breathing, carefully drifting further and further away from awareness. 

It had no idea how long had passed when the door opened a second time. It was distant enough that it didn’t move a muscle, only aware enough to listen for commands as a sliver of light fell over the plush carpet in front of it. Boots stepped into the light, and then after a moment the door creaked and the light disappeared. The mutant’s breathing remained even, and with its next inhale came the scent of wood and metal. 

It refused to let its heartbeat speed up. The handler wouldn’t want that. It couldn’t give in to the panic that was curling at the base of its spine, the tightness that the collar caused in its throat. It had to choke that panic away, to obey and to be compliant. It knew how this worked. It knew it deserved this. 

It wasn’t sure when it had folded down into position, but it belatedly realized that its body had shifted, its knees tucked close to its chest and its forehead pressed to the carpet. Distantly, there was a thought about the last time it had thought this master was going to punish it, how he had seemed unhappy with the show of initiative, but the concern was far-off and unimportant. Everything was far-off.

There was a long, low sigh somewhere above it. 

“Yeah. That tracks.”

The words washed over its ears, but it knew the voice. That was all it needed to hear; it was ready. It would take whatever was given, and it would be better. 

There was a long moment of silence. The boots shifted. The mutant waited.

“Up.”

The mutant was on its feet the moment the command was uttered, its body on autopilot. It could feel a slight swell of nausea and its vision darkened for a moment, but it didn’t allow itself to feel the pain or stiffness. It had no idea how long it had been hunched, unmoving, on the floor, but it didn’t matter. It didn’t need to know. It didn’t need to feel. It didn’t need to think.

“Damn, you’re distant, aren’t ya?” A shadow passed over the mutant’s face, and a moment later there was a hand on its chin. Its head lifted when it was pushed, and it didn’t need to work to keep its eyes from focusing on its master — it was too far-off to focus on anything at the moment. 

There was a low hum, but the mutant didn’t flinch or waver. It kept perfectly still, perfectly compliant, and waited for the first blow to knock it back to the floor.

Another sigh. The hand dropped away, and the mutuat’s head dropped limply.

The handler muttered something under his breath. “Shoulda seen this comin’. Damn it. I can’t even…”

He trailed off, tension tight in his words. The mutant could hear something akin to frustration, and it waited for the first blow to fall. 

The man muttered something again, then huffed and dragged a hand through his hair. There was a long beat, a contemplative silence that the mutant carefully ignored. It knew he would be thinking of the best way to hurt it, the best way to teach it whatever lesson it was supposed to learn. The mutant knew most of it. It would be better. It would fix itself, it wouldn’t—

It had to stop thinking. Its breathing was speeding up, and it couldn’t allow that. It had to choke down the panic, to shove away the awareness, to stand and wait patiently as the handler decided what he was going to do with it. It was meant to take the punishment, nothing else. 

“Status report.” The words were slow, measured. “I need a physical status report.” 

Of course, the handler would need to know where it was hurt. That would let him avoid the areas as needed, and make them worse as wanted. The last handler usually took a status report before beatings too. 

The mutant slowly lifted a clawed, deformed hand. It half expected for the limb to be grabbed again, for it to be broken before it was even able to point out its injuries and complete its report. The handler made no move like that though; he only hesitated briefly, than spoke again.

“Verbally. Rogue said you could speak, so I expect a verbal report.”

The mutant didn’t flinch, but a part of it wanted to. It was very, very aware of the implications of those words. The handler knew of its disobedience, but that was what it had expected. Of course he would know. Handlers always seemed to know the worst of their charges.

He wanted it to speak. He wanted it to dig its grave even deeper, to show it just how broken and wrong it was for trying to mimic human noise. He wanted it to be aware, to feel every bit of pain he was going to inflict upon it for the mistake.

It carefully pulled itself back to its body, keeping its distance but aware enough to open its jaws.

“Broken wrist,” the mutant said, forcing the words out between chapped lips. It was difficult to retain its detachment while it spoke, and it took a long moment for it to remember exactly how to form the words. They felt heavy and unnatural in its mouth, and its skin crawled with dread as each word left its lips. “Three broken ribs. Wrenched shoulder. Knife wound in side.” It paused for a moment. “Bruised wrist.”

There was a slight hum above it. A hand reached out, and the mutant could feel it grab the wrist that wasn’t broken. It was the same wrist that it had felt the handler grab just a while before. The wrist that had been trapped in a crushing grip as it had blinked its way out of darkness, the wrist that had nearly been snapped in two before it could remember its place.

“This one is bruised?” There was a pause. “Verbal answer.”

The mutant couldn’t decipher the handler’s voice. It was too flat, too different from its last handler to be understandable. The last handler would have had a level of tell in his voice; a slight note of satisfaction at the report, or maybe dissatisfaction at the fact that the wrist was only bruised. This handler wasn’t as easy to read, which meant he was harder to please.

He was expecting a verbal answer, and it was being slow again. The mutant swallowed.

“Yes, sir.”

It braced itself, waiting for the handler’s grip to tighten. It waited for the pain to begin, for something in its wrist to snap to match the first. It waited for the man standing over it to let out a cruel laugh or a sharp growl, and to get this whole thing started. 

“That’s something.” The handler’s voice was low, almost thoughtful. It didn’t seem like he was talking about the injuries. “You can hear me alright?”

It hesitated until he said “verbal response” again. “Yes, sir.”

“Respond verbally on all of these. Gender?”

The mutant forced itself to speak. “Male.”

“Species?”

“Mutant.”

“Age?”

“Fifteen.”

The grip on its wrist loosened. “You’re fifteen?”

“Yes, sir.”

The handler muttered something beneath his breath that the mutant couldn’t quite hear. It wasn’t a command, so it didn’t matter if it heard.

“How long?”

The mutant opened its mouth, but paused. How long? The question was too vague. How long for what? How was it supposed to respond? 

“How long have you been in the program?” There was just a slight growl at the edge of the man’s words, probably because the mutant was being slow and stupid. To make things worse, it still didn’t have an answer. Its thoughts were too jumbled, and it had long since lost the ability to truly remember a past beyond gray walls and cages. Perhaps there had never been one.

“I don’t know, sir.”

It braced itself, waiting for the blow to fall. Instead, the handler only hummed. If the mutant wasn’t a stupid animal, it might have thought that the man almost sounded sad. Pensive, perhaps. Maybe understanding.

“No memories?”

The question was hardly a question, but the handler seemed to still expect a verbal response. “Yes, sir.”

“You can quit—” the handler started to say something, but cut himself off. There was a frustrated tone to the edge of his voice, and he seemed to mumble something to himself before continuing. “Good. Good report.”

Good? The mutant felt its breath hitch a tiny bit beneath the weight of the word, and it felt a tiny, traitorous, dangerous flash of hope. It knew it shouldn’t hope, it knew it shouldn’t react, but there was a tiny, tiny flash of relief at the fact that its handler had said it had done good.

Punishment was still coming, it still knew everything would be taken away, but maybe the handler would be kind enough not to strip away what was left of its mind. Maybe the handler could see that it wasn’t completely lost, that there was still some worth left in it. 

It shouldn’t hope, but the tiny flash of something almost like reassurance made the incoming pain easier to imagine. As long as there was something beyond the pain, it could survive. 

For a long, long moment there was silence. Its wrist was still held in the handler’s grip, but it was a loose grip. The handler seemed pensive, not angry, and he still hadn’t moved to hit it. 

“I know what you’re expectin’.” The words were looser than an order. The mutant wasn’t entirely sure it was meant to listen to them. “I know you think I’m gonna hurt you. Rogue thought I was gonna hurt you. Hell, I think I thought I was gonna hurt you.”

The handler huffed, but it wasn’t a frustrated noise. It sounded sad, maybe a bit hollow.

“I’m sorry you’re stuck with me,” the man muttered, and that was definitely not something the mutant was meant to hear. “I’m sorry there ain’t anyone that can handle this better.”

It stayed silent as the handler stopped speaking. It stayed quiet and waited for the inevitable pain, each moment without it more confusing than the last.

When the man spoke again, his voice was firm. “I am not going to hurt you.” He said it like a promise. “You already received a punishment for your actions tonight.”

For a moment, the mutant panicked. It raked its mind, trying to remember when it had been punished, exactly what had happened…

Then it remembered that ripping, tearing, draining pain, and it had to force back a shiver. It could remember the panic that had surged through its veins, the panic in the girl’s eyes as she seized, both of them caught in the depths of the punishment.

It hoped the girl was okay.

That pain was nearly insurmountable, one of the worst things it had ever felt, but even that wasn’t equal to the caliber of its mistakes. It had made too many, and the handler knew them. The girl — Rogue? — had told him.

It hoped she had offered up the information willingly, if it would lessen her punishment. 

“That punishment was enough,” the handler said, even though the math didn’t add up. “You won’t be receiving any more tonight.”

The words didn’t make sense. The mutant had made so many mistakes, so many that it couldn’t even remember how much punishment it deserved. All that it knew was it deserved pain. It deserved to be thrown to the ground, to be thrown into a cell, to be torn away from its mind and body so it would be forced to remember how to behave. It was a volatile mutant, it had always required more than enough punishment to keep it in line. This didn’t make sense.

“But you need to know.” The grip on its wrist tightened slightly, and the handler leaned in. “If you ever touch Rogue again, you’ll feel that same pain. That kinda pain doesn’t come from anywhere else. You try ‘n hurt her, you’ll feel all that and more. Got it?”

That made sense. That felt solid, real, an order it could understand: do not touch Rogue. It could obey that. It could understand that.

It hoped that meant she was alright. 

The handler hesitated for a moment. “Verbal response.”

“Yes, sir.”

The man grunted, and the grip on the mutant’s wrist dropped away. For a long, long moment, the handler’s gaze lingered in it.

“We can work with this,” the man murmured, his voice low. He nodded again, his words more certain. “We can work with this.”

The mutant waited for the blows to fall. It waited for the handler to go back on his word, to punish it for all it had done wrong. It waited and waited, and it didn’t understand when nothing came. 

“You responded well to this assessment, and you responded verbally.” The handler’s words were firm, steady, repeating the information he had already given as though he knew just how much it rocked the mutant’s world. “For that, you get a reward.

A can was placed on the ground, right in the mutant’s eye line, and it barely kept itself from blinking in shock again. There was food in front of it. It was another can like the last few the handler had given it — no less. It tried to wrap its head around the concept, floored by the idea that it would be allowed food after so many mistakes, after the handler had withheld any other sort of punishment—

“Eat.”

The response was automatic. The mutant didn’t hesitate; it fell to its knees, scooping up the opened can with a reverence, only pausing for a moment before digging in to wait, to see if the handler would change his mind…

“I’m not gonna take it. Eat.”

The mutant wasn’t stupid enough to make its handler repeat the order a third time. It gulped down the contents of the can, relishing in the way that the food settled in its stomach. Its ribs ached vaguely, but no worse than they had before the girl had entered the room. They hadn’t been rebroken. It hadn’t been rebroken. It had been allowed to stay intact, and it had been allowed food.

It didn’t make any sense.

“We can work with this,” murmured the voice of its handler. The words washed over the mutant’s ears. They weren’t a command. It wasn’t supposed to listen.

And yet, somehow, it had been allowed to eat. 

The mutant was getting far more than it deserved.

Chapter Text

Scott was standing outside of the Danger Room. He was in his full Cyclops get-up, complete with the black leather suit. The red sunglasses had been swapped out for his usual dull gold visor, but even with that Logan could tell he had a sharp eye on the monitor screens. He was paying close attention to the session going on inside the room, watching as a pair of students tried to circle around a massive crater in the center of the floor, keeping a close eye out for any mistakes.

Logan knew better than to think that meant the man didn’t know he was there. He’d felt Scott’s eyes flick over to him the moment he entered the hallway. 

“Iceman, keep your eyes on Colossus,” Scott said, leaning toward an intercom piece that jutted out from the wall. “You don’t know where the next attack is coming from; if something hits your teammate from behind, he’s going in the pit.”

Scott leaned back, and Logan watched as one of the tiny figures on the screen gave a quick thumbs-up. A second later there was a quick movement off to one side, and then a flash of blue as the kid threw up his hands, a blast of ice decimating some incoming enemy that had been rushing toward his teammate. Both boys seemed to cheer, and highfived.

Scott was smiling when he spoke into the microphone again. “Remember to celebrate after you finish the mission. No more hints now, you two are on your own.”

With that, he turned to Logan. The second he was looking away from the monitors, his smile disappeared. 

“Logan.”

His voice was flat, his gaze unreadable behind the visor, his arms crossed loosely over his chest. To anyone a bit less experienced, he may look like he was completely uninterested. Logan, however, had plenty of experience with this man. He could tell from a glance that Scott was pissed.

He sighed. “Jean filled ya in, didn’t she?”

“And Ororo,” Scott said, his voice still even and calm. “And Xavier.”

Logan rolled his eyes. “So the whole school knows?”

“Kind of hard to keep this sort of thing quiet, Logan.”

“Yeah, well—“ Logan cut himself off before he could continue. He let out a harsh breath, gathered his thoughts, and forced himself to say what he’d come here to say. “Look. I messed up.”

Apparently, that was not what Scott had been expecting, because the man’s eyebrows shot up over the top of his visor. “What?”

“Don’t make me say it again,” Logan growled. “But look, I know we jus’ talked ‘bout all this, okay? I know you were sayin’ all that about actually stickin’ around, and…”

Scott’s expression shifted, and there was a slight note of awe in his voice as Logan trailed off. “Are you actually saying I was right about something?”

“Don’t push it, Summers.” Logan shot the man a glare. “You messed up too.”

“I—“

“You said you’d try’n keep kids outta there. Rogue bein’ in there? That’s on you.” Logan paused for a moment, then looked back at the ground. “But Nightcrawler’s on me. I know that.”

For a moment, Scott was quiet. Logan glanced at the monitor screens behind the man, watching briefly as the two kids continued to struggle their way through the exercise. One had made some sort of bridge across the massive crater, and the other — who now looked a bit different, his skin a silvery metal beneath his suit — was carrying something on his back. It was easier to watch that for a moment than to focus on the conversation. 

“Rogue got something from him, didn’t she?”

Logan let out a huff. His eyes didn’t leave the screen. “Jean didn’t tell you?”

“She told me what happened, but none of the details. Scott paused briefly. “I don’t think she wanted to think about the details.”

“Well, that makes two of us.”

Scott didn’t back off. “So Rogue did get something?”

“She took a piece of the kid’s mind, Scott, of course she was gonna get something.” Logan could feel his fists itching to clench, his claws biting into the back of his skin. “I hate that she felt that. I hate that she…”

“Felt what?” Logan didn’t go on immediately, and Scott pressed gently. “What was it that she felt?”

“Fear, Summers.” Loan could feel his shoulders tightening. He glowered at the screen as the two little mutants nearly slipped off their ice bridge. “She was terrified. She could feel all that fear, all that skittishness, and she was scared of me.”

Scott gave a low hum. “He’s scared of you too, then?”

“I knew that,” Logan snapped, a bit surprised at how raw the words felt. His hands curled into fists, but he carefully kept his claws at bay. “I knew he’d be scared I was gonna hurt him. That’s jus’ the truth of the situation. I… she said he was scared I was gonna hurt her.”

Scott was quiet for a moment. “And that…?”

“That isn’t possible.” The words were more hollow than Logan intended for them to be. “That… I didn’t think that was possible.”

There was no place for compassion in the hell that Logan came from. There was no space for pity or understanding. There was truly only room for one instinct; raw, inherent survival. Anything else was burned up and stomped out before it could truly form, until the only base-line motivation that a mutant could have would be to earn its next bit of food through any means necessary. 

Logan should know. It had taken him years to relearn how to care about anything other than his own ability to breathe. He still had trouble caring.

…but according to Rogue, Nightcrawler was worried about her. 

“He’s fifteen, Summers.” Logan wanted his voice to be stronger than it was. He wasn’t sure he could make it. “He’s just fifteen.”

Scott paled a bit beneath his visor. “He’s… is there any chance they got him recently? Maybe he was only there for a while.”

Logan shook his head. “Those scars are deep, Summers.”

Nightcrawler may not know how long he’d been in the facility, but Logan knew it wasn’t a short period. That kid was too deep in his programming for that. And, unlike Logan, there was a physical map on his body that showed just how long he’d been in there. There were too many old scars for it to be a short period. He’d been there for years, at least. 

Logan didn’t know his own age, but he knew he hadn’t been like this forever. He’d been old when he got out, and he’d been a decent age when he got in. 

Sure, they’d all been calling Nightcrawler a kid, but somehow Logan hadn’t been thinking about that. He hadn’t been thinking about just how young Nightcrawler would have had to go into the program for him to be this young coming out. It was enough to make even his stomach churn.

From the look on Summer’s face, he was doing similar math. 

“How’d you find out?” Scott asked, his voice hollow. “Did Rogue somehow sense it? Or did Jean run some sort of scan, or maybe—“

“If Jean’s had any thoughts about readin’ his mind, tell her not to.” Logan’s voice had sharpened for a second, but he quickly backtracked. “Please. I’m askin’ nicely, for her sake.”

Jean had already tried to read his mind before. It had done nothing but hurt both of them. Logan was pretty sure she was smart enough to avoid Nightcrawler’s, but…

Scott nodded. “I didn’t think she would. So then how’d you know?”

“He said so.”

Scott seemed to almost jump at that. “Wait, he spoke?”

“I got ‘em to.” Logan tried not to think about the boy’s voice, about the way his lips moved slowly through each word. Every sound had been rough, shaky, as though he hadn’t spoken aloud in years. The whole report was hardly more than a few sentences, and it had sounded like the kid had been trying to remember how to speak through the whole thing. 

He needed to get the kid some more water. And maybe a speech therapist. Hell, he needed to get the kid an actual therapist once he was able to stop falling to his knees for a beating every five minutes. 

“I was starting to think he was mute,” Scott murmured, his voice low. “Like they had… taken that away from him.”

Logan was pretty sure they had tried that on him, once. They must have wanted to see if his vocal cords would come back. That, or maybe it was protocol back then; mutants weren’t meant to be heard. 

“They figured out other ways,” he said, his voice low. “Kid just needed permission.”

That was a watered-down version, as usual. Still, it was enough to make Scott look a bit green.

“Damn.” One of Scott’s hands lifted, and he rubbed at the spot right above his visor. When he spoke, he just sounded tired. “What did they do to this kid?”

“They threw him into hell,” Logan said without hesitation. “And hell spat him out on our doorstep.”

“I have half a mind to go spit in the face of hell,” Scott muttered. 

His voice was dark, and for a brief moment Logan remembered just why Scott was the leader of the team. Sometimes, in the midst of all the “professor Summers” nonsense of watching him wrangle literal children, it was a bit too easy to forget just who Scott was. Sometimes, it was a bit too easy to forget the sort of power that those glasses held back. Sometimes, it was a bit too easy to forget that Scott Summers was a very, very dangerous man.

But then he dropped his hand, crossed his arms again, and looked back at the Danger Room monitors. He let out a breath, and with that he was just a teacher again, frowning at his students as they stumbled through an exercise. 

“Bobby keeps getting distracted on the last half of these simulations,” he murmured. His voice was low, and Logan was pretty sure that he was just talking to himself; probably to try and clear his mind for a moment. “I’m gonna have to remind him again to celebrate after the job’s finished, not in the middle of it.”

Logan didn’t speak, but he followed Scott’s gaze to the monitors. He watched the two boys as they struggled against some enemy — the simulation seemed to have made the attackers dinosaurs, how creative — and slowly begin to lose their ground. They had made it across the ice bridge, but the item they were supposed to be carrying had been left on the ground behind them. It didn’t look like they were going to last much longer.

“The Danger Room doesn’t just do simulations, right?”

Scott tilted his head toward Logan. “What do you mean?”

“I mean you can turn all that off, right?” Logan gestured to the screen, where a bright green raptor was currently trying to bite the metal kid’s hand off. “Get rid of all the smoke and mirrors and just let the machines be machines?”

“Well… yeah.” Scott nodded. “We did that more when I was a student, but we still strip it down sometimes. The simulations just make it more realistic and practical.”

“And overwhelming,” Logan mused. He watched the metal kid bop the dinosaur in the snout. “Before you’re used to that kind of thing.”

Scott’s head didn’t move, but Logan could feel the weight of his eyes. “Where are you going with this, Logan?”

“I have an idea,” Logan said slowly. He paused for a moment. “You’re not gonna like it.”

Scott held his gaze. “When it’s your ideas, I usually don’t.”

“Trust me, I know.” Logan snorted, crossing his arms over his chest. “But ya gotta trust me on this.”

“What are you wanting to do, Logan?”

“I’m gonna put him in the Danger Room.”

It took Scott a moment to respond. When he did, he started with clarifying. “Nightcrawler?”

“Yep.”

“In the Danger Room?”

“Yep.”

“Hell no.”

“I’m not really askin’ permission, Summers.” There wasn’t much force behind Logan’s words. They were facts, not an argument. “I’m jus’ tellin’ ya so you don’t freak out.”

“Logan, we were just talking about how messed up all of this is.” Scott ran a hand through his hair, shaking his head. “That kid is fifteen — hell, we don’t even let our actual students use the room till they’re eighteen, at least.”

“I know. That’s part of the reason I’m tellin’ ya.”

“That kid’s already been through so much, Logan.” Scott shook his head again. “I don’t want him to go through more. I don’t want him to think he has to keep fighting—“

“But he does.” Scott stopped at that, and Logan continued. “He thinks he’s a weapon. He’s not gonna stop thinking that jus’ ‘cause we say he’s not.”

“But we can’t just facilitate that,” Scott argued, his voice hollow. “Logan, I can’t just… I can’t do that to a kid—“

“You’re not doin’ anythin’, Summers.” Logan said the words firmly. That was a promise that he was making. “I told you Nightcrawler was on me, and I’m makin’ good on that.”

“But—“

“If he comes out of all this thinkin’ like a regular person again…” Logan paused for a moment. “If he comes out hatin’ us for not tellin’ him right away… he’ll be hatin’ me. I can handle that. That blame’ll be on my shoulders.”

Scott didn’t look convinced. His brow was furrowed, and he looked like he wanted to argue. Logan beat him to it. 

“I know, ok?” Logan turned away for a moment. “I know askin’ for your trust after last night is shit, especially for somethin’ like this… but listen. I’m gonna… I’m gonna try an’ actually think through this, ok? Jus’ leavin’ him in that room all day’s helpin’ no one.”

A part of Logan still wanted to do that. He wanted to just lock Nightcrawler up and pretend the problem was smaller than it was. He wanted to pretend that he could just make sure the kid ate and slept, and that would be enough. 

But with the way that Rogue had looked at him, the way that she’d said they needed to help him, no hesitation and no doubt in her voice… Logan knew he wasn’t doing enough. As much as he loathed to admit it, Scott had been right.

Thankfully, Scott wasn’t about to make him say it. Logan had too much pride to voice the words, and Scott had enough humility to not need to hear them. There was tension between the two of them, but there was also a level of understanding that Logan couldn’t help but appreciate. 

Finally, Scott gave him a nod. “If you’re sure that’s what’ll help him…”

“It will.” This time, Logan wasn’t just trying to blow off the conversation. This time, he was actually pretty sure his words were true.

Scott gave him a more decisive nod. “Okay. When do you need it?”

“Jus’ tell me when there’s not gonna be anyone else in there on a regular basis. I’ll figure out somethin’.” He paused, then glanced at the monitors. “No one else is gonna be able to see these, right?”

“Just staff.”

“Good.” Logan gave a shrug. “Watch if you wanna make sure I’m actually helpin’. Just don’t expect to like it.”

Scott seemed to hesitate for a moment. His gaze swept over the monitors, only given away by the slight turn of his head. The two kids on the screen were overwhelmed by the dinosaurs, and Logan watched as the entire room lit up in red light. The simulation froze instantly, one of the raptor’s teeth only inches away from the ice kid’s neck. 

“That’s a mission failure,” Scott said, leaning toward the mic. “Start thinking through that simulation, Pitor and Bobby. Get cleaned up and report to debrief; we’ll go over what you could have done better.”

The kids were groaning on the screen as the dinosaurs began to fizzle away, but they weren’t freezing in terror. Here, the word “failure” wasn’t something to be feared. Here, there was no real danger. Here, the worst punishment they could receive for failure was a lecture from Cyclops. 

Nightcrawler didn’t understand that concept yet. Right now, he still expected to be thrown to the ground just for speaking out of turn. 

But that was behavior that had been learned. Maybe that meant it could be unlearned. Maybe, with an actual teacher, he’d be able to do it faster than Logan had. 

“I trust you, Logan.” Scott turned back to him, his visor still covering his eyes. He gave him a long look, and then a small nod. “You say this will help, I’m going to let you try.”

For once, Logan was glad for Scott Summer’s insufferable optimism. For once, it was a good thing that he saw potential in even the most broken creatures.

Logan was getting more chances with this kid than he deserved. Maybe, this time, he’d keep from messing it up too much.

Chapter Text

There was something different in the air when the handler entered the room.

Thus far, the handler had seemed almost reluctant every time he had interacted with the mutant. That wasn’t too odd, but it was a notable part of his character. He seemed to be focused on getting it in working order, and then getting out as quickly as possible. 

