SpaceSkeletonArt

[header] : “21BBY, prior to the defense of Tipoca city”

fives: “come on echo, don’t you get it?”

echo: “fives, it was cut up that was good at jokes, not you.”

fives: “okay, then what am i good at?”

rex: “obviously not unloading supplies off that gunship.”

rex: “as you were, troopers.”

rex: “not too glamorous back here but remember, you’re with the 501st now, the best of the best. there are responsibilities that come with this assignment.”

echo: “yes, sir!”

rex: “something on your mind, fives?”

fives: “…sir, echo and I, well, we’ve been with this unit through some rough campaigns and-“

rex: “- and you thought commander cody would have promoted you to arc trooper by now.”

rex: “you’ll be arc troopers when you don’t have to ask for it.”

rex: “ *sigh* alright, back to work, both of you.”

rex: “and one more thing- we’re going home.”

fives: “kamino?”

echo: “it’s… been a long time since we’ve been home.”

fives: “i hoped i’d return an arc trooper.

echo: “we’ll get our chance, fives.”

echo: “we’ll get our chance.”

The scent of lemon polish and beeswax had long since faded from the grand oak staircase, replaced by the warm, rich aroma of spiced cider, melting chocolate, and the particular, indefinable scent of a house full of children finally, finally releasing the coiled tension of a school year completed. Streamers in the school colours—a soft gold and a deep, weathered blue—hung in lazy loops from the chandeliers in the main foyer, which had been transformed into a ballroom of sorts. Laughter, high and unburdened, echoed off the vaulted ceilings, mingling with the gentle strains of a record player someone had set up near the grand piano.

You stood at the centre of it all, or so it seemed. In truth, you were a satellite, a warm, fixed point around which the entire chaotic, beautiful orbit of the Xavier’s School for Gifted Youngsters’ end-of-year party revolved. You’d orchestrated it, of course. Not with a heavy hand, but with the gentle, persistent nudge of a woman who knew exactly how many napkins were needed, who remembered that Bobby Drake was allergic to cinnamon, and that Jubilee preferred her hot chocolate with an obscene mountain of whipped cream.

A strand of soft, grey-streaked hair had escaped the loose bun at the nape of your neck. Your dress was simple, a deep forest green that brought out the warmth in your eyes, the fabric soft and flowing, practical enough to kneel and tie a shoelace for a teary-eyed first-year, elegant enough to earn a low, appreciative whistle from Rogue as you’d descended the stairs. You were laughing at something Piotr had said, your hand resting lightly on his massive forearm as he regaled you with a story about his sister, Illyana, attempting to teach a barn cat to curtsey, when a familiar, overwhelming warmth pressed against your back.

Two thick, solid arms, corded with muscle and dusted with dark hair, wrapped around your waist. They weren’t hesitant. They weren’t questioning. They simply arrived, pulling you back against a broad, unyielding chest. The scent of him, of old leather, cigars, and something primal like pine and forest, was underscored by the sharp, sweet bite of red wine.

Logan.

He didn’t speak. He just settled, letting out a low, rumbling exhale that vibrated through his chest and into your spine. His chin came to rest on your shoulder, the slight rasp of his stubble a familiar, pleasant scratch against your neck. You could feel the deliberate, easy rhythm of his breathing, the solid, steady beat of his heart against your shoulder blade. He was a dead weight in the most comforting way, a cloak of warmth and safety that instantly made Piotr’s story seem far away.

“Logan,” you said, your voice soft with a smile that was already curving your lips. “I thought you were holding court with Hank and Charles in the study.”

A grunt was your first answer. His arms tightened infinitesimally, his fingers splaying against the soft green fabric covering your stomach. “Got bored,” he muttered against the curve of your neck. His voice was a low, gravelly rumble, looser than usual, the consonants softened. “’S too loud in there. ‘N too quiet in here. Got… off.”

You leaned back into him, a reflexive, instinctive gesture. His frame was a perfect counterpoint to yours—all sharp angles and hard planes where you were soft curves. You’d spent five years building a friendship on that very contrast. On his early days of snarls and sharp sass that had bounced off your gentle persistence like rain off a windowpane. You remembered the first time he’d sat in your kitchen, watching you chop vegetables in silence, the tension slowly leaching from his shoulders as you’d hummed off-key to a song on the radio. He’d called you a ‘den mother’ that day, his voice dripping with sarcasm. You’d just smiled and slid a plate of still-warm bread towards him.

