Leahyonna Carver

『••✎••』

You’ve always had a keen eye when it came to others. It’s mostly why you and Wade get along so well; you’re the one person who can see straight through him. And while it means you are very close, it also meant that you can easily tell when something is going on with someone you don't know that well, like the tall, brooding man named Logan, who had just joined the club of misfits.

You could tell by the way he carried himself that he had been through hell and back. He was quiet, grumpy, and had a tendency to snap at Wade, which, most of the time, was a well-deserved snapping.

You could also tell that there was more to him. He wasn't just a grumpy guy; there was something about him that made you want to be his friend. Maybe it was the sadness in his eyes, or maybe it was how lonely he looked.

Either way, you knew he was in need of a good friend, and you wanted to be that friend. Not a pestering one like Wade, but the kind of friend that just makes you feel a bit better.

So, when you spotted him, downing glass after glass of whiskey for the third day in a row, you just knew you had to help.

And he hated it. Oh, man, he absolutely hated it. You were such a happy ray of sunshine, always smiling, always laughing. He found it so fucking annoying. He couldn't deal with you and your constant positivity. It was like you were the PG-13 version of the breathing ballsack next to you.

But you wouldn't give up. Every time you saw him, you would try to cheer him up by making silly jokes, giving him small gifts, or even just sending him encouraging smiles.

He didn't want any of it, but it seemed you were too stubborn to listen. Every small note you’d given him was left crinkled in the trash; every gift was placed away without ever being touched. Your smile never got a response.

That is, until one day, as you walked by him, he mumbled something that almost made you trip over.

"Thanks."

You stopped in your tracks and turned around to face him, a look of disbelief on your face. You had tried so hard to cheer him up for the past few weeks, and this was the only thing you got from him? You couldn't believe it.

You had spent so much time and effort trying to make him feel better, and this was all he could say to you?

You wanted to hug him. To scream to the skies and celebrate that he finally accepted your kindness.

You held the restraint to do so, though. You didn’t want to cause him to close off again, and so instead, you sent him a soft smile, and a small nod, before you resumed walking (running) to your friends.

The next day, however, you were met with the biggest surprise of your life.

Logan was sitting at the bar, drinking. He didn't look too different, still dressed in his trademark blue jeans and flannel shirt, but his face was still holding that sadness you had grown used to seeing on him.

You walked over to him and sat down beside him, that classic smile of yours plastered on your face.

"Hi!"

He groaned. "You're not going to leave me alone, are you?"

"Nope!" You replied cheerfully, popping the 'p.'

He grumbled under his breath and downed the last of his drink, signaling to the bartender for another.

"Come on, Wolvie," you said, nudging his shoulder. "Lighten up. Life's not that bad, is it?"

He turned to glare at you, his dark brown eyes piercing into yours. "It's Logan," he said, his voice a low growl.

You shrugged and leaned closer to him, propping your elbow on the counter. This was the usual part—the part where he would give vocal responses while you carried on your one-sided conversation with him.

The difference this time, the surprise of it all, was when a person approached the both of you. Mind you, a very drunk person.

"Heyyyyy, baby girl," he slurred, his hand landing on your shoulder.

You turned to him, and he was looking you up and down with that gaze you knew had only one intention. You still smiled, though, and politely moved his hand off your shoulder.

"Uh, hi?" You answered unsurely.

He slammed his elbow on the counter, his palm on his fist. "You are gorgeous," he commented, and you had to hold back the laughter that was bubbling in your throat.

"Thank you," you chuckled.

Logan scoffed, rolling his eyes, but you paid him no mind. Usual behavior from him, nothing new.

"No, really," the stranger continued, moving his arm around your shoulders, "I think you're the most beautiful thing I've ever seen."

"Well, I'm glad you think so," you answered, still chuckling. "But, I think you're a little drunk."

"Drunk on love," he responded, "Say, wanna get out of here? I'll show you a real good time."

Here comes the awkward part, you thought.

You shook your head, and removed his arm from around your shoulders. "Thank you for… uh, the kind offer," you answered, "But, no, thank you."

You expected him to shrug it off and leave or to just be a dick, as many drunken guys are. But no, this guy did not know how to take a hint.

Instead, he tightened his grip around you and pulled you closer to him, his free hand moving down your waist. "Come on, baby," he said, his words slurring. "You know you want to."