This time, there was more determination in his step. This time, he set a bowl of water and a can of food in front of it, and ordered it to eat without as much finality. This time, there seemed to be something coming after.

The mutant allowed itself to be grateful for the food, and hoped that it wasn’t about to lose its eating privileges. 

To its surprise, the handler waited until it was completely done with the meal before taking the bowl away. There was none of the usual impatience that came with a handler on a mission, only a steadiness in his voice as he turned back to the mutant. 

“Get up.”

The mutant rose swiftly to its feet, waiting for its next order. 

“Come—“ the handler paused, seemed to consider his words, then restructured the command. “Follow me.”

That was something the mutant was capable of doing.

It stuck close to its handler’s heels as they left the room, walking down a long hallway and then down a flight of stairs. The space was different from the sort of hallway that volatile mutants were usually kept in — different from a space that any mutant would be kept in, really. The carpets were plush and soft beneath its deformed feet, the railing of the stairwell curved and ornate, the doors all the same heavy mahogany as the room that it had been kept in. It wondered vaguely if they had finished construction on more fitting facilities for it and were finally getting it transferred. It certainly deserved it, after the night before. 

It hoped the girl would get a room like the one it had been kept in up until now. It hoped that she wasn’t going to be hurt any more because of the mistakes it had made.

The handler led it down the stairs, then around a corner and down another set. The air down here was a bit cooler, and the mutant wondered if they were perhaps moving underground. That would make sense; it was fairly certain that the mutant wing of its last facility was underground. As they walked, the hallways lost the plush carpet and the mahogany doors, the walls instead made of a sheer and metallic substance that looked far more fitting for a weapons facility.

The handler stopped in front of a large metal door, and the mutant stopped with him. It carefully made sure that its eyes were focused on the ground in front of it, not the new walls that surrounded it. 

“We’re going to start a new routine.” The handler’s voice was sharp, strong, and undeniably something the mutant was meant to hear. It paid careful attention as he spoke. “This is a room you are now allowed in.”

The handler reached out, tapping the door of the room. 

“We call this the Danger Room,” he said. “Understood?”

The mutant gave a quick, tiny nod.

“Verbal answer.”

It swallowed hard. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” If it didn’t know any better, it might have thought that the handler actually sounded pleased. He turned, gesturing down the hall. “That way leads to Cerebro, which you do not have access to. The rest of the building that we passed through is also off-limits until further notice. Understood?”

The mutant nodded. That was very, very important information. There shouldn’t be any reason for it to be wandering around without its handler present, but it was still important that it knew where it was supposed to be. It could latch on to those orders, and it could follow them well.

The name Cerebro seemed somehow important. It nagged at the edge of its mind, and the mutant made sure that it carefully filed that information away, in case it was ever needed.

“Verbal answer.”

Apparently the nod hadn’t been satisfactory. The mutant tried not to tense. 

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” The handler clicked a button at the side of the Danger Room. There was a shift of mechanism from somewhere within the door, and then after a moment it slid open. “Follow.”

The mutant followed at its handlers heels, its eyes on the floor, carefully tucking all the new information away. It felt good to have directions, even if those directions were simply “go here, not there”. It could follow those. It could do well. It could make up for its mistakes. 

It had a lot of mistakes to make up.

It wasn’t sure what it was expecting from a room called “The Danger Room”, but it wasn’t quite expecting more of the same sleek metal flooring as the outside hallway. It expected there to be a little more dread as the door slid shut behind it, but to its surprise the handler was still there. Usually, if a room was intended to truly test its physical limits, the handler would stay outside as the mutant was sealed in.

The handler standing next to it probably shouldn’t be a comfort, but it was certainly better than simply standing in an empty room, waiting for a punishment to come from any direction. It couldn’t help but be grateful.

“You’ve been left dormant for the past few days in order to give your body time to recover from your injuries,” the handler explained, his voice clipped and succinct. “According to your last physical report, you should be stable enough to go back to regularly scheduled training.”

The mutant tried not to let its ears perk up too much. Training. It could do training. Training was familiar, stable, a perfect place for it to show just how good it was. Training wasn’t guesswork; it was an assignment, a time when it was allowed and encouraged to react to things around it. 

It could do this. 

“This room is our training facility.” The handler paused for a moment. “You’re allowed to look around.”

The mutant was a bit surprised by the comment, but it took advantage. It raised its head, quickly scanning the space around it. It was… surprisingly empty. The metallic floor was sheer and shiny like it had been outside, and the exact same material covered the walls and ceiling. The room was massive, far larger than most of the training spaces back in the old facility. There was also no equipment, which was strange. It wondered if that meant it would be doing simple exercises, like running laps till it dropped. Or, maybe they would bring in another mutant and have them spar. 

It had been a long time since the mutant had been allowed in a sparring match, though. The volatile mutants were usually kept apart, for everyone’s safety. Nowadays, it was only let around the other mutants if one of them really, really messed up. 

It swallowed back that thought, and forced itself to keep its eyes forward. It hoped this training session wasn’t meant as a punishment. It had already disobeyed so much, it couldn’t risk trying to push back. It had done enough of that for a lifetime, and it knew what the consequences were for disobedience. It didn’t want this new facility to think it was any more volatile than they already knew it was.

“You are to take it easy today.” That was an order — a strange one, but an order all the same. The mutant stiffened beneath the commanding tone as its handler circled around it. “You are still injured. I don’t want these stitches to have to be redone.”

The handler’s voice was sharp, and the mutant felt a shiver nearly run down its spine at the implications of those words. He knew about the incident from the other day — of course he knew. The mutant couldn’t expect anything else. Of course he would know that it had wasted resources and stained the gifts it had been given. 

But… it was still wearing a shirt. It was still the new shirt that Scott had permitted it. Even after the incident with the girl, it was still being allowed this kindness.

It hoped that she was being allowed the same kindness, and tried to push the thought away. It knew it shouldn’t hope. It knew it shouldn’t think about her. There was a reason it was considered volatile, a reason that it wasn’t allowed near the other mutants unless it was a punishment for them both.

It desperately, desperately hoped that it wasn’t meant to be sparing today. 

“I want you to go through these exercises at a pace that won’t aggravate your injuries.” The handler’s tone was clear and intense as he laid out the rules, and the mutant listened carefully. This was important information; it couldn’t afford to disobey. “All of your injuries, not just the stab wound. If something begins to hurt badly, you are to stop.”

Stop. Stop if something hurt? It had never been ordered to stop because of something as trivial as pain before. Pain was nothing but a motivator, a force for it to learn to compartmentalize and push through. Pain was a teaching tool to help it move forward, not something to tell it to stop. 

But these were orders from its handler, which meant it was meant to follow them. No matter how confusing, no matter how strange. It could be obedient. It could make sure they didn’t need to make it be obedient. Its neck still stung from the last time the serum had been used, the familiar fog still clinging around the edge of its memories. It didn’t want to be dragged down into that fog again. It could prove its worth. 

“I want a verbal confirmation.”

“Yes, sir.” The verbal confirmations were different, but it could obey. It could force out the words through its unpracticed throat. 

The handler grunted something, but it wasn’t an order; nothing for the mutant to hear. It waited, eyes forward and toward the empty silver room as it waited to be told what to do. 

“Alright. Good.” 

The handler shifted, then walked in front of the mutant and — the mutant froze as it realized its eyes were still forward, still following the order that said it could look around. It wasn’t expecting the handler to walk in front of it, it didn’t have time to drop its eyes and give him the proper respect. Instead it found itself staring right at the man as he passed by.

The handler didn’t seem to notice the disrespect. He kept walking, crossing the room to go touch… something. The mutant wasn’t about to look and try and see what it was, not after its heart was already hammering in its chest from one slip. 

It wasn’t exactly that the mutant was never allowed to look at its handlers. It was occasionally allowed, and it wasn’t technically an official order that it was never meant to look. However, while the order was never official, it knew how little humans appreciated being stared at by mutants. It knew it had a “creepy” stare, and it knew that humans didn’t like it when eyes like its landed on them. 

Thankfully, this handler hadn’t even seemed to notice. He was busy with something — a control panel of some sort, possibly — and that gave the mutant time to look back down at its own deformed feet, just to be safe. 

That glimpse of its handler had given it a lot of information, information that the mutant was able to compile with other glances to help shore up the image that he had of the man. He was a shorter man than the mutant would have expected based on his voice. He had a slightly rough edge to him, something almost militaristic about him. He looked more like a guard than a handler, at least in comparison to the last man that had given the mutant orders.

The mutant suppressed a shiver at the thought of that man. He had never been gracious. He had never cared if the mutant had been hurt, so long as the exercises were completed. He had always seemed just as interested in what the mutant could offer from being dissected as what it could offer by being alive. He had done his best to get both offers at once, regardless of the mutant’s physical condition.

It swallowed subtly, and realized once again just how much it had to be grateful for in this facility. It couldn’t mess up this training exercise. It had to prove its worth.

“There we go.” The handler muttered just before a loud beeping echoed through the space. The mutant could hear some sort of equipment whirring, metal shifting, something humming all around it in a way that made its hackles subconsciously raise. The floor beneath its feet felt warm, buzzing slightly as the rest of the room seemed to shift. Then, a moment later it all settled, only a light humming echoing through the space.

The handler grunted again. “I said you could look around. That still applies.”

The mutant felt its heart jump in its chest, and it quickly raised its head to look around. To its surprise, the room was suddenly not empty. Equipment had come seemingly out of nowhere and was littered all about the massive space. The structures were not all that dissimilar to the sort of thing that it had seen back in the old facility, but here they looked sleeker, sturdier, and had all been set up in the blink of an eye.

Something beeped overhead. 

“Danger Room, entry level exercise.” A voice echoed out through the room, metallic and artificial. “Configuration: Five. Simulation: Off. Instructor: Wolverine.”

The handler let out a displeased grunt behind the mutant, but it didn’t seem to be pointed in its direction. Instead he stepped forward, once again in the mutant’s line of sight, and didn’t seem to care that it was still looking up as he turned to address it.

“The goal of this exercise is simple,” the handler said, waving vaguely toward the new equipment set-up. “Get across the room. The room will be actively working against you. Remember, your primary goal is to avoid re-injuring yourself.” He paused for a long moment, as though considering his words. “The faster you heal, the better.”

Of course. That was why the new handler would allow it to stop in an exercise; re-opening its injuries would slow down the healing process, and that would make it useless. A useless mutant was a dead mutant. The handler was making sure the mutant was able to stay useful.

It was kindness, and the mutant wasn’t going to let the kindness go to waste.

“Do you understand the assignment?” The handler asked, then tacked on: “Verbal response.”

The mutant didn’t allow itself to hesitate. “Yes, sir.”

“Alright.” The handler took a step back, then gave a decisive nod. “Begin.”

The mutant moved forward quickly, but paused a moment at the edge of the first set of obstacles. It hadn’t been given a time limit, which meant that it had time to quickly analyze the room before it moved forward. That wasn’t always a luxury that it was given, and it planned to take full advantage. 

This first set of obstacles consisted of four large pillars protruding from the floor. The floor itself was made of wide silver panels, and it seemed as though the pillars had been made by those panels being pushed up from below. That meant that anything could come up from that floor, and probably from the walls as well. 

The mutant took a decisive leap forward, and latched onto the side of one of the pillars. Below it, one of the panels dropped away to reveal a pit beneath it that would have been just deep enough to trap a grown man. The mutant would have been able to easily climb out, but it was far better that it had avoided the trap altogether. It was showing its worth, and it felt a tiny flash of satisfaction as it dug its claws into tiny crevices on the metal pillar and began to climb around it. 

As it twisted around the pillar, it heard a hum above it. The mutant shot forward, leaping from the pillar and twisting into a quick flip that let it land, gracefully, on the opposite side of another pit that had opened up. The landing sent a shot through its legs that rattled its ribs, and it hesitated. The pain was slight though, nothing near something debilitating, and it decided quickly that this was an acceptable level of hurt. Plus, the jump had allowed it to avoid a set of saws that had popped out from the top of the pillar, which would have done far more damage than the landing did. 

The floor beneath it buzzed, and the mutant got back to moving. 

The spot it had been standing popped open to reveal something that looked like a blaster, which fired at it as it dodged around to the next obstacle. The gun was a terrible shot, so the mutant had no problem slipping through the fire to duck underneath another metal structure, which gave it a level of protection. That turned out to be a flaw in judgment though, because the moment that the mutant was beneath the heavy metal build, there was a sharp creak and the ceiling began to lower toward it. Its heart jumped to its throat and it quickly scampered forward on all fours as the tunnel began to flatten, and for a brief moment it considered trying to teleport to the end. That thought was thrown away before instinct could make it follow through; it hadn’t been given permission, and being crushed by the tunnel would be better than making its collar go off for that.

The top of the tunnel hit the floor seconds after the mutant jumped out, and it had a moment of gratefulness that it had made it out before it was squashed. It was instantly thrown into the crossfire of another of the blaster guns, this one firing from in front of it and with a significantly higher level of accuracy. The mutant leapt forward, somersaulting over the blaster, and briefly considered slashing out with its tail to try and break the thing.

It quickly dashed that idea as well. This exercise was easy, and it hadn’t been given permission to break any equipment; it was trying to prove that it was good, it wasn’t about to risk something like that.

Beyond the blaster was another set of the saws, these ones implanted in the floor and moving in a steady pattern. The mutant ignored the pattern, instead sticking close to the wall of the room and using that to kick off of, which sent it right over the saws with ease. Adrenaline was pumping in its veins, its chest heaving hard, and it didn’t have to worry about keeping its form perfect as it ducked beneath a swinging chain. It was meant to be moving, to be breathing, to be fighting. This was about as close to freedom as a creature like it could hope to receive. 

It quietly, secretly, began to actually enjoy the exercise as the end of the room grew closer.

But then its foot slipped. It was a small thing, but it could feel the mistake just a moment before another swinging saw came toward its head. It ducked to avoid it, but that put too much pressure on its already tenuous grip. It fell, twisting quickly to make sure it could land on all fours as it felt. It succeeded, but the move wasn’t properly balanced. It fell hard on its side — the side with the broken wrist. 

Pain exploded up its arm, and the mutant let out a tiny, strangled gasp. The pain wasn’t debilitating, and it knew it could push through it. It knew it could easily roll to its side, get up, move forward and make it to the end of the room. The exercise was almost over, it could see the end just a few yards away. It could see one of those saws aiming straight toward it, and if it didn’t move quickly it was going to be hit.

But it had been ordered to stop if it could aggravate its injuries more. If it moved to get out of the way of the saw, it was going to be putting more pressure on the already smarting wrist. It had been ordered, it had been ordered—

There was a loud beep that echoed through the Danger Room, and suddenly the whole space flashed with red light. The mutant breathed heavily, its lungs heaving, its eyes wide as it stared at the saw that was barely an inch away from its leg. The thing was still spinning, the sharp blades glinting as the red light faded, the hum of machinery slowly fading as the exercise seemed to shut down.

“Mission failure.” The metallic voice boomed out across the room again, and cold dread settled in the bottom of the mutant’s gut. “Time elapsed: five minutes and thirty seven seconds. Overall Institute Record: Cyclops, three minutes and fifteen seconds. Report to instructor.”

“Nightcrawler?”

That was its handler. Its handler was coming, and the room was reporting its failure. Its failure was written in the very walls of the place, and it was still lying on the floor, clutching its arm and staring at the saw that had nearly taken its leg. It would have been easy to avoid. It could have been at the end by now. It was better than this, but it had been ordered to stop—

“Nightcrawler.” 

It froze, trying to strangle back its heaving breaths. The adrenaline was still coursing through its veins, it still wanted to gasp for breath, but it couldn’t. Its handler was standing over it, the word failure still echoing in the air. It had failed.

There wasn’t even time for it to stand and try to get into some form of proper position. The best it could do was shift, its injured wrist still clutched in its hand, and bow its head. It crouched at its handlers feet, trying not to tremble. 

It had failed. It deserved the punishment that was coming its way. 

It could hear the handler’s footsteps approaching. They stilled a moment later, and the mutant could see his boots at the edge of its vision. There was a weight on its back, as though it could physically feel the scrutiny of the man as it crouched there, waiting for its punishment. 

“You stopped,” the man said, his eyes still heavy on the mutant. “You’re faster than that. You could have avoided that saw, even with the slip.” 

The mutant could feel its chest heaving, and it desperately tried to keep its breaths even. The handler knew it was capable, which made the failure even worse.  

“Why’d you stop?”

It had stopped because it was trying to follow orders, but the pain in its wrist would be far better than whatever pain the handler was going to inflict on it now. It should have kept pushing, it should have kept going, surely he would prefer for it to avoid failure even if it meant a little pain—

“Verbal response.”

Oh.  

The mutant tried to speak. It tried to inhale, tried to gather enough air, but its lungs didn’t seem to want to take the air in. It knew that every second of hesitation was disobedience, but its first attempt only resulted in a choked gasp. It tried to hold back a wince and try again, but it was hard. It wasn’t used to verbal responses, it wasn’t used to needing to recover quickly enough to speak, it was still trying to prepare for the punishment that would fall on it from the blatant failure that was weighing horribly on its shoulders.

It was failing to even respond now. It was horrible, broken, and deserved whatever punishment the handler saw fit.

“...orders,” it choked out, its voice even more harsh and strangled than usual. It tried to swallow, felt like it was choking, and tried to form words again. “Orders to… to stop if… hurt, if it…”

It wheezed, trying to fight off the crushing sensation that filled its lungs and its brain and its chest. The handler’s gaze was boring down on it, pressing into its shoulders, pinning it beneath that scrutiny that told it just how worthless it was being. A worthless mutant was a dead mutant, and it couldn’t even make it across a single room without a bit of pain. The pain shouldn’t matter, it never stopped for pain. It was better than this, it could have been better than this if it hadn’t been ordered to stop. But stopping had resulted in failure, and failure never resulted in anything other than punishment, and the mutant couldn’t even speak properly now that it was being given permission and there was nothing to describe it other than a failure—

“Breathe.” There was a hand on its shoulder, and the mutant wasn’t able to choke back the flinch that came over its features. It ducked its head further, pressing its hands to the floor despite the pain that shot up its wrist, and made sure it was ready for punishment. That hand was going to hurt it any moment, and it deserved the hurt. It needed to be better than this, to be quicker so that it could follow orders without failure. It deserved the pain that was coming, it had deserved it since it had very first been brought into this facility.

“Shit, kid, breathe.”

The mutant gasped, but the breath felt shallow. It could feel its head spinning, and its vision was swimming as it pressed its forehead against the cold metal floor. It tried to follow orders, tried to breathe, but its lungs felt too small and its chest felt like it was trying to collapse upon itself. 

At this point, someone was going to get fed up with it. They always got fed up with it at this stage. At this point someone was just going to kick it to get the pitiful gasps to shut up, and it would wake back up in its cell at some point and then they’d administer its punishment there; always extra, to make sure it knew it had inconvenienced them. Or maybe they’d just hold it down and administer the serum, force it into compliance and make it a living shell, a ghost, the only way it was useful—

There was still a hand on its shoulder, and it wasn’t moving. It wasn’t gripping hard, it wasn’t causing pain. It was just… there.

The mutant kept waiting for it to be pulled away. It kept waiting for that hand to squeeze, to break, to hurt, to tear, to do any of the things that it was used to. No one touched it unless there was pain following. Touch always meant some form of punishment, not a heavy weight to ground it back to reality. 

When was the last time the mutant had been touched for this long, and it hadn’t meant pain?

Slowly — far too slowly — it could feel its lungs filling with air. Its chest was still heaving, but it felt like the air was actually being received. 

Slowly, it began to obey the order to breathe.

Some time later — it wasn’t sure how long — the hand left. The mutant tensed slightly, but it didn’t come back in the form of a blow. It simply stayed away, and the mutant found itself almost mourning the loss. It quickly shoved that thought away; it knew better than to mourn the loss of touch. Touch was always meant to hurt, nothing else.

The handler let out a breath, and it was reminded exactly where it was. “Are you with me?”

The mutant’s breathing hitched. 

“Verbal response.”

It forced itself to obey. “Y-yes, sir.”

The handler let out another breath, but this one sounded almost… relieved? 

“I’m not built for this shit.” The words were muttered under the handler’s breath, nothing it was supposed to hear. He let out a sigh, then his words became more of a question. “You stopped going through the exercise because your previous injuries hurt?”

Shame burned through the mutant’s fur. It should have known better. It should have known that it was misinterpreting the handler’s orders. It should have seen this coming, should have kept pushing. It should be better. 

“Verbal response.”

It tried to remember that it was still supposed to be breathing. “Yes, sir.”

The handler let out a hum, but it didn’t seem to be an unhappy one. In fact, that one sounded almost pleased. “Good job. You obeyed my orders and were concerned about the primary concern of the mission. Well done.”

The mutant stilled, shock making its breathing stutter again. It… its handler thought it had done well? But it had failed. It hadn’t completed the exercise. It was on the floor, ready for punishment, it… 

…it had done well?

“Next time, you are allowed to get out of danger before you stop.” The handler reached a hand out, and the mutant could hear a slight tap as the man rapped a knuckle against the saw that had nearly sliced its leg. “This room’s intuitive and all, but you can verbally tell it to stop so you don’t get this close again.”

The mutant wasn’t sure if it was supposed to respond to that. It simply took in the information, filing it away in the back of its mind.

“And I’m not going to punish you for following my orders exactly as I gave them.” The handler’s hand rested briefly on its shoulder again, and the weight felt… surprisingly grounding. “We have a different system here. We operate off of reward, not punishment. You are not going to be punished for failing a training exercise.”

The mutant tried not to tremble beneath the man’s hand. It… it had failed. It deserved punishment. Training exercise or not, orders or no orders, it had failed, and that was worthy of punishment. That had always been worthy of punishment.

But no blows came, and no pain filled its system. Its collar didn’t shock it, and the man didn’t stand up to kick it. The only pain that it could feel was coming from its wrist, and its handler had praised it for stopping when that pain had flared up. 

It didn’t understand. This facility was so different than the one it was used to.

But it didn’t need to understand. It was a mutant; it wasn’t meant to understand. It was meant to follow orders. And if those orders weren’t bringing pain, all it could be was grateful.

It found that it was very, very grateful.

“Ok.” The handler’s hand left, and the mutant refused to mourn the loss. “That was a good test run. You did well, and that deserves a reward, so we’ll cut this short today. We’ll do a longer session tomorrow, once we’ve both— once you’ve had a chance to recuperate.” 

The handler stood, and the mutant remained crouched on the ground. It waited, just in case the handler changed his mind and decided…

“Up.”

The mutant stood, its vision swimming ever so slightly from the quick movement. It felt lightheaded, its head pounding at the influx of bright, artificial light from overhead, its chest still aching from the crushing weight that had been on it. These aches were small, nothing it couldn’t push through, and yet its handler was allowing it to stop. 

In the last facility, it would have been thrown into the next training exercise immediately. This “recuperation time” was a blessing.

The handler paused. He tilted his head, his gaze heavy on the mutant’s shoulders. “I understand these policies are different,” he said, his voice dipping down slightly. It was still a firm tone, still something the mutant was meant to listen to, but it wasn’t quite an order. There was an edge to it that sounded almost — almost — gentle. “But these are your new orders. When I tell you something, it overrides your previous programming. You will not be punished the same way you were in your previous facility. Do you understand?”

The mutant hesitated. It knew the right answer, it knew what it was meant to say, but…

“Verbal answer.”

…but it also knew the truth.

It let out a tiny breath. “No, sir.”

It didn’t understand. It didn’t understand any of this.

The handler paused. Then, he nodded. 

“And you are not going to be punished for that,” he said firmly, like it was a fact. For a handler, anything could be a fact. “You’ll learn, and you won’t be punished if it takes you time to learn.”

The handler waited for a moment, as if letting the words sink in. 

“Do you have any questions?” After a moment of hesitation, he continued. “You are allowed to speak.”

Allowed to speak. This wasn’t to answer a question in an examination, or to give a verbal response to a command. The handler was actually allowing it to ask a question, to ask for clarification. It hadn’t even been given guidelines for what it was allowed to ask about. This was an open invitation, the sort of thing that actual people were given.

The mutant didn’t need its questions answered. It knew better than that, it knew how to follow orders and make the best of things with only whatever information had been granted to it. It understood that. 

But… there was one thing that it wanted to know. It was selfish, stupid, something it shouldn’t say… but if it only had one chance to ask anything it wanted, then it wanted to know.

“S…Sir?” It’s voice was rough, mangled, completely ruined from disuse. Still, it could feel the handler’s attention on it as it spoke, so it pushed forward and took the risk. “Does… does the n-no punishment rule apply to… to everyone?”

The handler’s gaze was heavy, and it kept its eyes focused on its feet, refusing to risk looking up and seeing his expression.

“Who do you have in mind?”

This was a risk. It knew it shouldn’t express interest. It knew it had gotten others killed like this, knew that this was one of the reasons it was volatile and broken and kept away from the rest. It knew this could put them both in danger, regardless of the girl’s status. But it was too far now, and the handler was waiting for it to finish, and it couldn’t keep its handler waiting.

“Is… is the girl okay?”