Now, his sass was tempered, a well-worn blade instead of a jagged shard. It was the foundation of your friendship, his gruff exterior clashing beautifully with your unwavering kindness, his cynicism meeting your stubborn optimism. He was still the Wolverine, a weapon honed by a century of pain, but here, in this school, with these kids… with you… he’d become something else. A grumpy, fiercely protective uncle. A reluctant, but deeply respected, mentor.

And you… you were his. He hadn’t told you in so many words. He was a man of action, not declarations. But the way his gaze found you in a crowded room, the way he’d materialise beside you during a difficult conversation with a student, a large, grounding hand on the small of your back, the way he’d save you the last piece of pie without a word… it was a language you’d become fluent in.

Tonight, though, the language was amplified. The wine had loosened the chains he usually kept on his affections. He wasn’t just grounding you; he was holding you. Claiming you, in that quiet, possessive way of his. His thumb began to trace small, absent patterns on your stomach, just above your hip.

From across the room, you saw Ororo’s eyes. Your lifelong friend, your sister in every way that mattered, was leaning against the doorframe to the kitchen, a glass of sparkling water in her hand. Her white hair was a striking halo in the soft light, and her dark eyes were alight with a knowing, utterly delighted smile. She raised one elegant eyebrow at you, a silent question laced with years of shared history. So? Finally?

You gave a minute shake of your head, your own smile soft but forbearing. Not yet. She rolled her eyes heavenward, as if asking the universe for patience, but the smile never left her face.

You felt Logan shift, his nose nudging the hair behind your ear. He inhaled deeply, a long, slow scenting that made your stomach flip. “You smell like sugar,” he murmured, his voice a low vibration against your skin. “’N flowers. Always smell like flowers.”

“It’s the gardenia hand cream,” you said, your own voice coming out a little breathless. You tilted your head slightly, giving him more room without thinking, a subconscious invitation. “Jubilee got it for me for Teacher Appreciation Day.”

“Hmm.” The sound was pure contentment. His lips brushed the shell of your ear, and you felt the ghost of a smile there. “Kids got good taste.”

You chuckled softly, placing your hand over one of his where it rested on your stomach. His fingers were warm, the skin calloused, the knuckles bearing the faint, silvered lines of scars that had long since healed. Your thumb stroked over them. “She’ll be thrilled to hear you approve of her gift-giving skills.”

“Don’t you tell her I said that,” he grumbled, but there was no heat in it. He was too comfortable to muster any real indignation. He nuzzled his cheek against your neck again, a motion so tender it made your heart ache. This was the Logan no one else saw. The one who, when the world was quiet and the kids were asleep, would sit with you on the back porch and let you run your fingers through his hair until he was practically purring.

This version of him, the one softened by wine and your proximity, was the one who had, somewhere along the way, made you fall in love with him. It wasn’t a single, thunderous moment. It was the accumulation of a thousand small ones. The first time he’d brought you a cup of coffee, black, just how you liked it, without being asked. The way he’d patiently taught a terrified new student how to control his claws, his voice low and steady, because you’d asked him to. The look in his eyes, raw and unguarded, after a nightmare had pulled you from your bed and you’d sat with him until dawn, not saying a word, just letting him lean his head against your knee.

He was head over heels, hopelessly, irrevocably in love with you. You knew it. The kids knew it. The entire goddamn school knew it. But he was a man who had lost everything, everyone, more times than he could count. He protected his heart with the same ferocity he used to protect the people he cared for. So he expressed it through acts of service, through gruff protectiveness, through this—this quiet, wine-loosened clinging.

“You gonna let me go sometime tonight?” you teased gently, tilting your head to try and catch a glimpse of his face. All you saw was the dark sweep of his hair, the strong line of his jaw.

“No,” he said simply. The word was not a joke. It was a statement of fact, as immovable as he was. “Been a long year. ‘M tired.”

“When are you not tired, Lo'”

“M'tired right now,” he grunted against your shoulder. “Wanna go.”

“We can’t go yet,” you said, patting his arm. “I have to make sure everything goes as it should. It’s my job in the party, remember?”

“Stupid party,” he grumbled, but made no move to let you go. Instead, he seemed to melt further into you, his body becoming a heavy, comforting weight. He was a supremely powerful, centuries-old man with adamantium-laced bones and a reputation as a killer, but here he was, in the middle of a high school party, wrapped around you like a giant, wine-soaked koala. It was, you thought, the most endearing thing you’d ever seen.

“her majesty's a pretty nice girl.”

You blinked, a surprised chuckle slipping past your lips. “Her majesty?”

He nodded, a slow, deliberate dip of his head that made the ends of his hair tickle your cheek. “Yeah, you're kinda the queen of.” He gestured vaguely with one hand, encompassing the party, the mansion, the grounds. “Whatever this'is. You run this place. Keep all these little punks… and me… in line. You’re a pretty nice girl. The nicest.”

her majesty's a pretty nice girl, but she don't got a lot to say.