You sighed. You were really hoping it wouldn't have to come to this.

You were about to speak, to politely, yet firmly, tell him to leave you alone, but before you could open your mouth, a gruff voice beat you to it.

"She said no,"

He didn’t even look at the man or you. His eyes were still fixated on the counter as if he was talking to his glass, but he had turned his head a bit to the side so that you could hear him clearly.

The drunk stranger was startled by the sudden intervention. He let go of you and looked over at Logan, confusion clear in his face.

"Who the hell are you?" he asked, his brows furrowed.

"Does it matter?" Logan grumbled.

"Yeah, it does," the stranger retorted, his slurring voice suddenly getting serious. "If I'm gonna be having fun, I don't want an audience."

Oh, how you hated confrontations.

Logan just scoffed with a slight hint of a smile, shaking his head as he still refused to turn around.

"Trust me, pal," he replied, "I ain't interested in watching you do anything."

"Good." He went back to his obnoxious grin, now directing his attention back to you. Oh, man, he was an eyesore.

"So, how about it, beautiful? Wanna head somewhere else?" He slurred.

You were about to reply, again, with a polite rejection, but your shoulder was being grabbed at again, and if it wasn’t for the small training session that Colossus had put you through, you were sure you would have lost your footing.

"Can you let go of me, please?" You asked politely, but the man was a brick wall.

"Nah, sweetheart," he shook his head, and the movement was so intense, you could almost hear the alcohol sloshing around in his head, "You're comin' with me. Trust me, you’ll be perfectly taken care of."

That was when the sound of glass slamming against the counter reached your ears, and you didn't have to see the source of the sound to know it was Mr. Grumps.

What you struggled for what seemed like an eternity, he took that needy arm away from your shoulders within a fraction of a second. It was almost shocking how quick he was, but then again, you knew what he was capable of.

With you safe against the counter, Logan turned to face the stranger, his face still showing that same neutral expression as before, though his eyes held an intensity that made the man flinch.

Normal people would believe he had the patience of a saint. But you weren’t a normal person. You knew this was dangerously close to making him lose it.

"Uh, Logan… maybe we should—"

But your words fell on deaf ears. The only thing that Logan could hear was the weak excuses the guy was trying to give as he tried to pull his hand from the tight grasp Logan had it in.

"Hey, man," he stuttered, his words slurring as the panic set in, "What’s your problem? Let go of me!

But Logan had no intentions of doing so. He held the stranger's arm firmly, his grip growing tighter until he could hear a small crack coming from the guy's bones.

"What's your damage, huh?" the guy continued, trying his best to keep his voice from breaking. "It's just a little fun, right, baby?"

You cringed as his eyes fell back onto you, and the pleading tone of his voice was beginning to make your skin crawl.

"Look, uh," you started, looking anywhere but his eyes, "I don't think—"

"Listen," the man continued, and your eyes fell shut. God, he was just not going to stop. "Maybe you can join us? Huh, big boy? That’s what it is, right? You want her all for yourself?"

Uh, oh.

"Logan, don’t—"

It was too late. He had already snapped, and with a grunt, he pulled the man closer to him, his other hand forming a fist around his shirt.

"Wanna say that again?" He growled. "Do it. I dare you."

The man was trembling in his grasp, but he was clearly too drunk to understand the danger he was in.

"Oh, I'm sorry, are you her boyfriend?" He taunted, and the fact that he had the guts to do so while his hand was in a painful hold was astonishing, even for you. "Or are you just some guy with a crush? Cause, honestly, it's pretty pathetic. You can't even ask her out."

His words had Logan seeing red, and before you could do anything, the guy was pushed away and was about to be on the receiving end of one of the strongest punches you've ever seen.

So, riskily, to protect yourself and him from being thrown out of his favorite place, you jumped off the stool and slid in between them as he launched his punch, just stopping inches away from your face.

"Please," you said, your palms up and in front of you, as if that would do anything to stop the rage he was feeling, "Please, calm down."

"Calm down?" He repeated, his voice rising. "Are you kidding me?"

"You need to let it go," you told him. "He's drunk, Logan. He doesn't know what he's saying."

"And, what," he retorted, his anger slowly fading away, "Does it look like I give a single fuck about that?"

You sighed, your eyes meeting his, and that was enough for him to finally give in. His clenched fist dropped, and he released a frustrated sigh.