The handler was quiet for a long, long moment. The mutant wished it could grab the words back, that it could go back to being silent and obedient, that it hadn’t taken this risk. It wasn’t worth it. It wasn’t worth endangering her just so it could have some sort of peace of mind. It wasn’t meant to think, it wasn’t meant to consider things like this, this could only put them both in danger…

But it was still shaky, its handler hadn’t hit it yet, and it needed to know. 

“She’s okay. The rule applies to her, too.” The handler’s voice was thick, and the mutant wasn’t sure how to interpret it. It was even less sure how to handle the pause that came after, the heavy hesitation that hung in the air before the handler slowly continued. “She’s not going to be punished for anything.”

She was okay. She hadn’t been punished. She was okay.

Breathing was a bit easier for the mutant, and it fell into step easily when it was ordered to follow its handler. It hardly even noticed the fact that it was being led out of the lower levels, back up to the far-too-nice room that it kept being left in. They still hadn’t moved it to a more fitting cell, and instead it had been given a confirmation that the kind girl was safe. 

Nothing was being taken away. No pain was falling on its shoulders. 

It wasn’t sure how to handle the kindness that had been shown to it.

Chapter Text

Routine was something that, at some point in his life, had been nailed into Logan’s head.

He’d never really noticed it before. It was just something he’d fallen into early in his time of freedom. Over the past fifteen years he’d gotten into the habit of waking up at a certain time, eating at a certain time, hitting the road at a certain time. It gave something of a sense of stability, and he had found a long time ago that he needed any sense of stability that he could get his claws on. The routine was simply that; routine.

It was only now, as he began to work Nightcrawler into that routine, that he began to realize just where the habit had come from. 

Each time when he opened the door to Nightcrawler’s room, the kid was on his feet and ready for Logan to command him to eat, drink, and follow him to the Danger Room. They’d run through exercises for exactly three hours, and then Logan would take him back to his room to get out of the way of other students. He’d even begun to work in a shower after the “training” every three days. Scott and Jean would probably tell him the kid needed more, but with how hesitant he seemed at using the shower — well, as hesitant as he was able to be — Logan wasn’t about to push it. It let him get the kid a fresh set of clothes every few days as well, and he was able to remember enough to know how much of a shock that must be. 

It wasn’t perfect. Logan wouldn’t go as far as to say the routine brought life to the kid’s eyes. His eyes were still dead and distant most of the time, and he still waited for commands before he did anything. The kid hardly seemed to be able to breathe without being given explicit permission.

However, as the routine began to solidify, the kid seemed… “comfortable” wasn’t the word, but perhaps “expectant” was. He moved easily through the motions of the day, just a little less jumpy now that he could anticipate what Logan wanted from him. Bit by bit the scent of fear that clung to him like a second layer of fur seemed to lessen. It never left, but it was no longer choking Logan every time he stepped into the kid’s room. 

It wasn’t much, but it was a hell of a lot more progress than there had been the first few days. 

Logan could even feel himself settling into the routine. He hated to admit it, but staying in the Institute had left him somewhat… aimless. His routine used to be ruled by survival, and that survival was ruled by travel. He was used to packing up and hitting the road every few days, chasing winds as he tried to outrun some unseen force behind him. When he decided to stick around the Institute he’d had the chance to stop running, and that had left him… aimless.

Now there was a reason for him to wake up at the crack of dawn and get moving. He felt like he was falling back into an old routine, old patterns becoming familiar once again as he moved through the motions with Nightcrawler. 

There were patterns that were surfacing from somewhere in the back of his mind that he didn’t even know he knew. He found himself barking out commands to Nightcrawler in the Danger Room, and found himself surprised that they both knew what they meant. He could feel himself moving through the motions with ease, even when he wasn’t sure how he knew what Nightcrawler was expecting half the time.

He’d been having less nightmares with the new routine. A part of him wondered if it was worth it, or if he was just having less nightmares because he was now living one.

But unlike the past fifteen years, where his routine had hinged on leaving town every time his past became too haunting, running was no longer a choice. That had been made abundantly clear to him. He’d made his promises and he’d dug his own grave, and now he had to try and find a way to drag both himself and a kid out of it.

It helped that a big part of his new routine hinged on the few minutes after he got Nightcrawler settled back in his room. That was the time when he felt the most shaky, the moment that he regretted everything the most, the moment when he just wanted to sink his claws into something and get away from the crushing weight of memories that clung to the kid the same way his fear clung to him. He always took a few generous steps away from the door, clenched his fists, took a shaky breath to steady himself, and—

“So, when are ya gonna let me see ‘em?”

He let out the breath, ignoring the way that it rattled in his lungs. He hoped that it came across as exasperated, not relieved. 

“I told ya to stop askin’, Rogue.” He shot a look at the girl standing across the hall.

Rogue returned his look evenly, one eyebrow raised. “Maybe I will, since ya keep bein’ a prick ‘bout it.”

Logan wasn’t worried about her stopping. If there was one thing that Rogue was, it was stubborn. She’d keep asking until he caved.

It was a good reminder of exactly why he was doing this. Rogue saw something in the kid that Logan hadn’t been able to. If she thought he could be saved, Logan was going to try his damn best to see her vision through.

That didn’t mean he wanted her anywhere near Nightcrawler yet but hey, it gave him a reason to get out of his own head.

“I’ll keep bein’ a prick till you stop bein’ annoying.” He started walking toward the kitchen. Unsurprisingly, Rogue fell into step next to him. He didn’t bother to tell her to shove off; he knew she wouldn’t, and he didn’t really want her to anyway.

“Then we’re gonna be goin’ on like this for a long while.” Rogue tilted her head. “What’d he do today?”

“Same as yesterday.” Logan stepped into the kitchen, glad to find it empty. It was prime class time, which made it perfect for him. He was pretty sure Rogue had a class that she was supposed to be in, but he wasn’t the kind of guy to get on to her for that. “Novice level, configuration four.”

“Damn. I forgot he’s already on novice.” Rogue slid into one of the bar stools, leaning against the back of it as she watched Logan open up one of the cabinets and start rummaging through it. “I’ve been doin’ Danger Room trainin’ since last month, an’ Scott still won’t let me go over the entry level stuff.”

“Good,” Logan said as he grabbed a cup from the cupboard. He turned to the fridge, helping himself to a glass of water. “That’s where yer supposed to be.”

“But Nightcrawler’s goin’ through it so fast.” Rogue wrinkled her nose. “Seriously, novice already? It’s been like, two weeks.”

Actually, Logan was pretty sure that he could put Nightcrawler on some of the advanced lessons, and he’d do fine. He was racing through the exercises that Logan put him on, even edging in on the Institute’s high scores for a couple of them. The biggest problem with the advanced lessons was that they were more heavily focused on simulations and holograms, and he wasn’t sure how the kid would do with that sort of reality-warping nonsense yet. Plus, the advanced lessons usually had more advanced solutions; they were focused on judgment calls, on teaching students to make hard decisions in the heat of battle.

Nightcrawler was hardly speaking, even when directly prompted. Decision-making was a skill that they would take a long, long while to tackle. 

For now they were going to stick with the novice-level exercises, where Logan could keep a close eye on the kid’s physical abilities and keep him from pushing himself too hard while his injuries were still healing. Plus, if they kept running through configuration four, Nightcrawler was definitely going to beat out the high score. That felt like it’d be fun to rub in Scott’s face.

“Is he even supposed to be usin’ the room?” Rogue grumbled, rapping her fingers on the back of her chair. “I thought he was younger than me. What is he… seventeen?”

“Nice try,” Logan said, taking a swig of the water. He wrinkled his own nose at the taste; bland. He really needed to restock his beer stash. “You’ve already got too much information on ‘im, I ain’t givin’ ya more.”

“You’re boring,” Rogue said, just like she’d said the day before. “I’m surprised you an’ Scott don’t get along better, you’re both boring.”

Logan snorted. “I ain’t gonna fall for that. We both know I ain’t as boring as Summers.”

Rogue gave a non-committal hum. If Logan didn’t know she was just trying to get under his skin, he’d be offended. 

Ok, maybe he was a little bit offended. He was not as boring as Summers.

He pulled a loaf of bread from the pantry as well as the jar of peanut butter. He laid out two sets of bread without even asking Rogue, and as soon as one of the sandwiches was made he handed it to her. She took it without a word, and bit into it.

“See? Just peanut butter.” She swallowed a bite, then gave him a pointed look. “Boring.”

“Be glad I’m feedin’ ya, skunk.” He reached out to flick her white bangs out of her face. She pulled back, frowning as the bangs fell even more in her face, and tried to blow them out of the way. They fell back right in the same place, and she slumped over in defeat. 

“I need a haircut,” she muttered, resting her chin in her hand as she took a mournful bite of her peanut butter sandwich. 

Logan raised an eyebrow and a hand, letting his claws slide out. 

“No, don’t you dare, Logan.” Rogue leaned far back in her barstool, brandishing the sandwich at him as though it was a threat. “I’ll knock ya out on yer backside an’ use your healin’ factor to grow it all right back, don’t you test me.”

Logan snorted and sheathed his claws. “Gee, and here I am tryin’ to be nice to you.”

“Yeah right. I don’t trust ya anywhere near my hair, thanks.” She took a bite of her sandwich, glaring at his hand. “Don’t that hurt anyways?”

“Hm?” Logan glanced down at his hand, watching as the small cuts where his claws had sliced through his flesh closed up. He’d hardly even noticed the sting. “Eh. Used to it.”

Rogue rolled her eyes. “That ain’t healthy, Logan.”

Logan shrugged. “Call it a bad habit.”

“Does Nightcrawler got a lot of those?”

He shot her a glare. “I thought we’d changed the conversation.”

“Nah, you jus’ tried to dodge it.” She was grinning cheekily as she bit into her sandwich. “Come on, ya gotta give me somethin’ if you ain’t gonna let me see ‘im.”

Logan let out a long-suffering sigh, trying to keep the fondness out of his voice. He wanted to be mad at the conversation circling back, but there was something endearing about Rogue’s persistence. Once she got herself stuck on something, she didn’t let it go. Hell, that was probably the only reason she still stuck around him, after all. 

“Well…” he trailed off, trying to pick his words wisely. “...let’s jus’ say he’s really damn good at listening to me.”

Rogue snorted. “You’re right. That is a bad habit.”

He shot her a glare. She gave him an innocent look back.

“So he’s got that bad habit,” she continued. “That a problem?”

Logan hummed, looking down at his own sandwich. Rogue wasn’t wrong; it was a pretty boring sandwich. He’d been craving simpler foods lately; the less flavors, the better. Maybe it was because his appetite had started disappearing every time he watched Nightcrawler down a can of bland dog food and somehow manage to look grateful for it. 

“Yeah,” Logan muttered, taking a bite. The peanut butter seemed to bite into his tongue uncomfortably. “I think it is a problem.”

Rogue looked thoughtful. “Have you tried… I dunno, gettin’ him to not listen to you?”

Logan swallowed the bite, and forced himself to take another. “I’d like to.”

“But…?”

“It ain’t that easy, kid.” 

Rogue went quiet for a moment, and Logan stared at his sandwich. He didn’t feel like eating it; it was his second meal of the day, and it felt like too much. A lot of things had felt like too much since he’d fallen into routine with Nightcrawler. 

Nightcrawler followed his every order, no matter how hard. The very first Danger Room session had shown Logan just how far the kid would go to obey when he stopped moving with a saw hardly two inches from his leg, just to make sure Logan didn’t get mad at him for messing up other injuries. Even with the promise of no physical punishments, Nightcrawler still seemed ready to take a blow after every slip-up, no matter how minor. Logan was genuinely starting to wonder just how far the kid would go to obey.

What would he do if he was ordered to do something impossible? Would he willingly run himself into the ground trying to accomplish something that he physically couldn’t do? How many times had he been expected to do that?

He forced himself to take another bite. It tasted bitter. 

“You got a name yet?”

Logan shot her another look. “Rogue.”

“Come on, Logan.” She raised an eyebrow. “You keep callin’ ‘im Nightcrawler. It’s…”

Her tone had started off teasing, but as she trailed off she looked a bit pensive. She dropped her gaze, glaring at her sandwich as though it had personally wronged her.

Logan let out a soft sigh. “Rogue. I don’t think he—”

“He has a name.”

He paused. “What?”

“He has a name.” She was still glaring at her sandwich, her green eyes sharp and piercing. “An actual one, not a… a designation or whatever.”

Logan stared at her for a long moment. “No.” He shook his head. “No, he—”

“I felt it.” Rogue interrupted, her tone slightly distant. “I… when I touched him, I could feel it. He was tryin’ not to think of it, but it was like… it was like he got all jumbled-up with me takin’ his memories, an’ for just a second it was there. I know it was.”

“Rogue…” Logan trailed off, suddenly unsure of what he wanted to say. 

Nightcrawler couldn’t have a name. Not a real one, not a personal one. Programs like this didn’t leave room for names, for personality, for care…

And yet, when given permission to speak, the first thing that Nightcrawler had asked was if Rogue was okay. It was the only question he had asked, and he hadn’t asked another since. If he could hang on to that, then… maybe… 

Logan shook his head. It shouldn’t be possible. It hadn’t been possible for him.

Then again, he’d already made a lot of wrong calls with Nightcrawler. 

He downed the last few bites of his sandwich in one go, not even bothering to really taste it. The food sat heavily on his stomach, and he chugged his glass of water as well. He really needed a beer. 

“You know what would make me stop pesterin’ you ‘bout it?”

“No, Rogue.”

“Seriously. Jus’ let me give ‘im a visit, it ain’t gonna hurt anyone.”

Logan let out a huff. “Not yet.”

Rogue gave him a long look. “Gonna give me a time?”

“Nope.”

She groaned. “You’re impossible, Wolvie.”

Logan pushed aside the twisted knot of uncomfortable feelings in his chest, and instead leaned into the slight warmth that he got at Rogue’s exasperated tone. “That’s the goal, sugah.”

Rogue shot him a glare. “Ah don’t sound like that.”

“Sure you don’t.” He stood, grabbing the bread and moving back toward the pantry to put it and the peanut butter jar away. “Ain’t you supposed to be in class?”

She grinned. “Took ya ten extra minutes this time.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Logan rolled his eyes. “Maybe I remember every time, an’ I jus’ don’t blame ya for wantin’ to skip out on some of Summer’s lecture.”

Rogue shrugged. “Actually, this one’s with Xavier.”

“Shit. Then I really don’t blame ya for wantin’ to skip out.”

Rogue laughed at that, bright and lively and solid. She hopped down from the barstool, and waited for Logan to turn around before she leaned against him. Logan quickly slung an arm over her shoulder, tugging her into a quick half-hug that didn’t get anywhere near her skin. He could feel her relax into the hold, a sigh of relief leaving her as she leaned against him.

“Alright.” He nudged her after a moment, trying to cover up the fondness in his tone with a harsh huff. “Now get goin’ an’ don’t let Xavier know I was tellin’ ya to skip.”

Rogue giggled as she pulled away. “Logan, he can read minds, ya know.”

“And ain’t the whole point of his class to teach ya ‘bout mental blocks and such?” Logan raised an eyebrow. “Don’t tell me you ain’t been payin’ attention.”

“Logan, I’ve been hangin’ with you.”

“An’ that’s yer own downfall.” He waved a hand. “Seriously, go.”

“Alright, alright, I’m goin’.” She shot him a grin as she stepped away. “See ya tomorrow, Logan. Tell ‘crawler I said hi.”

Logan shook his head in exasperation, watching as Rogue slipped around the corner of the room. 

The new routine wasn’t perfect. In a way, it was starting to feel like he’d pulled his nightmares out of his head and put them in the real world. Nightcrawler was still a challenge, and there was no way that Logan was actually about to tell him that Rogue had said hi. The kid was still fragile, still weaponized, still scarily good at the exercises that the Danger Room threw at him. Logan was still worried about just how far the kid would go to obey. 

But maybe it wasn’t so bad. Maybe he could settle into this new routine.

Chapter Text

The mutant was a weapon. That was its role, plain and simple. It was a tool that had been painstakingly crafted to serve its masters, a weapon to be used at their disposal. It was a creature of death, a weapon of war.

Weapons were not meant to enjoy things. Enjoyment was a human sort of luxury. It wasn’t a luxury meant for tools and animals.

The mutant shouldn’t enjoy its training. It knew that. It had never enjoyed it before, not back in the old facility. It had been a necessary task, one edged by sharp pains and shocks from its collar when it moved too slowly, or sloppily, or anything less than perfection. Training was something it knew how to get through, and it knew how to perform well, but it wasn’t something it enjoyed. It wasn’t supposed to be something it enjoyed. It was an animal, a creature, a weapon.

And yet… it certainly felt something as it ran through its new handler’s latest test. There was a level of exhilaration surging through its veins and pulsing through its limbs as it leapt, twisted, and snatched a small silver rod from the top of a metal pillar just moments before a laser could nick its tail. It ducked into a roll, falling quickly and easily and catching itself in a low crouch. It paused for an imperceptible moment to make sure it wasn’t about to aggravate its broken ribs, but then it was back on its feet and leaping toward the finish line. It dodged around a set of spikes that jutted up from the floor, lept over a pit that gaped open beneath its feet, and planted the silver rod on top of the goalpost at the very edge of the Danger Room.

The whole room flashed green, and a rush of satisfaction flashed through the mutant’s chest.

“Mission success.” The familiar metallic voice echoed through the room over the mutant’s head. “Time elapsed: Six minutes and twelve seconds. Overall Institute Record: Cyclops, six minutes and three seconds. Report to instructor.”

“Damn. Nine seconds.” The mutant rose to its feet, its head bowed and its shoulders lined up in the correct form as its handler approached. It had learned to interpret his tone more and more over the time that it had been back to training, and it knew him well enough to hear the rare smile in his voice. “Jus’ nine seconds slower than Cyclops. Yer gonna beat ‘im out at this rate, and I’m gonna love seein’ the look on Summers’ face.”

The mutant had to concentrate to make sure its tail didn’t lash happily at that. It knew it wasn’t meant to enjoy simple things like this, and it knew it certainly wasn’t meant to show its enjoyment.

But it could still feel the adrenaline pumping through its veins, filling it with a heady rush that made every emotion feel more potent than usual. It swirled through its mind, making it difficult for the creature to keep a grin off of its own face as the handler approached.

It wasn’t entirely sure what “Cyclops” was, though it could assume that it was another mutant, possibly with “Summers” as its handler. That was usually the designation that held the Room record for each training exercise. The mutant had yet to actually beat the record, but it was getting close.

And, despite the fact that it had fallen short of the record every single time, the handler had yet to punish it. He didn’t even seem all that upset that it hadn’t outperformed the other asset yet. In fact, he never said anything about the fact that it was failing to outpace Cyclops, only praising it when it got close.

It… it shouldn’t enjoy the praise. It knew that. It was a weapon, an object of war. It shouldn’t need praise, and it shouldn’t feel enjoyment in something so simple.

And yet it was getting increasingly difficult for it to keep its tail still as its handler stopped in front of it, his voice still echoing the smile that the mutant knew was on his face. 

“That was a good run. Watch your step on that first jump next time; you slipped for a moment, and that cost you a few seconds. Shave that off, and you’ll nearly have him beat.”

The first few times the handler had made comments like that, they’d filled the mutant with fear and it had nearly gone to its knees, waiting for the punishment that would surely follow. It had been sure those comments were being made so it would know where it had gone wrong, so it would know exactly what the latest beating was trying to nail into its head before it was thrown back into the fight to do it right, like it should have the first time.

But they had been doing a lot of training, and this handler had yet to raise a hand to it. He hadn’t even utilized the shock collar that still sat around the mutant’s throat. He made those comments, but he didn’t punish it for not doing it right the first time. He only gave it the comments, then had it run the course again. When it managed to fix the missteps he noticed, he rewarded it. When it was stupid and useless and still missed the steps, he just calmly told it to run the course again. 

So far, it hadn’t failed to fix its mistakes by the end of their training session. And yet, even though it hadn’t tested the thought, it was beginning to wonder if this handler would punish it even then. It was a strange thought. It was a dangerous thought.

But the handler had said this facility didn’t operate off of punishment. And, despite how impossible that felt, the mutant hadn’t reached the end of that patience yet. 

It was confusing, it was strange, and it was making the mutant actually enjoy the training. It found itself studying the comments its handler would give it, and it found it harder and harder to keep its tail from wagging whenever it heard a smile in his voice. If it could get a smile at the end of the training period, that felt like a reward on its own. 

“Here.” The handler pulled something out of his pocket, and the mutant carefully made sure that it was keeping its form steady. It couldn’t show that it was eager, but it could already feel its mouth watering at the familiar crinkle of the package as the handler reached a hand in, then held it out toward the mutant. “Take it.”

The mutant moved measuredly, its eagerness kept in check as it took the offering from the handler, carefully making sure that its claws didn’t nick his hands. The first time the handler had held out a hand like this, it had been confused. The thing he had been holding was real food, human food, something it wasn’t supposed to have. 

It had taken a moment of the handler explaining — very clearly — that this was the mutant’s reward, that it was allowed to take the beef jerky that it was offered. The stuff was delicious, hearty, and the mutant found that the idea of getting a piece after each run through the Danger Room was a very motivating tactic. It got the jerky whenever it did well in the course, and it was almost as driving as the thought of a smile in its handler’s voice.

It also got the jerky for strange things, and those it didn’t understand as well. Once, it had gotten the jerky for calling out stop in the middle of a session. It had been terrified, but its ribs had been aching and it had worried that if it moved too quickly it would tear the stitches in its side, so it had done what it had been ordered to do. It had been terrified, but it had been rewarded for the failure.

The mutant wasn’t about to push its luck in that area. It could perform well though, and it could allow itself to relish in the taste of the jerky between its teeth with the knowledge that it had earned it. This was human food, but its handler had deemed it worthy enough to eat it. It was a very, very good motivator. 

“We’ll run that again tomorrow. You manage to beat Cyclops, an’ I’ll figure out a bigger reward for it. You deserve somethin’ big for that.”

The mutant kept its tail still before it processed the rest of its handler’s words. As soon as it did it froze, confusion slipping through its mind. That sounded like what its handler would say at the end of the session. It had expected to run the course again now. They had fallen into a solid routine, and it knew that their training time wasn’t up yet. They still had time before it was meant to go back to the room, where it would sit for the next several hours. Had the handler cut their time short today? Had it done something wrong?

It shouldn’t want for training to last longer — it shouldn’t want anything at all, but especially not more training. And yet, the idea of losing some of this time sparked a tiny flash of fear in its mind. Whether it was supposed to or not, it liked training. It didn’t want to lose this time, not when it didn’t even know what it’d done wrong.

“Come on.” The handler beckoned it forward, and it fell into step behind him as they began to move back across the room. “We’re going to try something new.” 

The mutant refused to feel relief at that, but it relaxed into the familiar steps as it followed its handler through the dormant course to the other side of the room. “Something new” could mean something dangerous, but it could also mean a new way for it to earn rewards, or a new way for it to make its handler smile at it and tell it that it had done well. Maybe, if it was lucky, he’d pat its shoulder and it would get the rush that came with realizing the touch wasn’t meant to hurt. 

The taste of beef jerky still lingered on its tongue, and it was very careful to keep its tail still. 

“Stop here.” The handler gestured to its usual starting spot, and the mutant fell into position there. It kept its head bowed, listening to the familiar sound of the handler tapping at the control panel. The room beeped in response, and the familiar whirr of moving machinery echoed through the space. It waited, its gaze trained on its feet as it waited for its permission to look up.

“Danger Room, instructor-created exercise.” The room echoed after a moment. “Simulation: Off. Instructor: Wolverine.”

The mutant took note of the voice — it was fairly certain that it was meant to listen to the room when it announced the training session — with interest. The majority of the exercises that its handler had been assigning it were “novice-level”, at least once it had proved its worth on the “entry-level” exercises. They had even begun working in a few “intermediate-level” courses. “Instructor-created” was a designation that the mutant hadn’t heard before. That must be what its handler meant by “something new”, and the mutant wondered what exactly that could entail.

“You’re allowed to look around.”

The mutant looked up, following the usual routine with a new exercise. Its handler set up the room, gave the mutant permission to look, and it took the route in for a moment before it was given permission to begin. It was expecting something similar to its usual exercises, perhaps a bit more challenging. Its injuries were nearly healed, maybe its handler was deeming it ready for the more difficult routes now. 

However, there was no difficult course waiting for the mutant when it looked up. There was no obvious goal, like the silver rod that it was meant to take to the end of the course or a platform that it was meant to climb to. In fact, at first it seemed as though the room was empty, like it was each morning when they entered. 

Then it saw the platform in the middle of the room, and it had to school its expression before it frowned. The platform wasn’t held up by a pillar, and it didn’t seem like there was anything attaching it to the ceiling. It was just a simple, thin platform floating in the middle of the room, completely defying physics. 

The mutant stared at it for longer than usual, trying to puzzle out exactly what it was meant to do, before its handler spoke up.

“Your goal is to get to that platform,” the handler said clearly. His voice had lost its smile, and now it sounded different. The mutant recognized this tone. The handler was considering something, or at least thinking deeply. It could feel his gaze on its back, heavy and pressing. “That’s all. Get to the platform.”