The thought drifted through Logan’s wine-slow mind as he watched you from behind the veil of his own lashes. You were a woman of quiet action, not superfluous words. You didn’t fill the silence with noise. When a student came to you with a broken heart or a fractured sense of self, you didn’t lecture. You listened. You sat with them in their pain, your presence a balm, your words few but weighted with a wisdom that came from a place he’d never fully understood. Even with him, especially with him, you didn’t push. You’d never asked about his past, never demanded explanations. You’d just been… there. Steady. Unshakeable. A pretty nice girl who didn’t have a lot to say, but when she did, her words could stop a storm.

Right now, that girl was saying something to Colossus about his sister, her voice a soft, melodic hum that he felt more than heard. He tightened his arms, pulling you more snugly against him. You fit. You always fit. Like you’d been made to stand right here, in the circle of his arms. His chest rumbled with a contented sigh he couldn’t have suppressed if he’d tried. His nose was pressed to the soft skin just below your ear. He could feel your pulse, a steady, reassuring beat. A lifeline.

He heard the patter of small feet before he saw them. Three of the younger students, emboldened by the late hour and the general air of celebration, came skidding to a halt in front of them. Their eyes were wide, their grins shit-eating and brilliant.

“Mr. Logan’s got Mama!” one of them, a small boy with skin that shimmered like opal, stage-whispered to his friends, pointing at you two without any subtlety.

The other, a girl with hair the colour of spun copper, nudged him. “Told you. They’re gonna get married!”

“Are you gonna get married?” the third, the smallest, a boy who could phase through walls when he was scared, asked directly, his voice a high-pitched chirp of curiosity.

Logan didn’t move. Didn’t even open his eyes. He just grunted, a sound that might have been annoyance to anyone who didn’t know him. To you, it was pure, unadulterated contentment. You felt his lips twitch against your neck.

“Alright, you little rascals,” you said, your voice warm with laughter. “Don’t you have a pinata to demolish or something?”

“Miss Ororo said we have to wait until after the cake,” the copper-haired girl explained, her attention unwavering. She pointed a small, sticky finger at Logan’s arms. “But you’re doing the kissing thing.”

“No, we’re not,” you said, trying to sound stern, but the smile was breaking through your voice. “Mr. Logan is just… tired. He’s using me as a leaning post.”

“That’s what my daddy says about my mommy,” the phasing boy said sagely. “But then they do the kissing thing later.”

The other two erupted into giggles, the sound pure, unfiltered childhood joy. They linked hands and started to skip in a circle around you and Logan, their voices rising in a high, singsong chant that made Logan’s whole body vibrate with a silent, rumbling laugh.

“Mr. Logan and Mama, sitting under a tree, K-I-S-S-I-N-G!”

Logan cracked one eye open, fixing the children with a look that had made hardened soldiers flinch. The kids just giggled harder, spinning faster.

“First comes love, then comes marriage-”

“Alright, that’s enough,” you said, but you were laughing too now, a full, bright sound that made Logan’s chest tighten. You made a shooing motion with your free hand. “Go on, get out of here. Find Mr. Summers, see if he needs help with the sparklers. Scoot.”

They scattered, still shrieking with laughter, their chant fading as they ran. “-then comes Mama with a baby carriage!”

You shook your head, still chuckling. “They’re incorrigible.”

“They’re not wrong,” Logan muttered against your skin, so quietly you almost missed it.

Your breath hitched, just for a second. “They’re children with overactive imaginations,” you said, your voice carefully light. You gave his hand a gentle pat. “And you’re a bad influence.”

He hummed again, the sound noncommittal. He wasn’t letting go. If anything, his arms had become a steel band, immovable and absolute. He was a clingy bastard on a good day, but tonight, with the pleasant haze of wine softening his edges, he was utterly shameless. His thumb resumed its slow, hypnotic stroking. He could feel the soft give of your belly, the warmth of you, the way your breathing had synced with his.

“see? what i said was true, you're the queen of this school.”

Her majesty’s a pretty nice girl, but she changes from day to day.

He thought about how you’d looked this morning, hair a mess, barefoot in the kitchen, apron dusted with flour, a streak of chocolate on your cheek as you’d taste-tested the batter for the cake that was now waiting in the kitchen. You’d been frazzled, muttering about a missing recipe card, and you’d looked so utterly, achingly human. Not the den mother, not the perfect teacher, just… you.