The dude behind you started laughing, his voice sounding as if he was trying to make fun of a fight scene.

"So," he chuckled, "That's it, huh? You're not gonna do shit? You’re just as pathetic as a—"

He gently moved you aside, and in an instant, the man was lying on the floor with a bloody nose, a black eye, and a few broken ribs.

You could only hold your head in your hands, knowing very well the mess you were about to have to deal with.

And it didn't take long.

As soon as Logan stepped away from the drunk idiot, security was on him, grabbing his arms and restraining him. He couldn’t care less, though, as he held a sadistic grin on his face, pleased with his work while being escorted out.

And, so, there, the two of you were on the steps of the apartment building. You, holding your hands in your lap, and he, staring up at the night sky.

The air was warm, the city lights were dim, and the sky was covered in clouds. There was an odd silence between the two of you, which wasn’t really all that odd, but the events of the night had changed the atmosphere.

"Thanks," you spoke, breaking the quiet. "For, you know, standing up for me."

"He was a douche," he stated, his voice gruff. "Someone had to send that fucktart crying home to mommy."

"You shouldn’t have done that, though," you told him. "Now, you’re probably banned from the bar. I know it's your favorite."

"Eh," he shrugged, "Booze is booze. There are plenty more places to get drunk."

You didn't respond. Instead, you focused your attention on the small bugs flying around the dim light next to the door.

"You shouldn't be thanking me, anyway," he continued, turning to you. That was new. "I should be the one thanking you."

You looked at him, your brows furrowed. This whole conversation was getting weird. "Uh, what for?" You asked, confused.

"For putting up with me," he replied, shrugging.

"Putting up with you?" You repeated, not understanding. "I don't understand."

"Y'know," he continued, his gruff voice a little less gruff. "Sticking around. Being friendly. Having… patience. I can be…I can be a real dick. Honestly, I still don't get why you keep trying."

The smile that found its way to your lips waa the most genuine one he's ever seen. Your eyes were full of kindness and understanding, and your lips, which usually held a grin or a smirk, were turned upwards in a soft, gentle smile.

"Logan," you said, your voice low. "You may be a grump, and you might not be the friendliest guy, but that doesn't mean you don't deserve kindness. Everyone deserves that… or at least a little bit of it."

He scoffed. "That's funny," he replied, turning his head away.

You furrowed your brows and cocked your head, confused. "What is?" You asked.

"I used to think," he began, "That no one would ever look at me in the way you do. Not after what I’ve done… not after what I am."

"You're a good man, Logan," you told him. "You proved who you were when you willingly helped Wade."

"Maybe," he sighed, his gaze meeting yours. "But, there's still a lot you don't know about me. I'm not exactly a knight in shining armor."

It’s sometime in the early hours of the spring morning, cold enough to tug on your knitted sweater, already awake in the kitchen, soothing your son with some quiet shushing sounds as you pack Dave’s lunch for work today as he showers in your ensuite down the hall.

Your finger flicks the coffee pot on, and searches through the cupboard for his favourite mug. A tacky hand drawn Father’s Day gift from Molly when she was younger.

A small smile creeps across your tired lips, seeing the inside of the cul stained from years of use. You’d washed it countless times over the past few months you’d been re-allocated to live in the house, but he insists that it makes the coffee taste better.

The light on the microwave reads 06:58. Like clockwork, as the pot comes to a boil.. entering the room right on cue, greeting you with a sleepy smile.

“Morning, honey,” he greets, voice still rough from sleep, his hair still wet from the shower.

He approaches you from behind and wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you flush against him. He presses a soft kiss on your neck before nuzzling his head into your shoulder.

Although he could tell you were tired he admires that you’re still here in the kitchen, preparing his lunch and subduing your son from his quieting cries. “Good morning to you too. I’m just packing your lunch for work.”

Noting the weariness in your expression, concern etches in his eyes, and the grip on your waist.

“You’re exhausted.” Dave steps back, his hands still on your waist, and gently turns you around to face him. “Are you not sleeping well?”

“I had a few hours, we woke up to feed and change every two hours or so, but it’s expected with a newborn, right? And I’m coping. I’ll find some time today to rest.”

Dave nods, his expression softening. “Yeah, I know. But you don’t have to handle everything on your own, especially at your own expense. I can take him tonight so you can get some rest, okay?”