Get to the platform? But there was no way to get to the platform. The thing was suspended on nothingness, completely detached from the rest of the room. It was too high for the mutant to even think about jumping, and too low for a drop from the ceiling to be considered. It would break a limb, and the handler had been very clear about it not aggravating its injuries. It didn’t want to damage his weapon even more. But there was nothing for it to climb on, nothing for it to jump from, nothing for it to do except—

The mutant felt its heart jump, and it forced its face to remain completely impassive. Even with all of its training and all of its control, it could feel itself stiffening. Its handler’s gaze was still heavy on its back.

It knew exactly what its handler wanted. 

It stood, waiting for its handler to turn its collar off. They always waited for the last moment, but usually there were more guards around to make sure it didn’t try anything stupid. It was strange that only its handler was standing there. Maybe this would be another test. 

“Begin.”

The mutant knew that meant it should move forward, but it hesitated for just a moment. It waited, expecting the handler to pull a remote from his pocket and press the buttons for its collar. It waited, hesitating just long enough for him to make a move.

He didn’t. He was just waiting, his expectation heavy on the mutant’s shoulders.

The tension in the mutant's shoulders doubled as it realized that its handler wasn’t making a single move to turn off the collar.

It swallowed imperceptibly. It knew what the handler wanted. It knew what he was waiting for, but… but the collar was still on. The inhibitor was still humming around its throat, still completely active. Usually if they were testing this, they would turn it off. 

This had to be a test. The handler’s gaze was too heavy for it to be anything but a test. The task was too impossible for this to be anything but a test.

It realized with a slow, sinking dread that it absolutely was a test, but not the one that it had been expecting. This wasn’t a test to see if it would try and run; this was a test to see if it would obey regardless of the consequences. 

It knew the consequences, and it could already feel its breath hitching. There had to be something else it could do, some other way it could prove its worth.

But he was waiting, expectant, and the mutant was hesitating for too long. It knew he wouldn’t turn off the collar, not if he had already waited this long to do so. This was what it was meant to do. He wanted to see if it would follow orders, and it would. It had to.

It was following orders for a reward. It was following orders not to avoid punishment, but to earn a piece of jerky and a smile on its handlers face. It would hurt, but it would prove its worth and its obedience. 

It would be worth it, if it would bring back its handler’s smile. 

The mutant took one step forward, and it allowed itself to break form in order to take a deep, steadying breath. It was fairly certain it wouldn’t be punished for the slip, and it knew that it needed it. 

It would be worth it. It would be worth it.

It let the breath out of its lungs, and it reached deep into the core of its being. It could feel its presence in the room, feel the space around it, feel the space where it had been ordered to go.

It breathed out, grabbed that space in the room, and pulled.

The world shorted out, then snapped back into focus with the force of a brick wall.

The pain was instantaneous. It flashed through it like fire and ice, burning and freezing and coalescing into one burning, tearing, ripping pain that tore through its entire being. It could smell smoke and brimstone as it fell over, its entire body seizing in a way that it knew was out of form, but it couldn’t even attempt to hold back. It wheezed, all breath leaving its lungs as pain burned through its chest, its eyes watering and its body aching to tear itself apart even as an invisible wall forced it to stay contained, throwing it right back down to the floor as it collapsed.

It was pretty sure that not even its old handlers knew just how badly the inhibitor hurt. They knew it put it in pain, and they made it try a few times to make sure the thing was working correctly, but it was pretty sure they didn’t know how bad it was.

The pain surged through its body and it choked, desperately swallowing the scream that bubbled up in the wake of the tug. It heaved, bile burning in the back of its throat and its gut churning as it was yanked back through space, as though separate from the rest of its body. Its head felt like it was across the room, its arms felt like they had been pulled from their sockets, it could feel its eyes rolling back in its skull as the cold floor pressed into its shaking knees. Its body jerked, halfway across the room and yet right there on the floor at the same time, the air buzzing around it as the collar at its throat burned and choked and bit into its skin, tearing at it and strangling it and burning, burning, burning…

Its molecules were pulling themselves apart and then hitting an electric fence. It burned like nothing else the mutant had ever felt.

“Shit—!”  

Something was shouting overhead, but the mutant could hardly hear it. It was too busy trying to choke down the screams that wanted to rip from its throat, trying to keep the blackness from taking over its vision. It should be able to hold on, it should be better than this. It should be able to get up from this pain, no matter how terrible it was.

“Shit, ‘crawler? I — holy shit, kid, what the—”

There was something on its shoulder, and the mutant knew it should shy away. It knew it should cower, should stay still, should wait for the pain that would follow that touch.

It shouldn’t slump toward the hand, but its brain was buzzing and its vision was fuzzy and the weight felt grounding against the pain. Its body was torn apart, its neck aching from the force of the shock, and it couldn’t wrap its head around its surroundings.

“What the hell was that, what the… can you hear me? Are you with me?”

The thing on its back moved, and the mutant let out a low whine. It knew it shouldn’t, it knew it needed to be good and steady and obedient but its body was burning and it just wanted it to stop— it hadn’t felt pain like this in so long, and now it just wanted to curl up and escape—

And then the hand was back, this time cupping its cheek. The mutant could feel its head being lifted — when had it dropped? — and it found itself keening in the back of its throat. It should shy away, not press its cheek into the hold, but—

The hand was solid, and it wasn’t hurting. It was far, far too easy for the mutant to press into that hold as the darkness clouded its vision. 

There was a voice above it, but the mutant couldn’t make out the words. Its vision swam, its body burned, and it could feel itself slipping away.

It hoped it wouldn’t be punished, and it let go.

Chapter Text

JEAN.

What— Logan?

Medbay. NOW.

Logan? What—?

Logan shook his head, not caring to send any more information through the psychic rapport. He hated willingly throwing his thoughts into other people’s brains, but he also knew that it was the fastest way to get someone to help. 

Damn it, he was glad Jean was listening. He hoped she was running toward the medbay as fast as he was.

Nightcrawler was curled up in his arms, and Logan could feel the boy’s body twitch almost imperceptibly at every few steps. His face was still screwed up in pain, his breathing hitching every so often even as he hovered below consciousness. He had been trembling when Logan had first put a hand on his shoulder, and he was still trembling now.

Damn it, Logan had wanted to give the kid an impossible task to see what he’d do. He’d expected the kid to freeze up, maybe to just keep jumping and trying to reach the platform until Logan told him to stop. Worst case, he’d thought the kid might slip into another panic attack. He’d been prepared to try and handle that.

He hadn’t been prepared for this.

The medbay was empty when Logan slammed the door open, and for a second he felt like he couldn’t breathe. But then he heard the pound of footsteps from behind him, and whipped around to see both Jean and Ororo racing down the hallway toward him. 

“Logan?” Ororo called out. She got to him first, stopping gracefully just before slamming into him. Her eyes widened as she looked down at the mutant in his arms, then back up at him. “What—“

“I dunno what happened, but he needs help quick.” He looked past Ororo, making eye contact with Jean. “Jean—“

“Put him on the table.” Jean nodded quickly, her voice just as commanding as Scott’s could be. Logan didn’t hesitate to follow her command. “Ororo, help me over here.”

The two women moved quickly toward the equipment while Logan carefully lowered the boy onto the table in the middle of the room. He watched as Nightcrawler stiffened, his mouth opening slightly. Whatever sound was trying to come out was choked down, but it was obvious the boy was still in pain. His eyes were shut tight, his shoulders shaking violently, and his tail was spasming with every movement.

This was the most expressive Logan had seen him in the entire time he’d been at the Institute. 

“Move.” Logan didn’t hesitate to take a few generous steps back as Jean moved forward. Her hands ghosted over Nightcrawler’s blue fur, her eyes narrowed and her lips pursed as she began to check him over. Ororo was right next to her, slipping her different pieces of equipment as needed. Logan saw a needle exchange hands before he averted his eyes, his mind bucking up and his stomach twisting unnaturally. 

The smell of chemicals in the room burned his lungs on every inhale, and he felt like every hair on the back of his neck was standing upright. The air conditioning was too cold, the whisper of voices too loud, and the tiny choked-down noises of pain that Nightcrawler was desperately trying to strangle were something that he could feel in his own throat. Distantly, he felt like he was drowning, his mouth open without breathing, his vision swimming and his skin prickling with the crushing weight of water. Everything felt like it was pounding down on his senses, filling his chest, snapping and snarling and making it difficult for him to even breathe—

“What happened?”

Ororo was staring at him, her gray eyes tinged with a milky layer of white, still wide and half-way to panic as she looked to him for answers.

Logan let her half-way panic pull him away from his own.

“I messed up.” That wasn’t supposed to be the first thing out of his mouth, but he pressed on anyway. “I set up an impossible scenario. I was gonna try ‘n help him see that its ok if he can’t solve a problem, that I’m not gonna snap at ‘im for not bein’ able to do it.”

“And that scenario was…?”

“Gettin’ to a platform. The room made it look like it was jus’ floatin’ with all its holograms an’ shit.” Logan’s breathing was still shallow, and he tried to focus in the rise and fall of his chest rather than the burning, suffocating scent of chemicals in the air. “He was supposed’t freeze up or somethin’, but he just… he just went tense for a moment and then his collar buzzed and—“

Ororo stared at him. “And?”

A snarl tore itself from Logan’s throat. “An’ this happened,” he snapped, waving a hand over the boy on the table. He was pretty sure he saw the kid flinch, and he wasn’t sure if that was because of his movement or Jean’s poking. Guilt flooded his mind, and he couldn’t quite make himself shove it away. 

“And what is this?” Ororo asked, following his gaze toward Nightcrawler. “Is this something you knew about?”

“No,” Logan growled sharply. “I ain’t got a clue what this is.”

“You said it was the collar, right?” Jean asked, glancing away from Nightcrawler briefly in order to meet Logan’s eyes. “I thought you knew about that?”

“I thought I knew too,” Logan growled. “But it should have controls. It shouldn’ta gone off.”

“And you’re sure it was the collar, not something else?”

“I dunno what else it would’ve been,” Logan snapped. “I sure as hell didn’t do anythin’ to ‘im.”

At least, he hadn’t meant to. But whether he liked it or not, he had done this. Something about the order that he’d given Nightcrawler had set something off, and Logan didn’t even know what.

He’d moved too fast. He’d heard Rogue say that the kid still had a name buried somewhere inside, and maybe he’d started to hope. He’d pushed the kid, and he’d forgotten just how fragile this situation was. He’d almost forgotten just what that stupid collar meant. 

“You said it was a shock collar, right?” Jean was still looking at him, and her gaze made his skin crawl. “Was that what this was?”

“No,” Logan said, shaking his head. “Not just a shock.”

“Are you sure?”

“The shock would’ve been activated by a handler, not just ‘im standin’ there.”

“Maybe it was activated by something? Maybe it was just a strong dose?”

Logan only growled, his heart hammering in his chest. He was familiar with a lot of punishments. Just because his body didn’t bear the marks of pain didn’t mean he didn’t feel them. Most of it was twisted up and locked away in his messy maze of a mind, but he could still feel occasional phantom pains that haunted his nightmares. He knew what a shock collar felt like, the kind of pain it usually brought.

Whatever this was, this was more than a simple shock. This was something that had rocked Nightcrawler down to his very core. This was something that had torn the kid up from the inside out. This was worse than a taser or anything else that Logan had ever seen, and he couldn’t even tell what it had been activated by. 

Ororo’s gaze was getting milkier by the moment. Logan was fairly certain the temperature in the room had dropped. There was a buzz in the air, like bottled-up electricity as she turned her gaze to the boy on the table.

“I am taking it off.”

Ororo’s voice was steady, absolutely certain. She said the words like a fact, as though she was daring anyone to contest her. Her gaze turned back to Logan, a challenge deep in her eyes.

Logan didn’t say a word. He wasn’t sure that he could.

Ororo stepped forward, and Jean stepped back. The redhead moved over to one of the computers at the side, barely glancing at Ororo as her fingers flew over the keyboard. Logan saw Ororo grab one of the scalpels that was waiting on the table next to Nightcrawler, and he turned away.

There was too much hovering beneath the surface of his memories. He felt like he had his first day in the Institute; his mind twisted, his lungs full of chemicals, his skin crawling and everything around him too much.

He — Logan, Wolverine — felt fragile, and he hated it so much that he wanted to drive his claws into his own skull.

The sound of metal against metal rang out through the room. There was a crackle, a click, and then—

“There.”

Ororo sounded distinctly satisfied. The chill in the room lessened just a touch. Logan was able to breathe just a little bit easier, and he turned to look at her. The white-haired woman had taken a step back from Nightcrawler. The scalpel was no longer in her hand. Instead, there was the mangled remains of a thin silver collar.

In a single motion, she threw the object across the room. It landed in the corner with a clatter, completely harmless.

No, Logan thought, glancing back at the mutant on the table. Just cut off from the creature it was harming.

Now that Nightcrawler’s neck was exposed to the air, it was clear just how much harm the collar had done. There was a pale strip of blue skin that circled the boy’s neck — skin, because any fur that had grown there was long gone. In fact, skin hardly seemed to be the right word; the strip seemed to be one long, continuous, off-blue scar. It wrapped all the way around and sunk deep into his neck, like a second collar had been embedded directly into his skin. Tiny branches broke off of the main scar, splintering and disappearing into the start of the fur above it.

“Electricity scars,” Ororo muttered, her tone dark. There was a dangerous edge to it, along with a heavy helping of pure disgust. “Unnatural ones. Goddess, they really were electrocuting him.”

Logan knew that. He’d known that from the moment the kid showed up on their doorstep, collared and unresponsive to anything but the sound of an electric hum. It was what he had used to establish his dominance, and manipulated to get the boy to start seeing him as a handler. 

Somehow, he hadn’t thought of what might be beneath that collar. Maybe it was because the one that had once been around his neck had left no trace behind. 

The sight in front of him was enough to make even him want to throw up.

“Let me see that.” Jean’s voice was cold, detached, and Logan could see the way that she was completely avoiding looking at Nightcrawler. He could also see the way that her hand shook slightly as she held it out toward the collar. A moment later the broken item rose up off the ground, floating through the air toward her. Jean kept her hand out but didn’t touch it, instead rotating the collar telepathically over her fingers. 

She hummed, low and dark. “That’s what I thought.”

“What did you think?” Ororo took a step forward, tilting her head. Most of the milky whiteness had disappeared from her eyes, leaving them her usual stormy gray as she squinted at the collar. “That the thing is utterly, horribly vile? Because that is what I think.”

“I agree,” Jean said, her voice filled with a flash of fire that snapped out through the air. She took a breath before continuing. “It’s a shock collar, yes, but it’s also an inhibitor.”

“An inhibitor?” Both women looked up at Logan as he spat out the word. “What the hell does that mean?”

”It means it was built to block mutant abilities.” Jean reached out a bit, running a finger along the edge of the collar. She pulled away quickly, like she couldn’t even bear to touch it. “I know a friend of the Professor who has been studying technology like this. Dr. Hank McCoy — he visited a few months ago, he was telling Xavier about a few government groups that have been rumored to be making technology like this.”

A growl tore itself from Logan’s throat, making both of the women jump. “How the hell does that work?”

“I’m not sure, but this looks like the designs that McCoy was showing the Professor.” Jean held the collar up a bit more with her telepathy. “I thought it was all experimental, I never thought someone would actually make it…”

“Whoever did deserves to rot in the deepest corners of the known universe.” Ororo’s tone was shaking slightly, and her eyes had turned almost entirely white again. To anyone who didn’t know her, that slight shake might sound like fear. To Logan, he knew exactly what that meant; Ororo was furious.

“But what the hell was it blocking?” Logan asked, his voice still edging on a growl. He could feel his own fury churning through his veins, and it was taking more self control than he thought he had to keep his claws in. “It can’t exactly stop ‘im from bein’ blue and fuzzy, there ain’t nothin’ for it to block.”

“That’s the other thing.” Jean moved back toward the computer that she had been typing on, and began clicking at it again. “I should have looked at his DNA samples more closely when he first got here. I was just trying to see what sort of drugs were in his system and confirm that he had the X-gene, just in case. I didn’t even think to look for anything more.”

“Anything more?” Logan took a step toward Jean, and looked toward the computer. It helped keep him from looking back at Nightcrawler and his mangled neck. “Whatd’ya mean more?”

“Look.” Jean tapped the computer screen, and both Logan and Ororo leaned in. There was a strand of DNA pulled up, certain sections of it highlighted in a bright, electric blue. A few more parts of it, parts that were connected to the blue, had highlights of gold.

“It’s a secondary mutation,” Jean explained after Logan and Ororo gave her clueless glances. “It’s another thing that Dr. McCoy was telling us about. He accidentally triggered a secondary mutation in himself a few years back and has been doing research on it ever since. He said they usually form later in life, often in mutants that are born with their initial mutations rather than developing them at puberty. He said they’re often a result of harsh stress or environments that demand physical adaptations going beyond the mutant’s initial gifts.”

Jean gave Logan a quick glance at that. Logan grunted.

“Yeah,” he muttered. “That tracks.”

If there was ever a place for a mutant to develop secondary mutations to try and survive, the hell that Nightcrawler had come from was certainly it.

“So he’s got somethin’ more goin’ for him than jus’ the blue and furry?” Jean nodded, and Logan grunted. “Any way you can tell what it is?”

“Not from the DNA alone.” Jean shook her head. “Any hints from when he tried to do it?”

Logan thought back to the moment before Nightcrawler had collapsed. There had been a second where the kid was tense, his eyes focused on the platform overhead. There had been a second where Logan had thought he had seen a flash of something — maybe even panic — in his usually lifeless eyes. There had been a moment when Logan had thought he was actually going to admit defeat without trying to hurt himself.

And then there had been that moment of tension, and the kid had just collapsed. The scent of fear had nearly choked Logan when he rushed over to his side, the smell outlined with a scent that was nearly painful to breathe. It smelled like brimestone, or sulphur, or perhaps death itself. 

“It smelled like something was burnin’,” Logan growled, forcing the words out. “That’s all I got.”

Maybe that had been part of the kid’s secondary mutation. Maybe it had just been the smell of the collar frying him.

Both Jean and Ororo looked sick, a grim expression written across their faces.

“Do you think he knew?” Jean was the one to speak, and her voice was low as she shot a look back at Nightcrawler. She looked away almost as quickly, and this time her gaze landed on Logan. “I mean… he’s had that collar on the whole time.”

Logan thought about the moment before the collar had started buzzing. He thought about the moment of hesitation, the moment of fear. He thought about the long breath that the kid had taken, a tiny moment of breaking form that Logan had initially been proud of.

“Yeah,” Logan growled, hating himself for it. “I think he did.”

The worst part, he realized, was that Nightcrawler probably thought Logan knew too. Nightcrawler probably thought Logan had been asking for this.

As if Logan couldn’t feel any more shitty about this. 

“Jean?” Logan glanced up to see Scott standing in the doorway. He sounded out of breath, his brown hair a bit more disheveled than usual, and he was still in his X-Men uniform. His Cyclops visor was firmly in place as he looked from Jean, then to Logan, then to the boy on the table. “What happened?”

“Apparently Nightcrawler’s collar was an inhibitor.” Jean nodded to the broken object on the table. “He has some sort of secondary mutation. We’re not sure what, but he tried to use it, and…”

She trailed off, looking to Logan for help.

“And the damn thing nearly fried him.” Logan’s hands clenched into fists. He very pointedly didn’t look at the mutant on the table.

He was pretty sure Scott did though. It was impossible to tell with the visor, but Logan could guess that the man’s gaze was lingering on the scars around the boy’s neck.

Scott’s fists clenched too. For a long moment, silence settled over them all.

“Inhibitor technology,” Scott finally muttered. He turned his gaze toward Jean. “That’s what Dr. McCoy came to talk to the professor about the other day, isn’t it?”

Jean nodded.

“Did he know who was developing it?”

“It was only rumors.” Jean shook her head, glancing again at the broken collar. “We didn’t think it had been made, let alone implemented.”

Scott’s gaze shifted to Logan. “I know you don’t remember much, but—“

“We didn’t have this.” Logan shook his head. “Not in whatever place made me.”

Scott’s gaze still hovered on him. “You’re sure?”

“I’m sure.” Logan huffed. “Either it’s a recent thing, or whatever program he was in was different than mine.”

Even as he said it, the words felt hollow. There were too many similarities. There were too many half-formed memories being dragged up by Nightcrawler. The more that Logan was around the kid, the more he seemed to remember, and the more the same they felt.

Scott didn’t know what was going on in Logan’s head, but he still seemed to agree. “You haven’t remembered any names, have you?”

Logan shook his head.

“Let me know if you do." Scott glanced briefly toward the kid on the table, his brow creased. "Or if you can get him to tell you anything. I don't want us to interrogate him...”

But we need to know. The words were left unsaid, but Logan could hear them clearly. He hesitated only a moment before nodding.

With that, Scott turned toward Jean. “Call Dr. McCoy, see if he’s made any progress in figuring out who’s trying to manufacture this.”

Jean nodded, and Scott looked toward Storm.

“Let’s talk to the Professor about this,” he said, pausing for a moment. “If this technology starts being made more…”

“It could be a danger to our entire species,” Ororo finished vehemently. Her eyes were still clouded. “We will not allow that.”

“No,” Scott said, shaking his head. There was a heavy ferocity in his voice when he spoke again. “We won’t allow this.”

Scott turned, and his gaze seemed to linger on Nightcrawler for a moment. There was a weight in the air as he regarded the boy, and Logan could feel it settling into his own skin. Nightcrawler was still shaking slightly, and even with his visor on Scott's gaze seemed to be boring into the scars around the kid's neck.

“I want to figure out who made this as quickly as possible,” he said, that same weight evident in his words. “Something tells me that there’s more going on here than what we see.”

For a moment, they all looked at the boy on the table. For a moment, those scars dug into all of their minds.

Then, Logan let out a huff and broke the silence.

“Alright. I’m takin’ ‘im back upstairs.”

“What?” Jean turned to him. “Logan, I’m not sure moving him’s the best idea.”

“Well, I don’t really want us repeatin’ the last time he woke up in this room.” Logan took a step closer to the table, then glanced back at the others. “Do you?”

No one answered him. Logan turned back to look at Nightcrawler again.

Here, laid out on his back on the medical table, the kid looked so small. His limbs were far too thin and far too spindly, his face was too gaunt and his hair too stringy. His tail was hung limply over the side of the table, and his face still had the tiniest traces of pain written across it. The traces were small, almost imperceptible, as though even in unconsciousness he was trying to keep his emotions hidden.

The first day, when Nightcrawler had sprung up from that table and nearly slashed Ororo’s throat out, it had been easy to remember that the kid was a weapon.  Back then, the idea that the kid was hiding some sort of extra mutation would have made Logan grateful for the collar. 

Now, after a few weeks of feeding the kid, of seeing him fall into the rhythms of their training exercises, of watching as he suppressed his excitement at the smell of treats, it was getting just a bit harder to distinguish just how dangerous the mutant could be. Now, Logan found that he'd hardly even wondered what the boy's secondary mutation was.

Until he knew Nightcrawler was stable, he hadn't even cared.

Logan reached out, and scooped up the boy as gently as he could. He wasn’t exactly a gentle person, but it seemed like enough. The kid didn’t wake up; he only stiffened for a moment when Logan lifted him off the table. Then, a moment later, the boy seemed to shrink, shifting silently and resting his head on Logan’s shoulder. There was a tiny, minuscule breath that left the boy’s lungs, and something almost like peace settled on his face.

Damn it, Logan hoped he remembered the names of whatever freaks tore him apart. If they were the same ones that had done this to Nightcrawler, he was going to track them down and make them feel the same sort of pain that had brought the kid to his knees.

Scott was right. There seemed to be more going on here than what they were seeing on the surface.

As soon as they figured out what it was, someone was going to have hell to pay.

Chapter Text

Breathing felt easy.

It was a strange first thing to notice, but it was the most notable thing. The ache that still coursed through its body felt familiar. The flat floor beneath it felt familiar. The throb in its head felt familiar.

But the ease with which it was able to breathe… that was different. That had it reaching a hand up, scratching belatedly at the collar that circled its throat—

—its claws scratched skin.

Its eyes shot open.

Two hands reached toward its throat, and the mutant could feel its heart jumping in its chest. Its claws caught on fur and skin and it felt a dim pinch of pain, but that was completely unimportant in the face of the pure surge of panic that raced through its chest. It felt around its neck, but the usual circle of metal was gone. All it could feel was a rough, calloused patch of skin where it had been for… for…

It couldn’t remember how long. It had been there as long as it could remember.

Its heart pounded in its chest, and it could feel itself gasping for air. Its chest expanded easily, air slipping down its throat, but it didn’t seem to help. It could breathe more easily than ever, but that only seemed to make breathing harder. It inhaled sharply, and every breath felt like a crime. Every breath felt like a sin it wasn’t even trying to commit, but it couldn’t stop. Its handler could come in any moment but it couldn’t think, couldn’t remember where the collar had gone, couldn’t breathe—

“Woah, woah.” Something reached out and grabbed its wrists, and for a moment the mutant nearly lashed out. Thankfully it recognized the voice and froze, heart hammering in its chest, trying desperately to quell the trembling in its shoulders.