Then he thought about you an hour ago, gliding down the grand staircase in that green dress, your hair done, a soft, confident smile on your face. You’d looked like a queen surveying her kingdom. You’d paused on the landing, and your eyes had found his immediately, a silent, private smile just for him. It had knocked the air from his lungs. He’d watched you work the room all evening—kneeling to soothe a homesick child, laughing with the older students, sharing a quiet word with Charles. You were a kaleidoscope of warmth and grace, changing and adapting to whoever needed you most. And every single version of you was something he wanted to keep, to hold, to wrap up and protect from the cold, cruel world outside these walls.

He’d fallen for you hard. Fast. Irreversibly. It hadn’t been a choice. It was like the turning of the seasons, the pull of the tide. Inevitable. He’d shown up at this school a snarling, feral thing, more animal than man, carrying a century of blood and guilt. And you… you’d just looked at him. Not with pity, not with fear. With that steady, gentle gaze that saw through all the bullshit and adamantium right down to the broken, stubborn man underneath. You’d fed him, sat with him in silence, laughed at his sass, and never, ever asked for more than he could give. You’d become his anchor. The one fixed point in his long, chaotic existence. The reason he’d started to hope that maybe, just maybe, a man with his history could have something good. Something soft.

He wanted to tell you. The words were a constant pressure in his chest, a lump in his throat that the wine had done nothing to dissolve. He’d planned it a hundred times in the quiet of his room, or under the hum of the Danger Room’s systems, in the dead of night when he could hear you moving around in the kitchen two floors below, baking something for the next day’s breakfast. He’d picture taking your face in his hands, looking into your eyes, and saying it. I love you. Simple. True. Everything.

But every time he opened his mouth, the words would shrivel. The fear—ancient, primal, the fear of loss that had driven him for a century—would clamp its jaws around his throat. What if he said it and it changed things? What if he said it and you looked at him differently? What if he said it and you smiled that gentle, kind smile and said you loved him as a friend, the way you loved the kids, the way you loved Ororo? He’d rather have you as a friend than not have you at all. He’d rather keep you safe in the sanctuary of ‘just friends’ than risk losing you to the truth.

So he did what he always did. He held on.

You’d started to sway slightly, a natural rhythm as you watched the party from your shared vantage point. He moved with you, his body a shadow to your light. You were humming, he realised. Something soft. The sound vibrated through his skull, soothing the last jagged edges of his vigilance.

“You’re gonna fall asleep standing up,” you murmured, your voice a thread of amusement in the quiet cocoon you’d created. “And then I’ll have to explain to Charles why the Wolverine is snoring in the middle of his party.”

“Don’t snore,” he protested, the words slurring slightly. He did snore. Loudly. You’d told him so, teasingly, after a late-night movie marathon in the den where he’d passed out on the couch with his head in your lap. You’d stayed there for three hours, just running your fingers through his hair, until the credits rolled.

“You snore like a chainsaw,” you corrected gently, your hand coming up to cover his again. “And you drool.”

He grunted, a sound of pure, stubborn denial. But he didn’t move. He couldn’t. You were too warm, too soft, you smelled too much like home. He was a drowning man and you were the shore. He’d spent a hundred years fighting, running, surviving. For the first time in his life, he just wanted to stop. He just wanted to hold onto this. Hold onto you.

“You should go get some water,” you said, but there was no force behind it. Your head was leaning back against his shoulder now, your weight settling more fully against him. He loved that. The trust of it. That you’d let yourself be held by a man with knives in his hands.

“No,” he said again. It was his only argument tonight, but he felt it was a compelling one.

You laughed, a low, private sound. “Stubborn.”

“Learned from th'best.”

“Oh, I’m not stubborn,” you said with mock affront. “I’m persistent. There’s a difference.”

He finally lifted his head, just enough to look down at your profile. The light caught the gold flecks in your eyes, the soft curve of your cheek, the gentle, amused set of your mouth. I want to tell her that I love her. The thought was so loud, so desperate, it felt like a shout in his own head. His chest ached with it. His hands twitched. He wanted to cup your face, tilt it up, and just… say it. Let the words out. See what happened.

But I’d need a belly full of wine.

He was working on it. He’d had a glass. Then two. Then a third, maybe, in the study with Hank. The wine was a warm, pleasant buzz, taking the edge off, smoothing the razor-wire of his self-control. But it wasn’t enough. It would never be enough. Because the truth was, he could drink the entire Xavier cellars dry and he’d still be terrified. This wasn’t fear of an enemy he could fight, a threat he could slash and stab his way through. This was fear of his own heart, and he had no weapons against it.