You lean your head into his shoulder, kissing the blue business shirt you’d ironed last night. “Thank you.”

He smiles faintly, his hand running gently through your hair. “Of course. I want you to rest and be happy, you know that.” He pulls back slightly, his gaze filled with love and gratitude. “Besides, I’ve been practicing my burping techniques.”

A tired laugh escapes you. “Yeah? It’s been a while for you hasn’t it?”

Even though Dave had two kids of his own from his marriage with carol—it had been nearly a decade since the girls needed burping, or feeding.

Dave chuckles, looking both sheepish and proud. “It has been a while. But I’m confident in my abilities.” Massaging your luscious hips with his thumbs. “How’s our little munchkin doing?”

“He’s good. Kind of in and out with sleeping. I searched it up and found it’s called active sleep.” Finally, you set an ice pack into his insulated lunch box with a fork and set it aside.

Dave tilts his head, a mix of curiosity and concern on his face. “Active sleep?” He raises an eyebrow. “As in, he’s moving around and making noise but still asleep?”

“Yeah. It’s normal apparently, I did some reading about it last night, because it was freaking me out.” You watch as he pours himself a coffee.

Dave takes a sip, then sets the ceramic mug against the counter, fingers still holding onto the small handle.

“Well, that’s good to know. As long as he’s not crying himself hoarse or anything, I suppose.” He glances at you, a playful grin on his face. “Are you doing more baby Google searches?”

“Not right this second no. But I’m certain something will come up,” you tell him in advance.

Dave laughs softly, placing a comforting hand on your cheek. "That's completely normal, honey. Being a parent is this mix of wonder and fear. But you're doing a great job. Our little guy is lucky to have you as his mom."

“He’s lucky to have you too. So are the girls you know..” A moment of silence. “I’m sorry she took them away from you.”

Dave's expression changes, his smile fading. A heavy sigh is all he can manage for a moment, running a hand through his hair. “Yeah, it was tough when it happened... still is, honestly.”

He pauses, looking at you with a mix of gratitude and sadness. “But having you here... you and our son, it makes it all feel a little less lonely, you know?"

Pushing yourself off of the countertop you’re leaning on and approaching him, kissing his cheek, the smell of his potent aftershave now clings to your skin. “They’re your girls, they love you.”

Dave leans his cheek into your kiss, appreciating your comforting gesture. "I hope so. I miss them every day." The heavy rise and fall of his chest is an attempt at gathering himself. He glances down at you, a hint of vulnerability in his dark eyes.

"But having you and this family we're nurturing... it helps. More than you know." He was glad you had adapted to this life, and seemed to revel in it.

Living up in the house with him rather than the basement. It was perfect, the way you leaned into domesticity and motherhood with arms wide open.

Dave glances down at his watch, reluctantly breaking the peaceful moment between you. "I should head to the precinct. Are you going to be okay on your own today?" Studying your face is a means to make sure you’re going to be alright.

“Of course. Joey and I will do a heap of fun things. And laundry.” You laugh humorlessly. Although you don’t mind the chores at all.

Dave can’t help but feel pleased to hear your response. “Alright.. don’t overwork yourself, the chores can always wait.”

He wraps his arms around you, pulling you closer so he can hold you tightly. He rests his chin on the top of your head, closing his eyes.

"I trust you." Dave whispers, a soft firmness to his voice. “You take care of our son, and I’ll be back real soon. We can spend the evening together as a family, whatever you want to do."

“I’ll have dinner prepared.” Leaning upward, you make the effort to instigate affection, fingers grazing the back of his damp hair.

Dave parts from your own lips hesitantly, wearing a content smile.

Reluctantly, he pulls away from you and your warm embrace, his hands lingering on your waist for a moment longer before dropping them to his sides.

He glances down his son, a soft smile playing on his lips. Leaning downward, a delicate finger reaches down to caress his chubby cheeks. “Be good for your momma," he utters in softly to his son.

Dave leans in to press his lips against your sons forehead, the small tuft of dark brown hair on his head were the same as his father. “I’ll see you tonight. I love you both.”

You return the sentiment and wave after him. “We love you, have a good day.”

The morning passes swiftly, with you engrossing yourself in domestic tasks. Piles of laundry need washing thanks to the sudden influx of baby clothes dumped into their own washing basket. Dirty dishes need washing and packing away.