Its handler was staring down at it, its wrists in his hands, and it was— it was unchained. Its collar was gone. Its form was completely imperfect, and—

Breathing. It was breathing too well. It wasn’t breathing enough. It couldn’t breathe, but it could breathe, and that's why it couldn’t—

“Breathe.”

The mutant obeyed. All it could do was obey. That was all it had. Maybe if it obeyed well enough the handler wouldn’t punish it for being unchained, for the missing collar, for—

“Don’t just breathe once, keep doin’ it.”

The mutant inhaled again, and tried to remember to exhale. Then it inhaled, trying not to make it noisy and annoying and intrusive.

It felt like it was choking on each breath.

“Good. Keep breathin’.” The handler lowered its wrists, and for a moment the mutant thought he was going to bruise them again. But then he let go, and the mutant was in control of the appendages. “Don’t claw at your neck.”

The mutant was absolutely not going to claw at its neck. In fact, it wasn’t going to move at all. Its form wasn’t perfect, but shifting felt impossible — not with the handler staring right at it, not with its collar gone and its breathing easy and hard and — where was its collar?

“That thing hasn’t been off in a while, has it?”

The mutant nearly whined, but it stopped itself just in time. Its fingers barely — barely — twitched, but it didn’t reach up to its neck. The handler had told it not to claw at it.

But… but it was wrong. The collar had to be there. It had to have just… just missed it. It couldn’t be gone. It hadn’t been gone in…

It couldn’t remember if it had ever been gone.

“You’re not in trouble.” The handler’s voice was firm, certain, so commanding that the mutant had no choice but to believe the words. “I took it off because it was… decreasing your functionality.”

Decreasing functionality. The collar had never done anything but increase its functionality. Sure, it was always through harsh treatments, but still. Its old handlers were proud of how well the collar kept it in line. The collar was a necessary thing for any mutant, an especially necessary thing for a voltiale mutant. The collar was especially necessary for it. Without the collar, it could—

The mutant stopped thinking. It wasn’t meant to think, especially not about something like that. This was a test, a test to see if it would try to teleport and run. They would hunt it down, drag it back, beat it so badly that it couldn’t even think at all—

“You still breathin’?”

It inhaled, trying desperately not to flinch at its handler’s words. It was already breaking form in so many painful, unrepairable ways. It was only a matter of time before the blows came and it was thrown to the ground, finally shown how worthless it was before they chained it back up…

The mutant moved, ready to flatten itself against the ground in preparation. 

“Hey. No. None of that.” The handler’s voice was firm, and the mutant tried so hard not to flinch. It wasn’t sure that it succeeded. It had forgotten just how little this handler liked when it slipped into position early. “Remember? We don’t do that here.”

The mutant wanted to open its mouth, maybe to protest, maybe to gape at the handler. It kept its mouth firmly shut and froze, still half-leaned toward the ground, still ready for the moment that the handler reached out and hurt it.

A hand moved, and the mutant refused to flinch. The hand came close and the mutant imperceptibly tensed, ready for that hand to grab its neck and push it down, to twist and hurt and make it sorry for trying to break out of their control…

But the hand only rested on its shoulder. It stayed away from the mutant’s neck, and it found itself gasping on air again as it lingered there. For a long moment it didn’t move and the mutant—

—it shouldn’t be grounded by the touch. It shouldn’t feel tethered by the hand on its shoulder. It shouldn’t want to be tethered; if it was going to be punished, it wanted its mind to slip away, its awareness wane, its connection to everything physical to dissipate so it could try to escape some of the pain that was sure to follow. 

It breathed, and it tried not to let its lungs hitch as nothing dug into its throat. Each breath should bring pain, and yet none did. Nothing was happening. 

Why was nothing happening?

“I knew this would happen.” The voice over its head was familiar, but it had dipped into a deep growl that wasn’t the same as the orders it was supposed to listen to. The hand on its shoulder remained steady. “It's easier to breathe, an’ that makes it harder, right?”

The mutant probably wasn’t meant to listen to the words, and it definitely wasn’t meant to respond. Still, it couldn’t help but give a tiny, desperate nod as it tried to gulp down air. It wanted — it knew it shouldn’t want — but if the handler understood, then maybe he would know that it wasn’t trying to disobey. It was trying to breathe, but each breath felt damning.

The handler hummed, and he sounded a bit pleased. “You can hear me? Good. Can you give a verbal response?”

This handler liked verbal responses. It needed to remember that, it should be better than this. It should be able to speak, it had been trying to follow the verbal responses ever since the handler had started asking for them. It always took it too long to process the orders, one of these days the handler was going to run out of patience.

“Yes,” the mutant gasped, and it was aware that it was too noisy, its words too choppy, everything about it so utterly wrong that it desperately wanted to curl away and hide from its handler. “Yes, sir.”

The handler grunted. “Good.” 

His hand pulled away, and a foolish part of the mutant wanted to chase after the grounding touch. That part was so horrible, so stupid, that the creature nearly bit its own tongue in its haste to freeze. 

“Do you know why the collar went off?”

The mutant could feel its breath hitching, and it reminded itself that it had been ordered to breathe.  

This had to be a test. The handler… wanted its comprehension? It had to be something similar. Maybe the handler just wanted to check that it knew where it had gone wrong… except the handler had been the one to order it to teleport. Surely the handler knew, so now… unless he thought it had been still turned off after the mission. Maybe it was supposed to be off… but then why had it been unchained for so long if they thought it could escape?

“Verbal response.”

The mutant refused to flinch. It had to speak. It was supposed to speak.

“I… because I tried to teleport.” It went for comprehension first, and if it was allowed to pray then it might pray that was the right answer. 

The handler let out a long breath. “Teleportin’, huh? So that’s what you can do?”

The mutant wasn’t sure if it was supposed to respond to that. The tone of voice was too confusing, almost as though the handler hadn’t known… but he had to have known, what else would he have been trying to order the mutant to do? It was all over the mutant’s paperwork, and it was the most useful thing about it. The handler had to know what it could do.

“So you can teleport,” he said, the tone turning thoughtful. “But you haven’t ‘cause of the collar?” After a brief pause, he tacked on: “Verbal response.”

That was a simple answer. “Yes, sir.”

“And it’s been active the whole time you’ve been here?”

The mutant wasn’t sure if the collar had been on for the entire time it had been at the facility. The day that it had been transferred was messy and twisted in its mind, and all it could do was give a small shake of its head.

The handler’s gaze sharpened. “No?”

“I-I don’t know,” the mutant stuttered out quickly. It tried to explain, and it was painfully aware of how shaky and broken its words were. “Maybe, b-but it was reset. The timer ran out—”

How long ago? How long had it been at the new facility? It wasn’t sure, but the timer had run out a long time ago. It only would have been allotted enough time for the mission; a few hours at most.

The handler seemed to be hesitating. “Timer?”

“For the mission.” The mutant spoke, then realized its mistake and snapped its jaws shut. It hadn’t been prompted. Maybe the handler hadn’t wanted a verbal response to that, maybe he had just been talking to himself, maybe—

“You were on a mission?” 

The mutant knew it was supposed to be breathing. It knew it had been ordered to breathe. It knew it was disobeying by stopping.

It couldn’t make itself inhale.

The handler muttered something beneath his breath, but the words fell on deaf ears. The mutant could feel its brain buzzing, its awareness slipping as it felt fuzz creep in on its senses. Whatever the handler was saying wasn’t something it was meant to hear. It sounded like he was muttering to himself, his gaze resting heavily — far too heavily — on the mutant’s shoulders. It could feel his scrutiny, it could feel the way he seemed to be picking it apart, could feel the way its lungs struggled to expand even now that there was nothing strangling its throat. It was all wrong, it was all wrong—

“Mission report.”

The words cracked out through the room, sharp and certain. They reverberated through the mutant’s head, filling its chest with a cold, dark swell of dread. 

It should have known better than to think they’d forgotten. 

It thought it heard the man swallow. “Verbal report.”

This was it. This was the moment its new management was reminded what a failure it was. This was the moment all the kindness — the constant clothes, the rewards during training, the fact that they hadn’t hit it yet — was all taken back. This was worse than them realizing just how volatile it was and everything that came with that. This was admitting that it was a failure, that it was broken, that it hadn’t managed to complete its orders.

A useless mutant was a dead mutant. Its failure marked it as a corpse just waiting for its handlers to put it in the ground. 

The only reason it was still alive was because no one had confirmed its failure, and now it was being asked to speak its own death sentence. Not asked — ordered.

It had no choice. It had never had a choice. 

“Mission report.” It forced its voice to steady. It forced its mouth to move. It forced itself not to flinch as it stared steadily at the ground. “Date: unknown. Location: Washington, DC. Target: Senator Robert Kelly. Primary objective: Kill Senator Kelly, leave evidence. Secondary objectives: Evade capture, return to extraction point.”

The mission instructions were easy to remember. Those — the ones it had needed to know, at least — had been drilled into its head before the serum had been applied. 

“Assets utilized,” it continued, its voice still as steady as it could force it to be. “Nightcrawler, one dose of Chemical 143, standard containment methods.”

It knew what had been used in the mission. It knew what weapons had been deployed, knew how the process of deployment worked. After that… its memory was fuzzy.

After that, the details became damning.

“Objectives completed.” It paused, hesitated, let the words linger in the air for far too long. It tried to think. It tried to remember what had gone right in that mission.

Nothing came to mind.

“Evade capture,” it eventually said, though the words were slow. It was speaking too slow, and it should be giving a factual account — nothing in its tone should be a question, but it couldn’t remember. It wasn’t sure how the mission had ended, only that it had ended up here. That must have meant it had evaded capture. It must have done something right.

But the rest of the list weighed on its tongue, and it knew that a single mostly-completed objective would do nothing to save it. 

“Objectives failed.” It tried to remember to breathe. “Kill Senator Kelly. Leave evidence. Return to extraction point.”

It couldn’t remember how the mission had ended. That didn’t change the fact that it had failed. It had failed everything.  

“End mission report.” Its voice was shaking. It knew it shouldn’t let its voice shake, but it was concentrating too much on keeping everything else from shaking. It couldn’t keep itself steady, not in the face of its failure bearing down on it, not with its handler still staring at it, not when he now knew just how broken it was—

Forget earning rewards. The mutant would be lucky if they killed it for this. 

“Kelly.” The handler’s words were distant. The mutant wasn’t sure if that was because its mind was pulling away, or because the man was speaking softly. “That… well that answers some questions, but also just brings up a damn lot more.”

The mutant kept its head down. It tried to keep its breathing steady. It tried to brace itself for the hurt that would fall.

After a beat of silence, there was a sigh. 

“Ok. Let’s be clear here.” The handler’s voice was clear, steady, and the mutant had no choice but to force itself to listen. “That failure is not something we are going to hold against you.”

The mutant’s breath hitched.

“Breathe.” The handler hardly paused before continuing. “Those mistakes were made under your previous handlers. They don’t hold any power here, and even if they did we wouldn’t punish you for them. That’s not how we operate. Rewards, not punishments.”

The mutant felt its mouth open, but it froze before any sound could attempt to come out. It wasn’t sure what it was trying to do, it wasn’t sure if it was hearing its handler correctly. Nothing made sense, and it was still trying to wrap its head around the fact that there was no collar around its throat.

“We removed the collar because, based on the skills you have shown the past few weeks, we don’t need to use those punishments to keep you in line.” 

He paused, and the mutant could feel his gaze lingering heavily on it. The gaze made its fur itch, and it tried to keep itself as still as possible beneath the scrutiny.  

“Am I correct?”

The mutant nodded vigorously. It wouldn’t disobey, it would never disobey. It had stopped doing that a long, long time ago.

“Verbal response.”

It swallowed. “Yes, sir.”

“Good.” The handler sounded satisfied with its answer. “You will be rewarded for the fact that you gave your report, and that you gave good information. You will not be punished for the failure that happened under a different handler. Understood?”

The mutant nodded, despite the fact that it didn’t understand. It felt like it didn’t understand at all.

“Verbal response.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good.” The handler hesitated for a moment. “What was the name of your previous handler?”

The mutant froze. That was something that it wasn’t expecting. It wasn’t supposed to remember the names of its handlers. It kept that information carefully out of its mind, just in case it was ever captured or stolen. It never thought about its handlers by name, because it wasn’t supposed to know them by name. It knew its place. 

“I… I don’t know.”

The handler huffed, though it didn’t sound all that disappointed. “I figured. They don’t like that kind of stuff hanging around, do they?”

Then he paused. Then, slowly, he asked. “Do you know my name?”

The mutant froze. Its breath hitched in its throat. It… it did know the handler’s name, it recognized it when the other members of the facility said it, but it didn’t think of him with the name. It knew its place, it knew better than to address the handler by something as informal as a name, even in its own mind. The other members of the facility were one thing, but its handler — the person in charge of it — was another. 

“That’s what I thought.” It was like the handler could hear its thoughts. There was something almost… resigned in his tone. “You’re not required to call me ‘sir’, or whatever. The name’s Logan. I’m not gonna get mad if you ever call me that.”

The mutant… wasn’t going to respond to that. It was pretty sure it wasn’t meant to. It desperately hoped that it wasn’t meant to.

For a moment, silence slipped through the room. The mutant could practically feel the way that its handler was weighing his words, as though debating if he should ask a question. There was tension in his features, and the mutant had to keep itself from shrinking away.

“Do you know your name?” After a long beat, he added on: “Verbal response.”

“My designation is Nightcrawler,” the mutant replied with only a beat of hesitation. It thought that the handler had already known that, but maybe this was just another part of… whatever this test was. 

“Your name.” The words hung in the air, heavy and damning. “Did you have a name before your last handler, or not?”

The mutant was supposed to be breathing. It knew that. It knew it had been ordered to breathe.

It couldn’t. 

He knew. Somehow, the man had heard its thoughts. Somehow, that moment of weakness after its slip-up with Rogue had become known. Somehow, the handler knew what the mutant had been trying to hang on to for years, the last little bit of itself that it had managed to save. He knew, and now he was going to take it. 

Maybe this would be its punishment. Not something physical, so the handler wasn’t going back on his word. It knew it deserved it, but… but this hurt. It had thought that this one last thing was safe.

The handler’s gaze was heavy, and the mutant could feel it pressing into its fur.

“Tell me.”

The mutant shouldn’t hesitate. It shouldn’t draw it out. But forcing the name out took effort, as painful as ripping out its own heart. It was an admission of so many faults, an open invitation for it to be sent back to solitary for its mind to be stripped down again, or for the chemical to be used to keep it under and compliant since it couldn’t manage that itself. It was proof that it was still a disobedient creature.

But the handler knew, so there was nothing it could do to protest. Anything it tried to do would only lead to more pain.

“Kurt,” it said finally, the single word vulnerable and weak in the air. It took in a shaky breath, and it hated how much it could feel it. It was too present, too connected, too aware as it offered up its biggest secret. 

“Kurt?” The man’s voice was still flat, unreadable. “Last name?”

It had lost that years ago. It wasn’t a lie when the mutant answered. “No, sir.”

“Kurt.” The word felt more solid as the man said it, and a tiny, traitorous part of the mutant’s soul leaned toward it. 

When was the last time that name had been said aloud? Not even the mutant dared to give voice to the name. This may be the last time that it would ever be allowed to hear it, but… at least it was a voice other than its own. There was something horribly validating about the feel of it.

The man gave a nod. “You’re allowed to keep that. That’s your reward.”

The mutant shouldn’t allow its body to react. It should keep its form, should remain still and compliant, should continue to be the lifeless weapon that it had been trained to be.

But as those words left its handler’s mouth, it blinked. It was a small movement, one that it knew that it shouldn’t make, but… 

What?

“You answered every part of that mission report to the best of your ability. You brought to light some… things that we had been unaware of. We needed that information.” The handler nodded. “That is worthy of a bigger reward than just some jerky. You’re allowed to keep the name Kurt, if you want it.”

Want. A mutant shouldn’t be allowed to want anything. But if the handler was offering it…

“Do you want it?”

The question was direct. It demanded a response. The mutant only hesitated for a moment. “Yes. Yes, sir.”

There was a hum above it, and the mutant could almost — almost — imagine a pleased look on the handler’s face. It very carefully kept its head down. 

“Ok. It’s yours then.” The handler paused. “Do you want me to call you Kurt?”

It shouldn’t want anything. It shouldn’t be allowed to want anything. The handler could do whatever he wanted, and the mutant would be powerless to stop him. If the handler wanted to use the name — to weaponize it, twist it, turn it into something the mutant couldn’t recognize — it could do nothing to stop him.

The thought made its breath hitch. 

“Breathe.”

It tried to follow the command, but its mind was caught up in the thought of the name that it had held so close for so long, and its handler using it. It couldn’t voice its wants. It wasn’t meant to want. 

But if it could want… it didn’t want its name to become unrecognizable. It didn’t want them to take it away through slow means, slowly forcing it to associate Kurt with everything that Nightcrawler was. It didn’t want its name to be something that its handler used. 

Somehow, the handler seemed to hear it. “Alright,” he said after a long moment, his voice even. “We’ll stick with Nightcrawler. “Kurt” is yours to keep.” The handler shifted, there was a light sound of metal ripping, and a familiar smell hit the mutant’s senses. “And so is this.”

A can was placed on the ground, right in the mutant’s eye line, and it barely kept itself from blinking in shock again. There was food in front of it. It was another can like the last few the handler had given it — no less. It tried to wrap its head around the concept, floored by the idea that it would be allowed food after so many mistakes, after its blatant failure, after the handler had withheld any other sort of punishment, after it had been given permission to keep its name—

“Eat.”

The response was automatic. The mutant didn’t hesitate; it fell to its knees, scooping up the opened can with reverence, only pausing for a moment before digging in to wait, to see if the handler would change his mind…

“I’m not gonna take it. Eat.”

The mutant wasn’t stupid enough to make its handler repeat the order a third time. It gulped down the contents of the can, relishing in the way that the food settled in its stomach. It hadn’t realized how hungry it was, and it hadn’t realized how hard it had been to swallow with the collar on. 

It wasn’t sure how long that collar had been on, but it knew it had been years. It hardly recognized the way its own neck felt without the familiar, choking weight. It felt too light now, almost dizzy with the lack of restriction.

Or maybe the dizziness was a result of the rush of the report, or the rush of giving its name. Maybe it felt so detached because it had tried for so long to keep the name detached, and now that it was allowed to keep it… now it almost wasn’t able to bear the weight of it.

But it could breathe. Nothing was strangling it as it swallowed its food and drank the water it was offered. It could actually, truly, breathe. 

“We can work with this,” murmured the voice of its handler. The words washed over the mutant’s ears. They weren’t a command. It wasn’t supposed to listen.

And yet, somehow, it had been allowed to eat. The collar was still off. It had been allowed to keep its name.

The mutant — Kurt — was getting far more than it deserved.

Chapter Text

“So. Mystique.”

Logan let out a huff. “Looks like it.”

Scott ran a hand through his hair, his brow furrowed over the top of his red glasses. “Well. That…”

“That explains everything,” Jean said as he trailed off, shaking her head. “And also nothing at all.”

For a moment, quiet fell over the study. Each of them seemed to try to process that information. Jean had her hands clasped beneath her chin, her red hair falling over her shoulders. Xavier was behind his desk, deep in thought. Logan leaned against the desk a bit, watching the other three process. Scott’s brow was still furrowed, and Logan could practically see the gears turning in his head.

“It doesn’t make any sense,” Scott muttered after a moment. “I mean, Mystique? Why would she just drop him off on our doorstep? She hates us.”

“Perhaps it makes more sense than you think, Scott.” Xavier leaned forward over the edge of his desk, tapping his fingers together thoughtfully. “Mystique is a… complicated woman. She is not merciless.”

Scott hummed noncommittally. “Maybe. Or maybe she’s considering her other options for allies now that Magneto is out of the picture.”

“By droppin’ a kid on our doorstep?” Logan shook his head. “If she was tryin’ to get in our good graces, she’d’ve let us know it was her. No callin’ card, no attempts to follow up…”

“No explanation.” Scott let out a huff. “Figures.”

“Mystique is particularly gifted in evading solid answers,” Xavier mused. “It would be like her to be difficult to detect.”

“Yeah, yeah, whatever.” Logan waved a hand. “Mystique’s how he got here. Done. That’s figured out.”

“But—“

“No, Logan’s right." Jean leaned forward, resting her chin on her laced fingers. “Her reasoning isn’t what we need to be focusing on right now; it’s still one mystery solved. We know how he got here; what we need to know is who sent him after Mystique.”

“Except he wasn’t sent after Mystique,” Logan pointed out.

“He was sent after Senator Kelly.” Scott nodded quickly. “So we figure out who wants Kelly dead, and we figure out where Nightcrawler’s from.”

“Figure out where he’s from,” Jean said. “And we figure out who made the collar he had.”

A contemplative silence fell after that, and Logan could practically feel the gears turning in group’s minds. The Professor’s study filled with a heavy, thoughtful air.

If they could figure out who had done this to Nightcrawler, they could figure out who had made that collar. They could also figure out if there were any other mutants in his position, and then they could put a stop to this before the inhibitor technology in that collar could be widely spread. They could also rescue any other mutants that were stuck in the program. 

A few tiny, almost unnoticeable glances were shot in Logan’s direction. He could hear the silent, unsaid words that seemed to pass through those furtive glances.

If they figured out where Nightcrawler was from, there was a chance they could figure out where Logan was from. 

Logan found himself crossing his arms, glancing out the window of the Professor’s study. It was some time in the mid-afternoon, and a weekend. A pretty day, a great one for kids that were itching to be out of classes. There were several students milling out on the lawn, some of them tossing a frisbee back and forth. 

It was such a normal scene that it was easy to forget that every one of those kids would be targeted by the kind of people that had messed up Nightcrawler. It was almost forgettable that there were people out there that wanted to put collars around the necks of every one of those kids.

For a brief moment, Logan wondered if, in another life, Kurt could have been out there, throwing a frisbee with the rest of them. 

“How was he this morning?” Jean’s voice was quiet, but Logan indulged it anyway.

“Shaky. He was a bit slower than usual.” Logan didn’t mention the way that he had caught Nightcrawler nearly curling up into his usual “waiting for punishment” position at least five times. “But he was movin’.”

Logan could feel both Scott and Xavier’s gazes trained on him, but he kept his own gaze pointed out the window. He knew that both of them had been appalled when he’d taken Nightcrawler down to the Danger Room after everything that had happened the night before, but Logan stuck with that decision. He hadn’t missed the tiny flash of relief that had flickered through Nightcrawler’s scent when he’d stepped into the room that morning, and he hadn’t missed the way the boy had almost imperceptibly stiffened when he’d been given food. Logan could remember the dread that came with interrupted routines. A break wouldn’t do the kid any good right now; it’d only make him slip into another panic attack.

“I kept things slow for ‘em,” he edged, begrudgingly hoping to relieve their worries a bit. “The routine helps. He’d jus’ think I was mad if I didn’t stick with the routine.”

At that, Scott seemed to relax, and after a moment he gave a small nod of understanding. Xavier just seemed contemplative, but that was normal. That guy practically lived in his own head — and everyone else’s. 

“Did he say anything else when you spoke with him?” Xavier pressed, one eyebrow raised. “This is good information, but it feels like there should be more.”

Logan met his gaze with a sharp look. He pulled up his mental defenses, just in case Xavier was trying to poke around in his mind — his funeral, really, but still. Logan didn’t like the look that Xavier was giving him, and he couldn’t help but wonder if the guy had already poked around in his head. 

He hoped the guy had kept his mind to himself. Logan had already shared just about all of the information that the X-Men needed to know.

He hadn’t told them about Nightcrawler’s name. He wasn’t planning to. 

The name Kurt didn’t match the brittle shell that Logan had been watching over for the past few weeks. It didn’t match the mutant that could nearly beat Scott’s high scores in the Danger Room, and it didn’t match the creature that nearly tore Ororo’s throat out the first time he’d woken up in the Institute. The name “Kurt” was something else entirely, something that had been nearly stomped out through years of programming and conditioning.

Nearly, but not quite.

Logan had seen a flash of it. For just a moment, just a breath, there had been a shake in the mutant’s voice as he offered up the name. For a moment there was tangible fear, and for a moment Logan thought he had seen something.

It was gone too quickly for him to be sure, but he was pretty certain that it was the same “something” that had asked if Rogue was okay, the same “something” that occasionally got caught in the mutant’s eyes when he was mid-panic-attack. 

Somewhere, buried deep inside, there was a person inside that shell. The thought was almost unbelievable. A few weeks ago, Logan wouldn’t have believed it. 

Logan met Xavier’s gaze evenly. “We jus’ talked through the mission. Tha’s it.”

Kurt had been hidden deep inside of Nightcrawler for a long, long time. Logan wasn’t about to start throwing the kid’s name around until the kid actually felt like he could use it. 

Xavier held his gaze for a moment longer. Then, he turned back to the group. “Alright. Let’s focus on that then.”

“You said he was meant to leave evidence, right?” Scott turned his head toward Logan. “Did he say what kind of evidence?”

Logan shook his head. “All I got was a list of objectives. I wasn’t gonna press for more.”