He let his head drop again, his forehead pressing against your temple. He closed his eyes. Maybe tomorrow. Maybe when his head was clear and his hands were steady. Maybe he’d find the words then. For now, he’d just hold on.

The party began to wind down around you. The younger children were herded upstairs by a patient Jean and a long-suffering Scott, their protests about missing the sparklers fading into sleepy yawns. The older students drifted out to the grounds, a supervised, smaller gathering around a fire pit that Hank was monitoring. The foyer grew quieter, the record player now emitting a soft crackle, the last song having ended.

You should have gone to help. You were the hostess, the organiser, the one who made sure everything ran smoothly. But you couldn’t. Not with Logan’s arms around you, his steady weight a silent plea. You knew what he was doing. He was hiding. Not from the party, but from himself. He was using the wine and your proximity as an excuse to let down the walls he kept so meticulously constructed. The walls that said he was just a gruff friend, a fellow teacher, an occasional pain in the ass. The walls that hid the man who brought you coffee, who saved you the last piece of pie, who looked at you with an expression so raw and vulnerable in his unguarded moments that it stole your breath.

You knew he loved you. You’d known for a while. It was in the way he said your name, a low rumble that was different from how he said anyone else’s. It was in the way he’d materialise beside you when a new student’s uncontrolled power caused a surge, his body a shield before you even registered the danger. It was in the way he’d fallen asleep on your couch last week, and you’d covered him with a blanket, and he’d caught your wrist, his eyes still closed, and held it to his chest for a long, silent moment.

And you loved him. God, you loved him. You loved his fierce protectiveness and his hidden tenderness. You loved the way he grumbled about the kids but would spend hours helping them train. You loved his sass, his dry wit, the way he could make you laugh even on your worst days. You loved the man he’d become in this place, the man you’d had the privilege of watching shed his thorns, one by one, until this: the man who held you like you were the only solid thing in a world of shifting sands, was what remained.

But you wouldn’t tell him tonight. Not like this. Not when the words he spoke might be loosened by wine instead of freed by trust. He needed to say it when he was sober, when he could look you in the eye and own it. And you needed to hear it then. So you’d wait. You’d be patient. You’d been patient for years. One more night was nothing.

For now, you’d let him have this. You’d let him be the clingy, affectionate, touchy-feely, lovey-dovey bastard he was too proud to be when he was sober. You’d let him hold you, and scent you, and murmur gruff, nonsensical things against your skin.

You turned in his arms, a slow, careful movement. His hold loosened just enough to let you face him, then tightened again, pulling you flush against him. His hands settled on your lower back, his fingers splaying wide. You were chest to chest now, your faces inches apart. His eyes were dark, heavy-lidded, the pupils dilated from the wine and the low light. They were clear, though. Focused entirely on you.

You reached up, your hand coming to rest on his chest, over the steady, strong beat of his heart. You could feel the warmth of his skin through the soft flannel of his shirt. Your other hand came up to his face, your fingers brushing a stray lock of dark hair from his forehead. He went utterly still, his breath catching.

“You’re going to have a headache tomorrow,” you said softly, your thumb tracing the line of his cheekbone. The skin was warm, the stubble rough against your fingertip. “And you’re going to be insufferable.”

He didn’t respond. He just stared at you, his gaze intense, almost hungry. His hands tightened on your back, his fingers pressing into the soft fabric of your dress. He leaned forward, his forehead coming to rest against yours. His breath, warm and smelling of wine, fanned across your lips.

“Logan,” you breathed, a warning and an invitation all at once.

“Don’t wanna be insufferable,” he murmured, his voice a low, rough vibration. His nose brushed against yours. “Just wanna stay here.”

“Here?” you asked, your voice barely a whisper.

“With you,” he clarified. His eyes fell to your lips. “Just… wanna stay with you.”

Your heart was a frantic drum in your chest. You could feel the tension in him, a coiled spring, a man holding himself back by a thread. He was asking for something, you realised. Not with words, but with the raw, unguarded vulnerability in his eyes. He was asking you to let him stay. To let him be this. To not make him put the walls back up.

You slid your hand from his chest up to his shoulder, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt. You pulled him closer, just a fraction, and you felt the shudder that ran through him.

“Okay,” you said simply. “Then stay.”

He exhaled, a long, shaky breath that seemed to carry the weight of a hundred years with it. His arms wrapped around you completely, enveloping you, his face burying in your hair. He wasn’t just holding you anymore. He was clinging. And you clung right back, your arms around his neck, your cheek pressed to his chest, listening to his heart finally, finally slow to a steady, peaceful rhythm.

Her majesty’s a pretty nice girl, and one day I’m gonna make her mine.