All the while, the Joey still sleeps in his cot that you’d wheeled onto the wooden floors so you could watch him as you tidy up.

The house is quiet, the only sound coming from the soft whirring of the laundry machine as it spins to remove water, and the occasional rustle of Joey in his sleep.

When your son awakens, you tentatively pick him up and hold him to your chest with two cautious hands before sitting him down on the soft mat in the living room, a child-safe foam mat that is three inches thick to prevent him from injury.

Joey's eyes slowly open, adjusting to the bright light, searching for you. He looks around at his surroundings with innocent curiosity, his eyes still wide with that baby wonder.

Fixing his socks, you prepare him for tummy time, making sure he's comfortable. Joey wiggles, his limbs still uncoordinated and jerky, as he attempts to lift his head off the mat.

“You’re getting so good at this,” you coo in wonder.

Joey responds to the sound of your voice, turning his head in your direction with a look of recognition and delight.

His little arms push against the mat as he tries to raise himself up, but his movements are still clumsy and unbalanced. He let out a few soft, baby grunts, seemingly frustrated yet determined.

“Don’t grow up too fast, Joey. Your dad and I are still taking this all in.”

Before long Joey is whining and fussing over tummy time, and you decide to set up one of his musical playmats, with a half circular cover, soft animals dangling from the play equipment. Quiet nursery songs play a simple instrumental with flashing rainbow lights.

Joey's attention is drawn to the musical mat, his little brown eyes wide with fascination as he gazes at the movement and sounds. The music and the dangling animals capture his attention, and his grunts of frustration are replaced by noises of discovery.

He stretches out his tiny arms, trying to grab at the dangling toys, though his aim is still off target, tiny hands are swatting the animals and they swing back and forth.

The house phone rings, and you ignore it at Dave’s request.

But a woman’s voice comes through the speaker of the voicemail machine in real time.

“Dave. I have been calling non stop. Seriously, you’re refusing to contact me about money which I know you have. I need you to call me back or I’ll have to use the spare key to retrieve my personal documents from your house which will only make things worse for you in court.”

Dave had informed you about his ex-wife, how she was trying to make contact with him over child support for the girls. You had been instructed not to answer the phone or door at anytime, for any reason while he was gone.

So it wasn’t exactly a surprise to hear this, more like a bit of an annoying interruption to the sweet moment between you and your son.

The thought of her showing up to the house with your son, armed with a spare key and able to break into your home while Dave wasn’t hear made you feel sick. You look down at Joey, his attention still focused on the musical mat, unaware of how anxious you’re feeling.

“You have one new voicemail.”

As the voicemail machine plays the automated message as she ends the call, anxiously, you resort to chewing on your bottom lip.

You hesitate for a moment, looking down at Joey before deciding to do what you thought; was acceptable in regards to safety. Then, summoning your courage, you walk to the phone and dial Dave’s personal phone number.

And you’re pacing a little up and down the hallway as the shrill shrieking of the call trying to connect reverberates through your ear. He’d only been gone four hours or so, you hope he wouldn’t be upset.

Dave is busy with some administrative work at the precinct, thankfully sitting in his own office with the door shut, when his work phone rings. He glances at the number on his screen, recognising his very own landline.

A flicker of concern crosses his face, a little surprised that you're calling so soon, but doesn’t hesitate longer to answer the call. "Honey, what's wrong?" Dave asks, his voice laced with concern.

“Dave.. Carol just left a voicemail. She mentioned having a spare key to the house, said something about her showing up to let herself in.” The padding of your relentless pacing is noted on his end of the call.

He curses under his breath, the tension evident in his voice, even though the rustle of the phone he can hear your panic.

"Damn it." He mutters, a mixture of frustration and anger in his tone. Rubbing a hand over his face, trying to process the situation, but quickly comes to a solution.

"Okay, listen. I'll be home as soon as I can. Just don't answer the door for anyone, alright? And keep Joey safe."

“Okay, got it. I love you.” With a shaky exhale, you clutch onto the phone, watching your son play on his mat.

"Love you too, honey." A concerned sigh exits his lips. Dave ends the call and lets out a sigh, running a hand through his disheveled hair. His mind is racing, hoping that Carol wouldn’t show while he was gone.

He just knew he had to get home to you first. Before all his hard work and family are taken.