“Why not?” Jean asked hesitantly. “I mean… if he’s speaking now…”

“Speakin’s a generous term,” Logan shot back. “The kid’s still on the edge of a panic attack any time he says ‘yessir’. I’m not gonna interrogate him.”

There was a moment of general acceptance at that. Then, Xavier spoke up again. “Perhaps…”

“No.” Logan shot the Professor a glare. “You ain’t doin’ that.”

The corner of Xavier’s mouth quirked up. “And here I believed I was the telepath.”

“You ain’t gettin’ all up his head.” Logan shot a glance at Jean before she could say anything. “You either. You two’d jus’ scare the livin’ hell outta ‘im.”

“But it could help,” Jean pressed. “If we could just see what he went through—”

“If you could see what he went through, you’d probably wanna shoot yerself,” Logan deadpanned. “Speakin’ from experience.”

None of them could argue against that.

“An’ it doesn’t matter anyway. We got a good lead here.” Logan rapped his fingers against Xavier’s desk. “Kelly. Who wants to kill that guy?”

“Well, who wants to kill the Kelly that the world knows now?” Scott pointed out. “I mean, plenty of mutants would have wanted to kill that guy beforehand. But with the inhibitor and everything, this doesn’t seem like a mutant attack.”

“But his… orders—” Jean still seemed to choke on the word. “—included ‘leave evidence’. So maybe someone wanted to make sure it looked like a mutant attack?”

Scott nodded at that. “An attack on a senator that went from hating mutants to defending them would be horrible for mutant press. It’d make us look heartless, unforgiving—”

“Dangerous.” The word came out just a bit sharper than Logan intended.

The others nodded. “A perfect opportunity for those that are pushing this Registration Act,” Xavier concluded, his face drawn up in thought. “A solid motive. A good plan.”

“So that’s motive,” Scott said with a nod. “Now the question is just means. That’ll lead us to who. We figure that out…”

“...and we know who did this,” Jean said, nodding quickly. “And we can figure out their next move.”

Forget figuring out their next move; Logan had half a mind to stick his claws in the gut of the guy responsible for all of this. But the others were nodding along, so he decided to hold his tongue. 

“You know who might know?” Everyone turned to Jean when she spoke. “Mystique.”

Xavier frowned. “Mystique?”

“Well, she was the one attacked, wasn’t she? We know she holds a grudge well—” Logan snorted at that. “—and now that Magneto’s out of the picture, she’s operating on her own terms. She’s more involved in the political realm than any of us now that she’s impersonating Kelly. She’s the kind of woman to keep tabs on her enemies.”

“You’re right.” Scott was nodding quickly, leaning forward in his seat. “She’s our best lead.”

“I do have connections in DC,” the Professor mused, nodding thoughtfully. “Getting an audience with a senator is not impossible. In fact… that would be relatively simple.”

“And if she’s the one that dropped Nightcrawler on our doorstep, she probably has at least an idea of how dangerous all of this is.” Scott added, his contemplative look a mirror of Xavier’s. “She might actually want to talk to us.” 

“You think she really did use a kid as a peace offering?” Jean looked mildly upset at the thought.

“If she did… well, it’s better than the alternative.” Scott glanced up at Logan. “You think he’s been doing better?”

Logan hesitated. Better was a relative term. Better implied some sort of real, visual improvement. Better usually didn’t mean something like frequent panic attacks. But if nothing else, the panic attacks brought light to the kid’s eyes. Every once and a while there was a flash of something behind that blank, emotionless stare. 

The kid had managed to hold on to a name. That was something that took strength. That was something that Logan hadn’t been able to do. 

“I… I don’t think he’s as far gone as I thought,” Logan admitted. It felt like prying teeth to say something like that, but there was truth sunk deep into the words. “He’s stronger than I gave him credit for.”

Based on the weight of Scott’s gaze, Logan could tell the guy knew there was more to his words than that. Thankfully, he didn’t pry. He only gave Logan a slight nod. 

“We can’t forget about the chemical that he mentioned,” Jean spoke up. “What did you say it was?”

“Chemical 143,” Logan said. “You’re right. That sounded important.”

Xavier glanced at Logan. “Do you remember anything that sounded like that?”

Logan frowned. “It… sounds kinda familiar. I dunno what it is though.”

Xavier nodded, apparently satisfied. “Perhaps Mystique will be able to shed light on that topic. Or Hank may know.”

“He said he could come talk to us in-person in about a week,” Jean said. “He’s on the other side of the country right now, but he was very interested in the collar. He might know about the chemical too.”

Xavier nodded. “Good. I will try to get us a meeting with Mystique in the next few days; hopefully by the time Hank arrives, we will have more information to share with him.”

“That sounds like a plan.” Scott nodded, his voice dipping sharply into his ‘leader-tone’. “Jean, you keep talking with Dr. McCoy. I’ll fill Ororo in on the plan with Mystique once she’s done with her class. Once we get a meeting, Logan and—”

“I’m stayin’ here.”

Scott paused, and Logan got the impression that he was blinking in surprise under his glasses. “Really?”

“I would have expected you to want to be on the front lines of interrogation, Logan. You are one of our more… persuasive parties.” Xavier raised an eyebrow. “Are you certain?”

Logan shrugged. “I told ya, routine’s important. Even the Blackbird ain’t gettin’ us back an’ forth from DC quick enough for me to keep the exact same hours with Nightcrawler. I don’t wanna throw us off.”

Jean gave him a teasing smile. “Aw, Logan, don’t tell me you’re missing a fight for a kid’s sake?”

“He’s not a kid,” Logan said, though the words contained none of the usual fire. In fact, he felt a lot less conviction in them than usual. 

Apparently, the X-Men seemed to pick up on that. Xavier was giving him a slightly smug look, and Scott seemed to have a level of knowing respect in his glasses-covered gaze. 

Damn it.  

“I’m jus’ tryin’ to keep ‘im steady,” Logan defended himself. “And… I think I’m gonna try somethin’ new.”

Scott raised an eyebrow at that. “Something new?”

“Is it with his teleportation?” Jean pressed. “Don’t push him to do too much too quickly, we still have no idea what that could do to him.”

“Nah.” Logan waved a hand. “We’ll get there ‘ventually, but I ain’t tryin’ to make ‘im pull that stunt again. Not till he’s back in the routine, at least.”

“That brings up a whole other problem though,” Scott said, frowning. “If he can teleport, what’s stopping him from just…”

“Runnin’?” Logan watched as Scott gave a small, tentative nod. “I dunno if he’s even capable of thinkin’ ‘bout that right now.”

He was still keeping a close eye on the kid though. He’d staked outside Nightcrawler’s room for nearly two hours before coming to this meeting, just to make sure he didn’t use his abilities to try and run. He hadn’t; Logan wasn’t sure if that meant the kid could only teleport short distances, or if it meant that he didn’t want to risk trying to escape. Logan wasn’t sure which was worse. 

He wanted to see the teleportation in action, but that could wait. Once the kid was able to breathe properly without the collar on, then Logan could see exactly what he was able to do.

“But what about before?” Jean asked, breaking the contemplative silence. “When they first caught him? Why didn’t he just… get out?”

Logan shrugged. “We’ve got no clue how long he was there. He might not’ve been able to do it when they first got ‘im.”

“It seems like something we will need to speak to Hank about,” Xavier mused. “He knows far more about secondary mutations than I. He may be able to shed some light on the situation.” 

“So if not something with that, then what?” Scott’s eyebrow arched higher. “Trying something new seems a bit against the whole ‘routine’ thing.”

Logan nodded. He couldn’t deny that. Even considering it was taking a risk, one that he’d been utterly against since the moment Nightcrawler was brought into the institute.

But the kid still had a name. There was still a person in there somewhere, and so far there had been one thing that had brought a little bit of life to the kid’s eyes. Maybe, with a bit of help, that person could be brought out of the shell it had been hidden away in.

“I’m gonna do somethin’ I might regret,” Logan sighed. “But there’s a chance it’s gonna make both of ‘em happy.”

Chapter Text

The mutant — Kurt — was still expecting something to go wrong. 

It deserved some sort of punishment. It was a failure, and its handler knew that. He knew that it was useless, and a useless mutant was a dead mutant. 

Even if the handler was true to his word and avoided physical punishments, he had plenty of other methods to choose from. Kurt was all too familiar with the sort of things that could be used to hurt it without actually hurting it. It expected for its food ration to be cut, for its training time to be doubled — or, somehow even worse, cut — or its sleep rations to be shortened. Everything it was getting was too much, even for a completely operational asset. It should have some sort of fallout soon, it was just waiting for it.

More than anything, it expected to be dragged back to solitary. It was waiting for the moment that it would be shoved in a tiny white room and left there, devoid of any noise or movement until its mind turned to mush and its name was once again lost to the depth of nothingness that it deserved.

But its handler returned in the morning, and it wasn’t dragged away to a solitary cell. It was still given its food ration, it was still taken to the Danger Room, it was still rewarded when it did well. It fell to its knees more than once, waiting for punishment to come as it was too slow, too weak, too shaky from the day before… but the most that the handler did was withhold reward. He didn’t hit it. He didn’t berate it. He didn’t force it to run through a course until it dropped. He didn’t break a single promise that he had made.

He didn’t even use its name against it. He only addressed it as “Nightcrawler”, or maybe the shortened version of “‘crawler”. It was waiting for the moment that its name would be used as a weapon against it, but… it wasn’t.

Kurt… didn’t understand. But it found that it was easier to fall into the routine that its handler had built, and it found that — maybe, slowly — it was beginning to believe what the man had said. Maybe he really was going to allow the mutant to keep its name. Maybe he really was telling the truth when he said he wasn’t going to hold Kurt’s failure against it.

The thought felt too good to be true… but somehow, Kurt didn’t think it would be punished for holding on to the hope that it was true. In fact, it was slowly beginning to believe that the handler might actually keep his promise not to hurt it.

It was roughly four days after the collar had been removed — it still hadn’t been replaced — when it finished a Danger Room session and heard the room announce a new form of completion.

“Mission success.” The familiar metallic voice echoed through the room over the mutant’s head. “Time elapsed: Eight minutes and thirty six seconds. New Institute record. Report to instructor.”

“New record?” 

It rose from the crouch it had landed in, its eyes wide as it quickly dropped its gaze. It could hear its handler clicking through the Danger Room’s controls, and a moment later the man laughed.

“You got ‘em, elf!” The handler laughed again, his excitement filling his tone. “You got ‘em by almost a full thirty seconds! Damn, I can’t wait to see the look on his face.”

The excitement in the handler’s tone was contagious. Kurt had to focus to keep its tail still, and its lips kept threatening to twitch into a grin. Maybe it wouldn’t be bad if it grinned a little bit, based on how happy its handler was. This was something that they had been unofficially working toward since Kurt had started using the Danger Room, and the sense of accomplishment was not lost on it.

This was another thing that was different from the previous facility. Goals were not an expectation. If it was told to beat a certain time in a training exercise, it would beat that time by the end of the session. No matter how long it took, no matter how much it was hurt in punishment for failed runs, it would complete the goal. It wouldn’t be allowed to rest until it could prove that it wasn’t a failure.

Here, at this facility, the goals set were never required. It had never even been ordered to beat Cyclops’ record. The only reason Kurt knew it was a goal was because its handler expressed excitement. He never punished it for missing the goal. He never forced it to run the course until it dropped. He hardly even mentioned it, until he got excited that Kurt was close to beating the score.

Somehow, that made this victory more satisfying. Back in the old facility, completing a task meant nothing but bringing on the next one, maybe staving off a bit of the punishment that would usually befall it. Here, there was less fear of punishment. Here, it wasn’t expected to complete every goal every time. It made the excitement of beating the score contagious, and it almost made Kurt want to run the course again to celebrate.

It was beginning to deeply, truly prefer this form of training.

“Here.” The handler had moved over, and he held out the customary piece of jerky. “Take it. You’ve earned it.”

Kurt grabbed the piece of jerky eagerly, allowing itself a moment to relish in the flavor. It was somehow even more delicious than usual, and Kurt couldn’t tell if it was the adrenaline or the excitement or the way there was no collar biting into its throat as it swallowed. Maybe it was a combination of all of it, and it definitely was something that it didn’t deserve.

“Good job,” the handler praised above it, and the words nearly made Kurt grin. “You did good there, elf. That was great.”

It had to focus very, very hard to keep its tail from wagging. It kept its face carefully passive, but inside it could feel itself latching onto the words and preening at the praise. It never knew how good it could feel to have someone tell it that it had done well. The words were almost better than the taste of the jerky.

Then, for a brief moment, there was a hand on its shoulder. It was hardly a full second; it was there, it squeezed lightly, and then it was gone. Kurt froze up, but it didn’t tense. For a moment it wasn’t afraid that the hand would hurt; for a brief moment, it wanted the touch to last longer.

It was a good thing the touch didn’t last. If it had, Kurt wasn’t sure it could keep itself from pressing into it. 

“You did good,” the handler said again, and the mutant could feel that pride surging through it. “That means somethin’ special. I told you I’d give ya a big reward for beatin’ Scotty, didn’t I?”

A big reward? It had already been given so much; the jerky, the kind words, the moment of touch that didn’t hurt. It already felt warm and giddy from all it had been given, and the idea of something more was almost overwhelming.

The handler hummed, and there was a long moment of hesitation. He pulled something from his pocket, and the mutant could hear him typing. A moment later he hummed again.

“No goin’ back now,” he muttered. Then he spoke again, his voice much more clear. “Stay. I’ll be back in a minute.”

His footsteps echoed through the Danger Room, and a moment later the click of the door left Kurt in silence. It stood there, unmoving, and waited for its handler to return.

It wasn’t sure how much time had passed, but after a while the door opened again. This time, two sets of footsteps echoed through the Danger Room. Kurt carefully kept its gaze down, its heartbeat picking up slightly as a cautionary sort of fear began to pump through its veins. The handler had said this was a reward, something good. The handler hadn’t done anything to hurt it yet, but another person made it nervous. It wasn’t sure what to expect here, and the thought made its fur prickle with anxious nerves.

“Remember what I told ya,” the handler was muttering. “Don’t freak out ‘bout any of it, kay?”

“I know, I know, you can stop lecturin’!” The new voice was female, excited, and one that Kurt realized it recognized. “I’ve been waitin’ on that text for days, I know what ya said!”

“Jus’ keep it in mind. An’ slow down, yer gonna spook ‘im.”

“Sorry, ah’m just excited. It took yah long enough, I…” the voice petered out as the footsteps got closer. “Logan? Is he okay?” 

“Tha’s what I was tellin’ you about. He’s just waitin’.” The handler kept his voice low. “You gonna be able to handle this?”

The other voice snorted. “You ain’t backin’ outta this, Logan.”

He let out a sigh. “Yeah, yeah, I know.”

Their footsteps were slowing down, and Kurt could feel its breath catching slightly. The handler’s familiar combat boots were in its line of sight now, as were a smaller pair of boots. These ones were black, a bit more sleek, and the mutant knew it had seen them before.

“You can look up, Nightcrawler.” The command was a bit less harsh than usual, but the mutant grabbed onto it, trying to keep its expression in check as it followed its orders.

The girl next to its handler was smiling. She had a loose gray t-shirt that wasn’t unlike the one it was wearing, though hers was covered by a sleek black jacket. Her hair was red, the very front of it a bright white that framed her face, and her green eyes sparkled a bit when it looked up at her.

It instinctively dropped its eyes — it wasn’t meant to make eye contact — but looked back up just a moment later when it remembered that it had been given permission to look. She wasn’t going to hit it just because it had looked at her for a moment too long.

In the old facility, they would have. Somehow, Kurt was fairly certain that wouldn’t happen here.

“Hi,” the girl breathed out, her eyes still sparkling. 

Kurt tried very, very hard to keep its tail from twitching. It was trying so hard to keep itself under control, to keep from looking over at its handler or staring too openly at the girl. This was her. This was the girl that had slipped into its storage room, the girl that had spoken to it with kind words almost as though it was a person. She was the one that had disobeyed the handler to talk to it, and yet the handler didn’t seem angry. He didn’t seem like he was about to reach out and hurt either of them; his arms were crossed, his gaze cautious, but… but he was smiling. He looked almost content as Kurt’s eyes darted briefly over to him.

“She’s okay,” the handler said, his voice low. “She’s alright, elf. She’s just here to say hi.”

“I’m Rogue,” the girl said. She moved, as if to raise a hand toward it, but then seemed to think better of it and instead twined her hands together. Both of them were gloved. “Do ya remember me, or…?”

Of course it remembered her. It had been trying not to think of her, but that was the one thing that it was never able to obey well. It had been thinking of her ever since that day, absolutely terrified that she had taken punishment for its mistakes. It had been terrified that the handler would be furious with her for speaking to it, and after that horrible punishment that they had both endured, it was sure that she was going to be hurt.

But the handler was standing right next to her, and he wasn’t hurting her. Rogue seemed unscarred, her expression hesitant but unafraid as she looked at Kurt. 

The relief that flooded Kurt’s chest was bad. It knew it shouldn’t care. It knew it shouldn’t be glad to see Rogue here, okay, unhurt. It knew that caring like that was what had gotten it classified as volatile and what had gotten it thrown into solitary confinement time and time again. It knew it should be indifferent, if only to make sure that the handler didn’t order it to attack her and teach them both a lesson.

But the handler was only standing by, watching. He didn’t seem to mind the fact that Rogue was speaking to it, and he didn’t seem like he was about to order them to spar. He didn’t even seem like he was going to yell at them.

Kurt was practically choking on the crushing weight of relief and gratefulness that settled on its chest, and it could feel its tail twitch once before it managed to still it. Even for that, it wasn’t scolded. It was still allowed to be there, looking up at Rogue as though she was a miracle standing in front of it. 

Maybe she was. Maybe God was watching over her, and maybe Kurt was being allowed to feel the warm rays of His glory from the sidelines. It would take any scraps it was given, and it would never be able to put words to how thankful it was for the morsel of kindness. 

“Can ya hear me?” She frowned slightly, then glanced at the handler for help. “Logan…?”

Kurt froze. Those weren’t words that should be directed to it; they were far too human, far too kind. This wasn’t its handler giving it a bit of kind praise. This was a person, a regular girl that was trying to talk to it. It wasn’t sure it was supposed to respond — it wasn’t sure it was even meant to listen.

“You’re allowed to talk to Rogue.” Kurt’s eyes darted toward him before quickly dropping — it was pretty sure it wouldn’t get hit, but it wasn’t worth the risk. “You don’t have to wait for permission on every word. You’re allowed to speak.”

The words made Kurt’s eyes widen, and it looked back at Rogue. She had looked over at the handler as well, but her gaze met its as they both turned back. There was something complicated in her green eyes, something a little bit sad that turned hopefully as their eyes met. She was still waiting. It was allowed to answer. It was being encouraged to answer.

“Um,” it said haltingly. “I… yes?”

Somehow, Rogue’s eyes got brighter. Her smile grew, and Kurt found that it had to fight to keep a grin off of its own face.

“Hi,” she said, her voice gentle.

“Hallo,” it whispered back, its voice small. 

Rogue grinned as though Kurt had hung the sun. 

“I heard you beat Scott’s score on this level.” She waved out a hand, gesturing vaguely to the Danger Room around them. “That’s cool! I didn’t think anybody’d be able to beat him, y’know?”

Her voice was warm, bright, full of life. Like the excitement from its handler, her warmth seemed to be contagious. Kurt couldn’t help itself from nodding shyly, and it hoped that it was ok. It hadn’t been told that it had to give a verbal response to Rogue, and it didn’t seem like anyone was going to hit it for the assumption that it could nod…

No blows fell, and Rogue only chuckled. 

“I know Logan’s excited you beat him,” she nudged its handler in his side and Kurt felt its heart drop, panic thrumming through its veins. But the man didn’t lash out at her; he only huffed indulgently as she looked back toward Kurt. “So thank you, ‘cause I’ve been askin’ to see you for weeks an’ this is what got ‘im to let me!”

That made Kurt blink. “You…” it paused, nearly flinching at its own words, terrified that it was speaking out of turn… but Rogue only nodded encouragingly, and it found itself breathing slowly. “You… you wanted to see me?”

Something sad flickered through her green eyes. Maybe it was because of how rough and ugly its voice was… or maybe it was because of the slight note of disbelief that it hadn’t been able to strangle out of its words.

“Yeah. I did.” She spoke with such conviction that Kurt couldn’t help but believe her. “I wanted to make sure you’re alright.” 

“I—” Kurt stopped itself, hesitating. It wanted her to know that it was hoping she was alright. It wanted her to know just how terrified it had been when she’d been caught in its room, and it wanted her to know just how sorry it was that she’d almost been hurt because of it.

Her eyes lingered on it for a long moment in the silence. For a second her hand moved toward it, but then dropped back to her side. Kurt found its gaze dropping, hoping that she didn’t mind as it took a moment to focus on her boots rather than her face. It was glad it had dropped her hand. It remembered the command that its handler had given it — don’t touch Rogue — so clearly that even the thought sent a jolt of fear down its spine. And yet, despite the fear, part of it wanted to reach out to her, to grab one of those gloved hands in its own deformed ones just so it could know she was real. It wanted to know that this wasn’t a dream, that she was really here and that she was okay. 

It had seen too many others hurt because of its mistakes. It was a failure, a volatile one at that. This couldn’t be real. It was too hard to believe.

But she was still there when it glanced back up, her gloved hands still crossed in front of her and a small smile still on her face.

“I…” it shouldn’t say anything. It shouldn’t give away more than it already had. But it wanted her to know. “I’m… I’m glad y-you’re alright.”

“Yeah,” she murmured, voice just as warm as it had been when she snuck into its storage room. “Ah’m fine, you ain’t gotta worry ‘bout me.”

But it did worry about her. It knew it shouldn’t, it knew it shouldn’t let itself care, but it had been terrified for her. It felt like a miracle to see her standing in front of it, completely unharmed. God’s light was shining down, and Rogue was basking in the warmth of it. 

“Are you alright?” She asked, her voice soft. “Have… have you been doing okay? Do you like it here?”

Kurt could feel its breath catch. It didn’t know what it was expecting her to say, but… that? That sounded like she was concerned for it. That sounded like she cared about what it felt, or what it thought.

It wasn’t even meant to think. It was a weapon, not a person. It wasn’t meant to have thoughts or feelings.

And yet… its handler was just standing by. He wasn’t objecting to Rogue asking if it was “okay”. His gaze was weighing on it, but it wasn’t scrutinizing. The man just seemed to be watching it. Maybe he could be watching for an opening, watching for it to slip up, waiting for it to admit that it still had a few thoughts and feelings so that he could step up and squash them out…

But somehow, Kurt was having a hard time picturing that. Somehow — as terrifying as it was — he didn’t think that Logan would hit him for admitting to feeling something.

“Yes,” it said, its voice soft and tentative. When no one hit it, it spoke again. “Yes, I… I am.”

The words were shaky, and it knew that was bad. It knew that was letting its emotions slip through, and it knew it wasn’t meant to allow that. It knew it should be better, should be the weapon that it had been trained to be.

But no one at this facility had hit it. No one had hurt it. No one had berated it for failing tasks, or panicking, or being slow. No one had torn it apart for being a failure, instead they had taken off its collar and had allowed it to keep its name. Now it was even being allowed to speak to the girl that had been kind to it.

It was grateful. It was so, so grateful. 

“I…” it waited, pausing in case anyone was going to make it stop. No one did, and no one reacted when its words shook. “I… I think I like it.”

The smile that Rogue gave it was absolutely blinding. 

“I’m glad,” she murmured, and Kurt found that it could almost believe her.

Chapter Text

“He’s too skinny.”

Logan let out a breath. “Ya think I don’t know that, kid?”

“Seriously, Logan, he’s way too skinny.” Rogue tightened her grip on the brown paper bag she was holding, her green eyes narrowed as she looked at him. “Ah’m jus’ tryin’ to help ‘em out.”

Logan sighed again. “I know yer tryin’ to help out, but Rogue—“

“I dunno what you’ve been feedin’ ‘im, but it ain’t enough!” Rogue took a step back, still clutching the bag. “Come on, Logan, it’s jus’ a sandwich!”

“I told ya, kid, he’s got a special diet—“

“You said that to try’n get me off your ass, don’t think I don’t know it.” Rogue rolled her eyes. “Seriously. I could see his ribs, Logan! He’s a twig!”

“You couldn’t see his ribs.”

“Ok, maybe not, but that’s only ‘cause his shirt’s still three sizes too big. Don’t you lie to me an’ say they ain’t pokin’ out under that.”

Logan opened his mouth, but found that he couldn’t reply.

“see?” Rogue held up a gloved finger in triumph. “Ya know it’s true. He’s a twig, an’ whatever you’re feedin’ ‘im ain’t workin’!”

Logan huffed. “I’m tryin’, Rogue. It ain’t that easy.”

“So?” Rogue glared at him. “No one said it’d be easy, Logan. That’d be stupid.”

Begrudgingly, Logan had to admit she was right there. He huffed anyway, crossing his arms. “That doesn’t mean we can jus’ give ‘im a sandwich.”

“You’re right. We need, like, sixty.”

“Rogue.” Logan reached out, making a grab for the paper bag. Rogue pulled away, glaring at him even as he sighed. “He ain’t ready for that yet.”

She met his tired gaze. “An’ he ain’t gonna be if ya don’t give ‘im the chance to try.”  

Logan wanted to argue. He wanted to just grab the bag away from her and tell her he had some other sort of plan. 

Which, of course, he did. He’d been getting the kid to eat jerky, at least, and they’d made it to the point where Nightcrawler didn’t stare in shock at the offerings for more than thirty seconds. And Logan had been doing his best with the dog food too, subtly mixing in different protein powders that would hopefully at least help get the kid on his way back to a healthy weight.

But there was only so much that those things could do to help. There was only so long that something like that could be sustainable. The whole dog food thing was intentional; it had kept the kid at a steadily unhealthy weight for years. It was a dehumanization tactic and a control tactic all rolled up into one, and it should probably disgust Logan more than it did.

He knew Rogue would probably be enraged if she knew about it, and she wouldn’t be wrong to be. She wasn’t wrong in any of this. 

“He can’t keep doin’ the stuff you’re havin’ him do like this,” Rogue said, her eyes sharp. Her voice trembled ever so slightly and…

Damn it.

Logan had hoped that letting Rogue see the kid would get her off his back. Not entirely, but at least enough that he could at least see the girl in the hallway without immediately getting pestered for Nightcrawler updates. 

He should have known that was a naive hope.

If anything, Rogue had gotten more persistent. Instead of being begged for updates once a day, Logan found himself being cornered every other hour. He couldn’t step into a single common space in the Institute without Rogue popping up from somewhere in the woodwork to ask him when he was going to let her see the kid again. It was getting to the point that the other students were starting to whisper, and Logan was beginning to worry that some of the others would start to pester him too. 

Logan was a strong man. He’d handled his fair share of torture in his life, and bouncing back from pain was the way that he survived. He was well equipped to hold his ground in the face of terrible circumstances.

He was not well equipped to handle a persistent teenage girl.

“Fine.” 

He watched the moment that Rogue’s eyes lit up. “Fine?”

“Not a full sandwich,” Logan grumbled. “Seriously. His stomach ain’t ready for that.” 

Rogue watched him for a moment, her eyes still narrowed. Then, haltingly, she held out the paper bag.

Logan took it. He opened it up, and wasn’t surprised to find a sizable lunch inside. Two oranges, two bags of Doritos, three chocolate chip cookies that looked freshly made, and two ham-and-cheese sandwiches. He could smell the mayo and mustard oozing off of them, and he nearly wrinkled his nose.

Instead, he raised an eyebrow. “Picnic, then?”

Rogue only crossed her arms. “So?”

“Who said you’re goin’?”

“You don’t let me, ah’m jus’ gonna break in again.”

Logan grunted. He should probably be more stern about all of that. He should probably hold his ground and keep her away from the kid before someone got hurt. 

But, damn it, he’d actually seen somethin’ in Nightcrawler’s eyes when he’d brought Rogue into the room. For a moment, they actually didn’t look entirely dead. When he’d whispered that shy little “hello”, it almost sounded like there was a person inside that blue, furry husk. For a moment, Logan almost — almost — thought he saw something other than Nightcrawler. 

Maybe he was a sucker, but also… maybe letting Rogue come around more often was what Kurt needed to show himself.

“This might be okay.” Logan pulled the oranges out and set them on one of Xavier’s hall tables. “This?” He held up the cookies. “Definitely not.”

Rogue made a squawk of protest, which Logan completely ignored.

“These too.” He pulled the Doritos out and set them next to the cookies. Then he grabbed the sandwiches and shook his head. “You gotta stop usin’ so much mayo, Rogue. These smell awful.”

Rogue’s glare sharpened. “Hey, jus’ ‘cause you got no taste—“

”Trust me. Nightcrawler ain’t got any taste either.” He stuck the sandwiches back in the bag, then held it out to Rogue. “I don't care if you keep it on yours, but make a new one for ‘crawler. Bread an’ meat. Don’t even bother with the cheese.”

Rogue wrinkled her nose. “That’s so borin’.”

“What can I say? He takes after me.”

Rogue snorted, but gave a nod. “Alright.” She grabbed the snack food off of the table, dumped it in the bag, then held up a finger. “Yah better stay right here. I know you’re gonna wanna do the whole chaperone bit, and I ain’t lettin’ you try ‘n run outta here.”

Logan sorted. “Yeah. Sure, kid.”

Rogue gave him a satisfied nod, then turned and dashed down the hall toward the kitchen. Logan watched her go, listening as the echo of her footsteps faded around the corner. He let out a long, long sigh.

Kids.

Maybe he shouldn’t give into Rogue’s demands, but she was right; Nightcrawler was skinny. The kid needed to start putting on some weight if he was going to keep beating Scott’s Danger Room scores, and now that he’d at least had a good interaction with Rogue that didn’t include her zapping the life out of him, there might be an opportunity to start working “lunch with Rogue” into their routine.

Logan didn’t want the kid to only associate “human” food with rewards. He wasn’t ready to start munching on Doritos, but he had to make the jump to solid food at some point. 

Logan huffed, clenching his fists. Everything about this situation felt like such a fine line to tread. Getting the kid to stop expecting punishment at every single turn was one thing. Trying to convince him that he didn’t need permission for things like eating and talking was another. Every step he made seemed like it could be going too fast, or expecting too much from the kid, or accidentally indulging harmful behaviors for too long.

How the hell was Logan supposed to convince this kid that he was a person?

He huffed, carefully unclenching his fists. One step at a time. He had to keep the kid fed and safe; that was step one. Getting him to eat something other than dog food was a step toward that. Those fundamental needs were something that Logan could understand well.

And maybe Rogue could help with the actual person part of all of this. She understood that more than Logan did. 

Rogue was back in just under five minutes. She was grinning, the brown paper bag — which looked significantly lighter now — held in one hand as she looked to Logan, triumph sparkling in her eyes. 

“Well?”

Logan sighed. He reached out, grabbed the two oranges off the table, and tilted his head. “Let’s go. Before I change my mind.”

Rouge’s grin widened. She fell into step next to Logan as they walked down the hall, her gloved hands fidgeting with the bag.

”Bobby asked what I was doin’,” she confessed. She continued before Logan could say anything. “Don’t worry, I said I was sharin’ with you. I made fun ‘a you for bein’ borin’.”

Logan snorted. “At least it’s authentic.”

“Makes it believable.” They passed a few doors in silence. “You got a name yet?”

Logan hesitated. He didn’t want to lie to Rogue, but…

The fact that Kurt had his name was huge. It had hardly been a week since Logan had managed to pry it out of him, and he was pretty sure the kid still thought he was going to somehow forcibly take it away. He half wondered if someone had tried to do that before.

He knew someone had done it to him. 

He let out a breath. The name thing was… complicated. He had a name, but the name Kurt didn’t fit. Not yet. Right now, the kid was still Nightcrawler; a weapon forged in the middle of a hellscape in the place of a boy’s splintered soul. 

If anyone had the chance of helping Nightcrawler get back to being Kurt, it was Rogue.

”’Crawler seems to work fine, if you don’t wanna say the whole thing.”

Rogue’s gaze remained trained on him. Logan had a feeling she could tell that he was holding back. Thankfully, she didn’t press; only turned her gaze back to the door that was now in front of them. Logan could see the determination sparkling in her eyes, and he took a moment to put a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey.” She looked up at him as he spoke. “He’s… food’s kinda a sore subject with ‘im. We’re gonna try this, but I ain’t sure he’ll eat it. Okay?”

Rogue frowned. “How come?”

“That’s complicated, kid.” Logan paused, chewing on his words for a moment. “Just… remember that he ain’t quite right in the head right now. Okay?”

For a moment, Rogue looked grim. “Yeah,” she said, her voice low. “Yeah. I know that.”

You and me are about the only ones that really do, Logan found himself thinking. Maybe it was a bit of a blessing that Rogue had seen a snippet of Nightcrawler’s mind.

He sighed. “Alright. Let’s jus’ do this, then.”

He let go of Rogue’s shoulder and stepped forward. He didn’t let himself hesitate before opening the door and letting the light from the hallway spill inside.

Nightcrawler didn’t look up when they entered the room, but he was already on his feet like usual. He seemed to have heard them outside the door, and Logan wondered if he’d actually processed any of the conversation, or if he’d tuned out the words like he usually seemed to when he wasn’t being directly addressed.

That was something that Logan had no idea how to start teaching the kid. Oh well. That was a problem for his eventual therapist to deal with.

“Hey Nightcrawler!” Rogue waved a bit, and Logan thought he could see the slightest bit of tension in Nightcrawler.

“You can look up.” Damn, he had to figure out how to let the kid know that it was okay to do things like look them in the eye. “An’ this isn’t a test, it isn’t a drill, it isn’t part of your training or anything. This is…” 

Damn it, he should have thought of an explanation before letting Rogue in. 

“Rogue wanted to check in on you again. I’m letting her.”

It wasn’t a good explanation, and with his luck Nightcrawler was probably going to think this was some sort of pre-reward that he’d have to pay back or something. But at least the kid raised his head when Logan told him to, and his eyes — still that unsettling yellow shade — appeared to move toward Rogue. 

“I’m the reason I’m here.” Logan was a bit surprised at the authoritative tone in Rogue’s voice. She stepped forward confidently, and she didn’t seem worried about the way that Nightcrawler’s gaze dropped to the floor after just a moment. “Ah got permission to come an’ see you. You didn’t do nuthin’; I jus’ asked to visit.”

She sat down on the carpet, set the paper bag to the side, and tilted her head at him. “Yah can sit down. I brought somethin’ to share.”

The mutant stiffened slightly, and Logan felt his eyes flick ever so slightly in his direction. Logan carefully bit back a sigh.

“You’re allowed to.” Of course the kid was waiting for permission to sit down. “An’ you don’t have to wait for permission to speak. You’re allowed to talk to Rogue.”

The tension in the kid’s shoulders seemed to drop away slightly. It was just enough that Logan almost thought he could call the kid relieved. A moment later, Nightcrawler lowered himself to the floor, his spindly legs tucked under him and his three-fingered hands folded carefully in his lap.

“Hallo,” he whispered, his voice tinged by its usual light rasp. He still looked hesitant, but there was less fear than when he and Rogue had spoken a few days ago.

Good. Maybe there was a chance that this wouldn’t blow up in Logan’s face, then.

“Here.” Rogue pulled the bag between them, and opened it up. “I brought some food. Logan said I could eat with you.”

She pulled out the two sandwiches, and placed them between her and Nightcrawler. She kept the one that smelled of mustard and mayo — though it seemed significantly less pungent than it had, she must have taken at least some of it off — and pushed the plain one toward Nightcrawler.

“This is for you.” She said the words with so much conviction that Logan could almost see a reaction from Nightcrawler. “It’s kinda borin’ so it doesn’t upset your stomach. Logan approved it an’ everythin’.”

Nightcrawler was going stiff again. He was good at hiding it, especially since he was always stiff. But there was the tiniest twitch in his hands, the tiniest hitch in his breath, and Logan could already tell what he was thinking. He was hesitating, staring at the sandwich as though it was going to burn him. 

Damn, someone messed this kid up. 

“You’re allowed to eat it.” How the hell was Logan supposed to deal with this? “There will be no repercussions.”

“It’s a gift.” Rogue continued, picking up her own sandwich. “Nothin’s expected for it. Ah’m givin’ it to you ‘cause I want to, ok? You ain’t gonna be… I dunno, held accountable or nothin’.”

For a long moment, Nightcrawler was still. He was staring at the sandwich on the floor in front of him, and even in the midst of that blank stare Logan was pretty sure he could see gears turning. Logan wasn’t even sure if the kid could recognize it as food.

Logan couldn’t give him dog food in front of Rogue. There was no way in hell he was doing that. But there was no way he was taking the sandwich away either; that would probably just prove to the kid that he wasn’t supposed to have it. But he couldn’t just leave it either, not if it seemed like it’d overwhelm the kid…

But then Nightcrawler reached out. Slowly, haltingly, he touched the sandwich. Logan could see his eyes flick up to Rogue, as if waiting for her to take it.

“Go on.” Rogue’s voice was soft, and she gave Nightcrawler a gentle smile as she picked up her own sandwich. “It’s yours.”

Slowly, hesitantly, Nightcrawler picked his up. Almost a full minute later — after Rogue had already taken several slow bites of her own — he carefully bit into the sandwich. 

He froze after the first bite, the tension evident in his shoulders and his eyes wide, as though waiting for someone to reach over and snatch the sandwich out of his hands. Thankfully, Rogue didn’t make any mention of it. She simply grinned at him, and continued nibbling on her own, only half watching him as he slowly, cautiously swallowed.

Once it seemed obvious that no one was going to immediately take the sandwich away, it was gone. One second Nightcrawler was cautiously swallowing the first bite, the next he was swallowing the last bit of his crust, his eyes darting subtly between Logan and Rogue as he tried to cower into the carpet without actually breaking the stiff sitting position he was in. 

“Oh, hey!” Rogue didn’t comment on the way that he scarfed down the food. Instead she turned to Logan, her voice breaking a bit of the tension that had settled in the silence. “You still got the oranges?”

Logan blinked. He’d completely forgotten about the fruit in his hands. “You want ‘em?”

“I’d like one,” Rogue said, grinning. She shot a glance over at Nightcrawler. “You like oranges?”

The kid looked frozen. For a moment, Logan debated reminding him that he was allowed to speak. He couldn’t decide if it would be better to prompt a verbal response, or if he needed to let the kid have his silence.

“I’m…” Nightcrawler’s voice was soft, timid, but he was speaking without being prompted. “I’m… not sure.”

“That’s okay.” Rogue’s smile didn’t falter. Logan wondered how long it had been since Nightcrawler had last eaten an orange. “Wanna try it? You don’t have to, but you’re allowed to if ya want.”

Decisions. A simple decision, but even that seemed to make the kid freeze. He sat there for a long moment, and Logan waited for Rogue to say something to break the silence. 

She didn’t. She let the silence sit, patience written clearly in her smile as she gave Nightcrawler the chance to speak. 

“…may I?” His voice was so small, so fragile, so hesitant that Logan wasn’t even sure if he was supposed to hear it. It seemed like the words were meant for Rogue and Rogue alone.

The girl’s grin was bright enough to light up a city. “Logan? Can we?”

Logan went ahead and stepped forward. He didn’t miss the way that Nightcraler stiffened, and he made sure to set the oranges down next to Rogue so he wasn’t moving any closer to the kid than he needed to. It didn’t bother him. He knew he was the thing the kid was most scared of. He wasn’t bothered by it.

He couldn’t be bothered by it. He wouldn’t let himself be bothered by it. It didn’t matter if the kid was on edge every time he was in the room. That was what Logan had signed up for. 

But he could see the very subtle way that Nightcrawler relaxed when he took a step back, and he had to turn his attention to something else. He made himself step over to the dresser in the corner, grabbing two of the bottles of water that he’d started keeping there for Nightcrawler. He’d given the kid permission to take the bottles whenever he was thirsty, but they had yet to empty without Logan there. 

“Here.” He put those down next to Rogue as well, then took a generous step backwards. “Drink those too.”

“Thanks!” Rogue picked hers up easily, sliding the second bottle and one of the oranges over to Nightcrawler. The girl was doing a fantastic job of pretending that the way the kid stared silently at the fruit was normal.

Rogue took a swig of her water before raising her orange towards Nightcrawler, as though in a toast. Nightcrawler didn’t reciprocate… but he did cautiously pick up his orange without being directly told to. 

Progress.

Rogue tentatively pulled off one of her gloves, setting it to the side so she could get a better hold on the orange. She peeled hers slowly, her eyes darting up to Nightcrawler every once and a while . The boy watched her, almost studying her movements. After a moment he looked down at his oranges, then tentatively picked it up. 

His claws dug into the flesh of the fruit. The orange immediately buckled beneath his claws, and a thin line of juice squirted from it, hitting Rogue directly in the leg. 

Nightcrawler froze, his claws still buried in the orange, his yellow eyes wide. 

Rouge had been mid-sip, her water bottle held to her lips, and when Nightcrawler looked up at her she nearly choked on the water. A giggle made its way through her spluttering, and her eyes sparkled.

“Well, I guess tha’s one way t’ juice an orange, huh?”

She giggled again, and the boy stared at her. He was frozen, his eyes wide, his entire body tense as he watched her for some sort of negative reaction. Logan himself stiffened, ready to move forward if needed. 

Then, for just a brief moment, his face twitched. It wasn’t much, just barely a twitch of the lips, but it was there. For just a moment something sparkled in his dead, yellow eyes. 

Life. For just a moment there was a grin on his face and a light in his eyes. Just barely, just for a moment, but it was there.

The next moment he was back to that lifeless mask; the grin was gone, the eyes were dead, the tail was still. But what mattered was that it had been there. There were signs of life. Right now, that was all they needed. 

Hey, Kurt. Logan felt a smile pull at the corner of his mouth. We’re gettin’ to you.

Chapter Text

Usually the kitchen was empty at about four in the morning. Even with the countless number of students and professors alike that had atrocious sleep schedules in the Institute, four in the morning was usually a pretty quiet time. It was that thin line between the insomniacs getting their late-night snacks and the early birds beginning to scrounge for their morning coffee, and Logan found himself wandering there often enough to appreciate the solitude of the hour.

For once though, the kitchen was actually occupied when he shuffled in through the doorway. At first the realization that there was another person occupying the space was enough for Logan to turn around and leave… but then the scent of wind and rain hit his nose, and he realized who it was that was sitting in the kitchen.

“Trouble sleeping?” Ororo raised an eyebrow at him, sipping at a steaming mug that she held in her hands.

Logan only grunted, but didn’t leave. It was too late — or perhaps too early — to be dealing with people… but Ororo was Ororo. She was a pretty not-terrible person to stay around.

Logan made up his mind, and stepped over to the pantry to rummage through it.

Ororo didn’t comment on his choice. She turned her attention back to the warm cup in hand — based on the smell, some kind of tea — and let the silence settle comfortably. It didn’t feel forced or awkward, and the fact that Logan had left her question essentially unanswered seemed to dissolve like mist in the morning air.

This was why Logan didn’t mind being around Ororo. She didn’t feel the need to fill every silence with useless rambling, and she didn’t seem to mind the quiet at all. She was a woman completely in tune with her environment, to the point that she saw the people around her as pieces in an ever-growing ecosystem. 

Logan would like to think he was like that, once. There had been a brief time when he got out of his program that he’d lived completely wild. He didn’t bother with towns, he didn’t bother with people; he was a part of nature, just another element driving the forest along. He could relate to the way that the wind and rain clung to Ororo’s scent even now, after she’d been a teacher at Xavier’s for longer than Logan had known her.

But then again, Ororo’s connection with nature was fundamentally different from his. She was able to look down upon it as the sun looked down upon the earth. She was the embodiment of the winds in the trees, the rain kissing their leaves, the snow that fell upon the ground. She had a birds-eye view of everything that lived and breathed, and when she stepped out into the forest it was like she was encompassing it all.

Logan was just an animal in the system. He knew it all on a personal level. He didn’t twist through the trees, but he climbed them. He didn’t kiss the leaves, but he felt them on his skin. He trudged through snow and was covered in dirt, and he knew all the wild feelings that came with pure, animalistic survival. 

Logan and Ororo were kindred spirits, but they were not the same. In many ways, Logan was glad for it. 

“What’s got you up so early?”

Ororo hummed as his question broke the silence. “We’re taking the students on a field trip today.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Field trip?”

“The Natural History Museum.” Ororo took another sip of her tea. “The Professor has been planning it for a while. He nearly moved it back for Henry’s visit, but after we talked it out it appears that next week works better for his schedule anyways.”

“Henry?”

“Dr. McCoy,” Ororo explained. “The one who will hopefully know more about these… inhibitors.”

She said the word with so much venom that a chill rushed through the room, and the steam rising from her tea disappeared. She seemed to notice, and simply tilted her head to the side. Logan wasn’t sure exactly what she did, but the steam began to rise normally again.

Logan was fairly certain that Ororo was more powerful than any of them knew, possibly even more powerful than she herself knew. 

“I thought he was comin’ this week?” Logan grabbed a pack of granola bars that looked like they had at least some actual granola mixed in with the chemicals, then turned and slid into one of the bar stools across from Ororo. 

She hummed. “That was the plan. But his business caught him up, and he won’t be available for another few days, at least.”

Logan huffed. “He can’t even pop over for a minute?”

“He is on the other side of the country right now. We should have the time to be patient.” Ororo took a long sip of her tea, and Logan couldn’t help but notice the slight strain in her voice. She seemed to want to get this inhibitor business taken care of more than anyone else at the Institute. But she let out a small breath, and the steam continued to rise normally from her cup. “The Professor did get us a meeting with Mystique — well, Senator Kelly, as far as anyone else knows. She’s in New York for some meeting or another this week, so Scott will be meeting with her while Jean and I lead the field trip.”

Logan raised an eyebrow. “Jus’ Summers?”

“Someone needs to bring the students back here.” Ororo shot him a teasing smile. “I do not believe the Professor trusts you as a babysitter just yet.”

“Drop the ‘just yet’, there’s no way in hell I’d babysit this whole place.” Logan rolled his eyes, tearing into one of his granola bars. “I got my hands full with jus’ one of ‘em.”

Ororo hesitated for a moment. “How is he?”

Logan grunted, chewing on the granola bar as he considered the best way to answer that question. “He’s got a new friend.”

A genuine smile flitted across Ororo’s features. “Rogue?”

“Who else?” Logan grunted, taking another bite of his granola bar. “Seems to be doin’ somethin’.”

“I would have thought you would try to keep them apart.”

“Oh, you bet I did.” He huffed, shaking his head. “I didn’t want her anywhere near ‘im, but y’know Rogue.”

“Oh, I do.” There was a twinkle in her eyes. “And I know you, Logan.”

He shot her a glare. “What’s that supposed ‘t mean?”

“It means I understand that you have weaknesses, despite how much you try to pretend you do not.” She lifted her cup, a teasing smile on her lips. “That young girl is one of them.”

Logan grunted, biting aggressively into the granola bar. He wanted to deny it, but… damn it, was it that obvious?

He was getting soft. 

“So they are getting along?”

“As much as they can,” Logan said, glad to change the subject. “I mean, ‘crawler’s still pretty vacant. I think he’s slowly gettin’ more aware, but its hard to tell what’s goin’ on in that head of his. Well, without pokin’ around in there, at least.”

Ororo nodded. “Which we are not doing.”

She sounded confident. Logan raised an eyebrow. “You agree with that?”

“I think it would be foolish of us to attempt to speed the process through artificial means.” She set her cup on the counter, her fingers slipping over its rim to brush against the wisps of steam rising into the cool air. “His mind is fractured, but it is not a wall that needs patching. It is a tree, a living thing. Branches may have been cut, but they cannot be replaced through force. With the right environment, the right nurture, they can grow back. He simply needs time, patience, and room to grow.”

She said it so plainly, like it was as easy as watering flowers. There was a level of black-and-white in her explanation, as though there was no other option. 

Logan found himself appreciating it. It wasn’t as simple as she made it sound, but she was still right. They couldn’t force the kid; this was years of training that they were trying to ease him out of. The problem didn’t have a quick and easy fix. It needed time, patience, and nurture.

Logan wasn’t exactly good at any of those things, but at least he was giving it a shot.

“Rogue got ‘im to eat a sandwich.” He peeled the wrapper off of another granola bar. “An’ I think he almost laughed.”

“Almost?”

“He smiled, at least.” Logan gestured vaguely, granola bar still in hand. “It wasn’t much, but it was somethin’. An’ it was completely involuntary.”

Something sad slipped through Ororo’s eyes. “He hasn’t smiled at all yet? How does one even stop something as simple as a smile?”

“Practice,” Logan grunted. “He’s got lots an’ lotsa practice.”

“But it’s involuntary. You can’t just… stop actions like that.” She shook her head. “Is that even possible? How does that happen?”

Logan knew first hand how possible it was. Now, his nightmares were violent. But back when he first got out, he remembered waking with silent gasps, every muscle in his body rigid as even his subconsciousness forced him into stillness. He remembered pushing reactions so far back in his mind that even asleep he was as still as a stone.

He only vaguely remembered the events that lead up to those reactions, but the bits that he remembered were enough for him to answer Ororo with a simple: “You don’t want to know.”

There was a moment of silence, and Logan could feel the way his words settled in the air. They mingled with the steam rising from Ororo’s mug, quietly filling the air between them. 

“Still.” Ororo said after a long moment. She nodded to herself. “You said yourself that he shows promise. He will grow. Some day, he may be back to the person he was before.”

That made Logan frown. He looked down, staring at the hand that held the granola bar. His hands were rough, and he knew how much they had done. His memory may have been splintered and there may not be any scars on his skin, but he knew he had done things that would make Ororo pale if she heard of them. That program had taken everything from him; his past, his empathy, his name, his very identity. 

Logan had no idea who he’d been before the program. He was fairly certain he would never know exactly who he’d been. Even if he did, the knowledge wouldn’t erase everything he had become in the absence.