Setting the phone back down onto the hook, you take a hurried step toward the front door to lock it. But it’s too late, there’s a rattle of a key being put into the front door and unlocked.

Carol walks into the house as if it were here own, and stares at you for a moment, freezing when she recognises you, it takes a moment.. but you’re the girl on the news.. the missing girl.

Carol stands before you, her eyes narrowing as recognition gradually dawns on her. She takes in your appearance, the image of you from the media coverage suddenly clicking into place.

A mix of shock and confusion washes over her face.

"Y-you..." She utters in disbelief, her voice trembling. "You're... you're that missing girl..."

The realization hits her like a ton of bricks. She looks at you with uncertainty, her lips trembling as she struggles to process the situation.

"Oh my god... oh my god!" She repeats, her voice filled with fear and outrage. "You're here in Dave's house."

Carol takes a step towards you, her eyes wide and frantic. That could only mean one thing. "Come on sweetheart, let’s get you out of here!"

“I’m not going with you, stop it. This is my home, you cannot waltz into here and start making demands!” You shrug off her attempts to grab at you.

Carol doesn't anticipate your swift reaction, and her hand is abruptly shrugged away. She looks at you with surprise, her eyes wide and panicked. Taking a step backward, looking you over again with newfound fear.

"Sweetheart, listen to me-" She starts, the desperation evident in her voice.

“You’re vile.. coming into our home and trying to take me away from him after you left him with nothing! Your feeble attempt to take his son away won’t work! I love him, and I’m not going to ruin our family!”

Carol's eyes widen even further as she listens to your fierce defense of Dave. She hadn't expected this kind of loyalty, certainly not after what she knew.

She stands there for a moment, her chest rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths as she tries to process. But her fear begins to turn into a different emotion, anger.

"You- you're brainwashed! Do you understand that? He kidnapped you!"

“Do not insult me. I need you to leave, now!” The loud shriek of your newborn son filled the air between you. “You’re upsetting my son.”

Carol's shoulders shake with frustration, despair seeping into her voice. "I’m upsetting your - what?! You don't even realize how twisted this all is."

She glances towards the crying in the background, the sound of your son's unrelenting wails adding fuel to the fire. "You think I'm going to walk away and leave you here like this? You're brainwashed, do you not see that?!"

“He told me you’d do this. You’re a pathetic excuse for a woman, you took the girls from him! What the hell is your issue with me and my son?”

Carol's cheeks flush with anger, her hands trembling at her sides. "You can't seriously believe what he's told you, do you?"

Her voice disbelieving. "He's manipulated you, honey! Can't you see it?"

The woman approaches you, hands outward as if you’re some savage animal. “If you want what’s best for your son.. you’ll run and not look back.”

You felt so much anger inside of you.. “Don’t you dare. Dave is a great father to our boy.”

Carol rolls her eyes exasperated, not believing a word you say. "He's a monster!" Her voice rises in anger. "How can you not see that? He took you from your family, held you prisoner and forced you to bear a child."

Carol glances towards the sound of the infant's cries in the background with disgust, a glance that doesn’t go unmissed by you.

“He did not force this child upon me!”

She stares at you, pleading. "You may think you love him, but he's manipulated you. It's called stockholm syndrome. You're not thinking clearly!"

With another moment, she pulls out her mobile phone, “if you won’t protect your son.. I will. This is for your own good.” Turning her back to you, she’s already dialling 911 on the keypad of her mobile phone.

It felt like things slowed to a standstill, hearing those three loud beeps on her screen of her dialling the number sent something instinctive off within you, to protect everything you had.

There’s no real decision made, just reaching for the nearest thing in your reach, the landline chord, as you tear it out of the wall, the phone clatters to the ground. In that fleeting moment, Carol's world abruptly crumbles.

She barely gets time to process what's happening before the chord from the landline is wrapped around her neck, the realization of your actions dawning on her are too late for her to save herself.

Carol gasps and struggles, her phone clattering to the ground as her hands fly to her neck, clawing desperately at the white chord, but you’re in a state of rage, protecting your son, and yourself.

Everything you’d built with Dave. That’s what was on the line.

Carol fights against you with every ounce of strength she has left as her breaths become short inhales, unable to deliver the oxygen her burning lungs are aching for, her body writhing and her legs twitching out in panic, her nails clawing at the chord around her neck.