“Nah,” he muttered, still staring at his hand. “Trees don’t grow back the same way if ya cut off a branch. He ain’t gonna be the same.” He paused for a moment. "You don't come back the same from somethin' like that."

For a long moment, Ororo was quiet. 

“Did you have trouble sleeping, Logan?”

The question took Logan by surprise. He shot her a look. “We ain’t talkin’ ‘bout me.”

Ororo’s gaze didn’t waver. “Are we not?”

Logan grunted, and shoved the whole granola bar in his mouth. The silence stretched as he chewed, but Ororo didn’t break it. She simply waited, patience written all over her face as she let Logan take his time.

“Sometimes I can jus’ tell when it’s gonna be a bad night.” The words came out as more of a growl than he intended. “If I ain’t gonna get any sleep as it is, why bother?”

Ororo hummed. “Is having Nightcrawler here…?”

“Makin’ ‘em worse?” Logan guessed. When Ororo nodded he huffed, opened his mouth to respond… and paused.

Was Nightcrawler making them worse? 

For a while, he’d stopped having the nightmares, probably because he was living one. Now they just seemed to hover at the edge of his consciousness, edging words into his mind as he tried to navigate the situation. He was still remembering more than he wanted to, and he still felt the choking weight of drowning pressing him into his bed some nights.

It was stupid. He was facing his fears. He was trying with Nightcrawler; trying to help him, trying to slowly ease him into a new comfort zone, trying to make sure he didn’t break the kid any further. It meant he was staring his own past directly in the face, and it still made his skin crawl each time that he realized he knew exactly what Nightcrawler was expecting. 

He growled beneath his breath, and tried not to get annoyed by Ororo’s calm, patient stare. It hadn’t bothered him before, but now it made his skin crawl. It was too reminiscent of things that he vaguely remembered, the feeling of eyes digging into him and pressing down on him and expecting him to deliver, no matter what. 

For a moment, he really understood the way that Nightcrawler kept dropping his gaze after only a few moments of looking at the people around him. Even when he was given explicit permission to look around, he didn’t seem to be able to hold it for more than a few moments before he was looking at his feet again. Maybe, in a subtle way, that was him trying to cringe away from the attention that was always on him.

Good. The kid deserved an escape. He deserved to be able to cringe away, to flinch from fast movements, to flick his tail when he was happy and bare his teeth if he was mad. He deserved to be able to grunt and avoid questions like Logan did. He should be able to show his emotions, even if those emotions were fear and cowering. That would be better than watching him choke down shivers and flinches every time Logan was close. 

“I’m gonna try’n help him learn it’s okay to actually react ‘n stuff.” He tapped his fingers against the granola bar box. “An’ workin’ in stuff like this. One sandwich is good, but he’s gonna need more than that.”

It was a blatant topic change, but Ororo didn’t seem to mind. She only nodded, sipped her tea, and let nature take its course. 

“You’re doing a good job,” she said gently, and Logan tried not to wince.

“I’m doin’ somethin’,” he muttered. 

“And that is all you can do,” Ororo murmured. The steam from her tea wafted up between them, and she trailed her fingers through it. “Keep giving him what you can, and provide him room. He will grow.”

Logan huffed. “Yeah.”

“And it’s okay if it takes him a long time.” Ororo met his eyes. “Even if he never grows back into what he once was, he will become something new. There is even the chance that he will grow into something better for the scars he bears.”

Somehow, Logan got the feeling that she wasn’t just talking about Nightcrawler.

He gave her a sigh, but nodded. “Yeah. Maybe.”

Chapter Text

The facility was quiet when Kurt woke up.

It was strange because the facility had never been loud. At least, not exactly. Occasionally Kurt heard voices through the walls, and occasionally it could hear chatter from beneath the floor. There were footsteps that pounded from somewhere beneath the storage room, and there were occasionally other sounds; music, shouting, even laughter. 

But it wasn’t loud in the way its previous facility could be. Back there, silence was a blessing. There was never any sort of comfort to be had in the screaming, so Kurt always held onto the quiet wherever it could. Here, the silence filled Kurt with a strange, unsettling sensation that felt confusingly similar to dread. Quiet shouldn’t fill it with dread. 

Maybe it hadn’t realized just how much it had started listening to the little noises of this facility. The soft voices, the muffled footsteps, the distant laughter… it was a new sort of background noise that was so inherently different from the sound of screams that Kurt hardly perceived it as noise at all. Jolting awake to be greeted with silence didn’t seem like a blessing, but a curse. Somehow, without those noises, the place felt… empty. 

Kurt knew it shouldn’t think. Still, it couldn’t help but wonder what had happened to those laughing voices. It couldn’t help but wonder if Rogue was okay.

The handler entered the room exactly when he usually did, and Kurt tried to latch on to the routine. Maybe if it did well enough in the Danger Room, it could earn a few minutes with Rogue. Just to be sure. Just to know if her voice was one of the ones that had disappeared, or if she was safe. 

It was selfish and dangerous, but the danger was overruled by the thought of her kind smile. Kurt knew it shouldn’t want, but it wanted to make sure she was alright.

“Alright, elf,” its handler said the moment he stepped into the room. “We’ve got a quiet place today, and we’re gonna use it.”

Kurt did its best not to lift its head, and it carefully kept its tail still. Its handler moved across the room, grabbing a bottle of water from the dresser while Kurt kept its head down, its eyes focused carefully on its deformed feet. It stayed still, its expression blank while it tried not to think too hard about what that could mean. 

We’re gonna use it. That could mean anything, really. It was too broad for Kurt to narrow down, especially in this facility where it still didn’t know all the rules. Everything here was so different that even the possibilities that Kurt could come up with seemed… improbable. 

The thought was dangerous, but Kurt couldn’t help but let it simmer in the back of its mind. 

“Things are going to be a little different today, but it’s nothing bad.” Kurt kept the relief that it felt close to its chest. “First, eat this.”

Food was placed on the ground in front of it Kurt carefully kept its tail from twitching at the smell. It knelt down quickly, grabbing at the familiar can and…

It hesitated, carefully keeping its face blank even as confusion twisted in its gut. The smell of the food was different. There was something stronger in it than Kurt was used to, and it couldn’t help but pause as it tried to understand if it was really meant to eat this.

“Yeah. I mixed some tuna in,” the handler commented after a moment. He had his back turned, a bag in his hand, and Kurt could see him stacking a few more water bottles on the dresser. “More protein. It’s intentional, you’re allowed to eat it.”

More protein. That made sense. That was something that its previous handler had occasionally commented on, but that had usually just resulted in someone pouring some bland, tasteless powder over its food. That stuff always made it harder to choke down its portion.

Eating this nearly made its tail lash before it was able to keep it still. Even mixed in with its usual food, the tuna tasted heavenly. 

The food settled heavily in Kurt’s stomach, and it allowed itself a moment to feel grateful. 

The handler had finished putting away the waters and was watching it closely. He didn’t seem upset. If anything, he seemed satisfied as Kurt finished drinking its share, as if getting Kurt to eat the new mix of food was an accomplishment.

For a brief flash, Kurt almost wondered if the man was trying to get it to start eating more human foods. But that made no sense, so it quickly pushed the thought away. Protein. Protein made sense. It could understand that.

A moment later it was on its feet, and just a moment after it was following at its handlers heels as they made their way through familiar hallways toward the Danger Room. As they moved, Kurt found that the quiet was once again pressing down on its shoulders. It tried not to focus on it too much, but it was difficult when there were no whispers to distract it, no pounding feet echoing from somewhere far-off in the facility. It could usually hear some sort of activity before they descended down the stairs toward the Danger Room’s hall, but only silence echoed through the halls now.

The feeling was more unsettling than it would have expected. It wasn’t like it had seen many people in its time at the facility, but it knew they were there. It had seen Scott, and Jean, and the woman with long white hair that it could remember from between flashes of consciousness. And Rogue was there, of course. And there had to be other mutants somewhere, because Cyclops still held most of the Danger Room records, and Kurt could usually catch the scent of sweat and adrenaline that wasn’t its own before each training exercise started. It knew the facility was a busy one, even if it wasn’t sure exactly what was being done most days.

It hadn’t realized how comforting that quiet buzz of noise had become. The thought was a bit overwhelming, and it tried to focus on the sound of its handlers footsteps instead.

It got a bit easier once they slipped down the stairs that lead to the Danger Room, because this area of the facility was usually quiet. Kurt was able to let itself fall into the familiarity of the silence as it followed its handler to the Danger Room door, its gaze drifting ever so slightly down the hall.

It wasn’t sure why it thought there might be someone over by Cerebro, but it stole a glance all the same. It had never seen anyone go down that hallway; it certainly wasn’t allowed to. But it still remembered its handler mentioning it, and whatever Cerebro was, it seemed important. For a moment it wondered if it had some clue to the quiet that had overtaken the facility. 

But there was no one there, and the silence was still heavy as the Danger Room door slid open, and it followed its handler inside. The door shut, and at least here the silence would soon be broken by the machines. 

Sure enough, it nearly forgot about the silence as it ran through its exercises. Its handler put it on some of the older simulations, ones that it had gone through before, and it was able to run through those easily. It did its best to recall any comments that its handler had made on the levels, and it was able to run through most of them without any fault. Its scores didn’t quite beat out Cyclops though, and it couldn’t help but feel a flash of disappointment at that. It was especially disappointing when its handler stopped it after only two runs on Novice: Configuration Six. Kurt had been barely five seconds behind Cyclops on that one, and it was certain that if it ran through it one more time, it would be able to beat the other asset.

Maybe if it asked—

Its mouth was open before it managed to snap it shut, horror filling its chest as it snapped into its usual waiting position. No. Its handler had told it to run the simulation twice, and now they were running on to a different one. Weapons weren’t meant to ask for things, they were meant to follow orders.

Kurt locked its jaw, and tried to make sure that it didn’t even breathe too loudly as it ran through the next level. Maybe if it breathed too loudly, its handler would realize that it had nearly asked a question without being prompted, and then…

…then what?

Kurt didn’t have an answer for its own question, so it stopped thinking. It wasn’t meant to think anyway.

The levels continued, and Kurt pushed hard in them, but each time fell just a few seconds shy of Cyclops’ record. The failure made its gut churn, and a part of it braced for punishment. 

Instead it was given its usual strips of jerky, and a few pleased nods from its handler. It ate the jerky without fear, and with the tuna still settling in its stomach from that morning it realized that it actually felt full.

The feeling was almost as strange as the quiet.

“Alright, that’s enough for today.” The handler was already shutting down the room, and Kurt kept itself carefully settled in its usual stance as the machinery buzzed behind it. A moment later the room was back to normal, and its handler was giving it a nod. “Follow me.”

The command was simple, familiar, and it fell into step easily. However, instead of taking a right to take it back to its storage room, the handler took a left.

Kurt didn’t let its step falter, and it carefully kept its tail still as it followed its handler. 

It didn’t recognize the hallway that they stepped into, but it was similar to the one that the storage room was in. Wide ceilings swept above Kurt’s head, and after a moment they stepped out of the hall and into what looked like an entryway. A staircase wrapped around the space and rose above their heads, likely leading back up to the same floor that its storage room was on. They didn’t usually come this way though, they usually took a smaller staircase that was a bit closer to the room. Kurt could probably guess why; there was a door set in the wall, a massive door that was flanked by windows on either side. It was made of the same heavy, rich wood that made up so much of this facility, but somehow it was even more ornate than the ones it had seen so far.

With a jolt, Kurt realized it had been looking up. It dropped its head, trying not to stumble as it fell back into a more respectful walk, and desperately hoping that its handler hadn’t noticed.

If he had, he didn’t say anything. He was focused on stepping forward, right up to that massive wooden door, Kurt still at his heels…

Kurt could see the way that sunlight creeped across the wooden flooring of the entryway. It felt its breathing stutter, nearly taking a step back as the light came closer to its feet. The light stopped just before hitting its claws, and it stared at it. 

Just ahead, its handler’s boots moved. They stepped easily into the light, then turned slightly toward it. Kurt waited for its orders to change. It waited for its handler to close the door and leave it there, once again engulfed in the shadows.

“Keep following.”

Kurt tried not to hesitate. It tried not to freeze up. It tried to force itself to unlock its limbs, but — he must not understand. He must be making a mistake. Handlers weren’t supposed to make mistakes, but he must but, he must have read the file wrong, he…

“Elf?” The handler took a step back, closer to it and further away from the sunlight that streamed through the open doorway. “Nightcrawler? You with me?”

Kurt wasn’t sure if it was meant to respond verbally — this handler liked verbal responses, but the idea of talking without permission made its throat want to close up — and it wasn’t even sure if it could. It was so focused on the light right in front of its feet, the warm breeze that it could feel tickling its fur, the air that was slipping through the door; that wasn’t recycled air that had been pumped through an underground facility for longer than Kurt had been there. That wasn’t the slightly-stale air of the Danger Room. That wasn’t the air of the storage room, which always smelt of wood and carpet and its own fear.

That door led outside.

“Shit.” Its handler took a step forward, his voice tinged with something similar to concern. “You’re not allergic to the sun, are you?”

Kurt nearly bit its lip to keep from answering. Back in the old facility, a comment like that would just be an insult, something wrapped in barbed wire and thorns to try and remind Kurt that it wasn’t human; it was a creature of darkness and sulfur, something that had been made for the shadows and deserved to stay within them. But this handler wasn’t sneering. His words almost sounded like a genuine question. This handler liked verbal responses, but it still wasn’t sure and —

“Verbal response.”

“N-no, sir,” it stuttered out, tripping over the words. It wasn’t allergic to the sun. It knew it could be out in the sun, it knew it had been before. It couldn’t remember when. 

“Ok. So you’re not gonna get hurt if you step out here,” the handler clarified. “Verbal response.”

“No, sir.” Not until the handler decided to hurt it, which… would he?

But he must not understand. He must have read whatever file they gave him wrong. He didn’t seem to know what he was doing, because he didn’t change his orders and he didn’t shut the door.

“Alright,” he said instead. “Follow.”

But… he didn’t understand.

Kurt knew it should obey. It knew it should take a step forward. It knew what it had been ordered, and it knew it should move. But… but it wasn’t chained, and there were no guns at its back, and when it breathed the collar didn’t strangle its throat because the collar was gone, and its handler didn’t seem to understand what that meant. He didn’t seem to know, and that meant that when he found out, once he realized what a mistake he had made… then what? What would he do?

Its last handler would have killed it. That, or thrown it in solitary until it couldn’t even remember which direction was up and which direction was down. That, or just beaten it till it couldn’t even think about attempting to teleport. 

But this handler… what would he do?

“Alright. Let’s figure this out.”

The man took another step forward, and Kurt barely kept itself from flinching. A hand moved, and for just a moment Kurt thought it might land on its shoulder, and — it shouldn’t be excited by that. It should feel fear, not longing, and certainly not disappointment when the hand hovered just in front of it. No touch meant no pain, which was good and certainly not something it should take for granted. 

“You’re not lookin’ so good,” the handler muttered to himself. “Can you hear me? Verbal response.”

“Yes, sir,” Kurt replied. It took effort to make its jaw move to form the words.

“Good.” The handler’s gaze was heavy on its back, and it could still see his hand outstretched slightly. “Why are you stopping? Verbal response.”

“I…” Kurt tried not to choke on the words, and it tried not to let a shiver run through its body. It could feel its handler’s scrutinizing gaze pin it to the ground, and it wished it had just been able to follow orders. It wasn’t meant to think, it wasn’t meant to hesitate, but he had to know. “I… I have to see where I’m going.”

There was a long moment of quiet. 

“You can look up, y’know,” its handler said slowly. “You don’t have to wait for my permission every time.”

Kurt choked down the “no!” that nearly burst from its mouth, instead shaking its head quickly. He didn’t understand, and Kurt didn’t want to keep digging itself into a deeper grave, but… he had to know. 

“The… the teleportation,” it said, trying not to panic at the fact that it was still speaking. “It… I have to have seen where I’m trying to go.”

The handler seemed to consider the words. “So you can’t just teleport outside.”

Kurt didn’t risk speaking, but it gave a slight shake of its head.

“Even with the collar off, you’re still stuck.” 

He should know that. There’s no way he would have taken the collar off if he didn’t. Kurt still shook its head.

“So they never…” the handler let out a long, low breath. “When’s the last time someone took you outside?”

Kurt hesitated for only a moment. It didn’t want to bring up the Kelly mission again, but… “My last mission, sir.”

“That was outside?”

“I… I think…” It had been awake when they loaded it into the transport truck. The loading bay was in the facility, underground, but its standard transport restraints required a blindfold. It was fairly certain that the truck went above ground, and it thought that maybe it had been outside for a moment before infiltrating the Senator’s building, but by that time the serum had been used. Everything with the serum was blurry, fuzzy, impossible to remember clearly. “I don’t… I think during… transport, or maybe—“

“Okay.” The handler didn’t berate Kurt for its twisted up, tangled words. “When’s the last time you remember actually seeing outside?”

Kurt hoped this handler didn’t think it had the capability of teleporting as far as the last facility. It had nowhere near that range, and it didn’t know what the place looked like anyway. “Blindfolds are part of standard containment methods.”

“Of course they were.” Its handler didn’t sound pleased. “Alright. When’s the last time you remember feeling like you were outside? Something longer than just transport.”

Kurt wracked its mangled brain. It tried to remember. It tried to sort through the clouds that the serum left, tried to think about missions it had been sent on and exercises it had done. The problem was, anything in the facility was kept strictly within the facility. It was a volatile mutant, one that wasn’t allowed in any spaces it hadn’t been directly ordered to be in. Missions were the only time it may have been allowed elsewhere, but missions were always reinforced by the serum. If it had been allowed outside…

“I…” it paused, waiting for its handler to tell it to shut up. “I… I don’t remember, sir.”

The handler let out a long breath. “Ororo’s gonna kill me,” he muttered. Kurt wasn’t sure if it was supposed to know what that meant. “Alright, come on. Follow.”

The man stepped back, but it wasn’t in the direction that Kurt expected. Kurt was waiting for him to step back into the facility, to shut the door, to take Kurt back to its storage room and leave it there once again. It didn’t expect him to step forward, through the door, out into the light that Kurt knew it wasn’t supposed to be in.

But it had been ordered. Its handler knew the risks. He was still ordering this. He was still telling it to follow. 

It wasn’t supposed to think. It was supposed to obey. 

It forced its feet to move, and tried desperately not to shiver as the warmth of the sunlight tickled its deformed, clawed toes. Each step took a level of effort that nearly left Kurt gasping, but it forced its breathing to be steady. With each step, it reminded itself that it had been ordered to do this. Its handler wanted it outside, and it was meant to follow.

It couldn’t think of any purpose from this, but that was fine. It wasn’t meant to think. It wasn’t meant to think. It wasn’t meant to think.

It repeated the mantra over and over to itself as it moved, carefully following in its handlers footsteps as they moved away from the door. There was a small porch area, and then steps that were somewhat difficult for it to navigate, but it didn’t dare raise its gaze. Glancing around the new hallways of the facility without permission was already enough of a sin, bit this — outside, a place where it could feel the breeze in its fur and the bite of gravel beneath its toes — it couldn’t risk it. It shouldn’t have risked it inside. It should be better than this, it knew it should be better. 

The door shut behind it, and then it was just there. It was outside of the walls of the facility, and it could feel the air shifting and moving around it. It made the fur along its arms prickle, and it nearly broke form to rub at them to… to what? Block the wind? Try to pull more of it toward itself? To try and cringe away from the sunlight that beamed down on its back, or to try and hold it in its arms? 

Its breathing hitched slightly as it stood there, gravel beneath its feet as its handler stopped in front of it. Even with the hitch it could breathe freely, each lungful full of warm air that practically burned with freshness, the scent of grass and leaves and dirt and so many things that it didn’t even know it could recognize filling its chest. Its breathing wasn’t restricted, and it could feel its bare neck prickling with each inhale as it realized, again, just how much easier it was to breathe without the collar.

It could feel its handler’s gaze resting on it. It almost felt like he was considering something, and maybe some of the way that Kurt’s fur was prickling came from the weight of his gaze.

“You can look around.”

Now Kurt’s breath truly hitched. It tried not to freeze too much, tried to keep its posture and face blank, tried to ignore the way that its bare neck burned in the open air. Its mouth opened slightly before it stopped, trying to remember its place and what it was. It was a mutant, a weapon, and that meant that it had no reason to think, let alone dispute an order. But… but he knew. He knew what it could do, so he shouldn’t…

”I know what you said.” The handler’s voice was steady, measured, and certain. “I appreciate you telling me. But I’m telling you that you can look around.”

He understood, and he was still giving it this order. Kurt tried to remember that it could breathe — that it could breathe easily without the collar — and forced itself to raise its head.

Its eyes went wide before it could stop itself. It had to blink several times, and the blinking left small spots in its vision. The sun was overhead, and far brighter than Kurt could have imagined. It nearly stared straight at it for a moment, but that only caused more spots in its vision as it tried to blink them away.

“Don’t stare straight at the sun,” its handler murmured behind it, amusement coloring his voice. “You’ll hurt yourself.”

Kurt instantly turned its gaze away from the sun, but then its gaze immediately caught on the trees that lined the hill just in front of the facility. There were so many, all massive trees with hundreds of leaves that all rippled and shifted in the soft breeze. Kurt stared at them, its mouth still open ever so slightly as it watched the way they moved and swayed. Then there was another flicker of movement, and a bird hopped out on one of the close branches. It let out a trill, and Kurt watched as it hopped right off of that branch, flapping its wings to raise itself up toward the great, beautiful, burning sun. 

Kurt wished it could be like that; a bird in the sky, chasing those twisting winds and chirping out its little songs without a care in the world.

But of course, some animals were luckier than others. Some animals got the sun and the sky and the songs. Others got collars and cages and pain.

Only, Kurt no longer had a collar. The storage room was too nice to be called a cage. Its handler still hadn’t hit it. Instead, he was giving it a moment to bask in the warm sun, to feel the wind twisting in its fur, to listen to the bird’s songs. He had given it verbal correction instead of physical punishment, had provided it with clothes and food that it didn’t deserve, had offered it little treats and moments of touch that left its skin burning with something other than pain. 

A tiny smile flickered over Kurt’s mouth, and it realized that maybe, just maybe, it was one of the lucky animals.

Then it realized what it was doing. Its smile dropped away immediately, and it dropped its gaze to its feet. It made sure its hands were still at its side, that its breathing was even and controlled, and that its tail…

It had been lashing its tail. Not too much, not enough that it had hit its handler, but it had been moving. It had been letting its emotions — emotions that it wasn’t supposed to have — slip through and show themselves over a moment of looking at the landscape. It was such a risk for its handler to allow it to see all of this, and it was going to ruin it. It was a weapon of war, not something that should get excited about a moment of seeing the sky.

Its handler let out a sigh, and the dread twisted in Kurt’s gut so tightly that, for a moment, it felt sick. It completely stilled itself, trying to simultaneously stop moving at all while also desperately, desperately hoping its tail was coiled close enough to its leg to be out of stomping range. That wouldn’t stop anyone, it knew that, and it knew it shouldn’t hope. It should be used to this pain, but it had been months since anyone had stomped on its tail, or yanked on it, or threatened to cut it off. It knew it shouldn’t hope, but its handler hadn’t truly hurt it yet so maybe…

“Well, it worked for a minute.” The words didn’t make any sense, but a moment later the handler was stepping closer. Kurt very, very carefully kept itself still, but that only made the handler sigh again. “I know you wanna flinch when I move towards you. I’m not gonna hit you if you do that.”

Kurt tried not to choke as it tried to remember how to breathe. 

“I’m not gonna punish you for just movin’ your tail or anything either, alright?” There was a moment of pause, and the man muttered something under his breath. “How the hell do I… ok. Listen.”

That was a command. Kurt tensed further, focusing closely on its handlers words.

“We’ve established that we work off of reward, not punishment. We don’t waste time on stuff that doesn’t work. We also don’t waste time on stupid stuff.” He let out a huff and ran a hand over his face. “I’m not sayin’ this clearly. Listen; you’re not going to be punished for flinching, or breathing, or just reacting to the world around you. You’re allowed, and encouraged, to react. It helps us gauge where you’re at, so we want you to react naturally.”

The words settled in the warm, sunlit air. Kurt could feel itself breathing them in, and it could feel them trying to settle inside of it. 

They didn’t make sense… not with the rules of its old facility. There, form was important. There, any twitch that wasn’t ordered was proof of what it was; a mutant, an animal, a creature that needed to be beaten into carefully-regulated order to make it into a useful weapon. Things like twitching its tail or letting a smile slip onto its face were nothing more than proof that it was dangerous, and it had those drilled out of it so quickly that the thought of indulging in those things made its chest tighten.

But… in this new facility, in the place where it had been allowed to keep its name for itself… maybe, in a strange way, it did make sense. Maybe this really was what its new handler wanted. 

Tentatively, hesitantly, Kurt let the smile creep back. It wasn’t much, hopefully small enough that the handler wouldn’t notice if Kurt was wrong.

He did notice. He noticed, and there was a smile in his voice as he spoke. “Good. That’s good, Nightcrawler.”

Its smile grew a bit, and it let its tail twitch once. Good. This was good. Its handler actually wanted this.