But the power of your grip and the determination, she didn’t stand a chance, Carol fought with every fibre of her being, kicking and trying to grab at you. But it was too little too late. Before long the last panicked gasp escaped her lips, the life leaving her eyes.

Time seems to stand still. The air fills with the silence of a struggle, the tension leaving the space around you seems to thicken. Your chest heaves with victory, heart racing as you drop the chord from your hands.

Slowly, you rise to your feet, the weight of what you've done settling in. But your son's cries pull you back to the present, a reminder of that innocent life you've vowed to protect.

With shaking hands, you pick up your infant son, comforting him, hushing his cries as you hold him close.

With a softness that contradicts the violence you’re capable of, you cradle the infant close to your chest, settling him.

Dave comes barreling through the unlocked front door, his usual composure thrown to the wind at the thought of you being gone.. He takes in the sight before him, the reality of what he's seeing sinking in, and he decided it’s a better outcome than what he had worried about.

He closed the door behind him, locking it, approaching slowly, his eyes fixated on the body on the floor, the woman he once married. His face contorts in anger and relief all at once.

“What the hell…” Dave whispers under his breath, his voice betraying his stunned, curious surprise. “Honey?”

You come into view, cradling your son close to your chest. “Dave..”

Dave's eyes meet yours, drinking in the sight of you holding your son, and he knew that this was inevitable.

Slowly, his gaze moves down to Carol's body, then back to you, a mixture of concern and suspicion etched across his face. "Honey..." Dave repeats, his voice laced with a hint of confusion. "What happened?"

“She.. “ Your bottom lip trembles. “She said she knew me. And that you were a monster and if I knew what was good for me I’d take our son and flee.”

Dave's expression hardens, his jaw clenching in frustrated anger. “God damnit...she’s wrong, so goddamn wrong. I’m glad you have some sense in that head of yours. Our son belongs with us,” he mutters, shaking his head in disbelief.

He doesn't move to investigate her cause of death yet, but can assume it probably has something to do with the phone chord on the floor right beside the body, dedicating his focus completely to you. "Did she touch you?”

“No, but said that if I wouldn’t protect our son from you, she would. I.. I caught her trying to call the police, but I.. I. I had to stop her before she could make the call.”

Dave swears under his breath, anger and frustration written all over his face. But he nods, “this is good, you did good, honey.”

His gaze falls on Carol's body, then back to you, a myriad of emotions playing out on his features. "Damn it... she just... she couldn't leave things well enough alone.”

He steps toward you, his voice soft, "It’s okay. I know. She forced your hand... it wasn’t your fault."

“She was trying to take our son away from us. Attempting to force my hand to abandon you. Our family.” Your son coos softly against your chest, tiny hands seeking comfort of your skin.

Dave's dark eyes search your own, his expression softening further as he tries to soothe your anxiety. He takes another step closer, his voice low and steady.

"Honey, that was never going to happen. No one's taking our son away from us. No one. You did what you had to do."

Dave reaches out tentatively, placing a gentle hand on your arm, as if testing the waters, a gripe of fear settles inside of him that this may have set you back to where you started twelve months ago when he brought you here. "You defended our family. That's all it was."

“I love you.. but what are we going to do about this?” Your hand gestures to the dead body in your hallway.

Dave looks down at Carol, his expression hardening once more. "We're gonna deal with it." His eyes flicker back to you, his hand still on your arm. Dave's voice is firm, but gentle.

"Trust me. I'll handle everything. For now, just take care of our boy, alright? Leave this all to me.” His large hand takes up the entire length of your baby’s back. “I need you to do me a favour, okay?”

You nod compliantly, listening. “Anything you want.”

Dave meets your gaze, his expression serious and focused.

"I need you to trust me. She recognised you, honey. You need to change your appearance, cut your hair.. colour it. I’ll buy some contacts for you. So that way we don’t have to be a secret anymore. No one would recognise the old you.”

“I’ll do it.” Dave's lips twitch into a faint smile. He appreciates your willingness to comply, no argument, just trust and commitment.

“Good.” Dave says, his voice quieter now. He takes your hand, his grip devoted to comforting you.

“It’s going to be okay. I won’t let anything happen to us, to our son. Trust me.”

Later that evening you hack carefully at your hair, and colour it. You hardly recognise the face of the girl that had gone missing. Because she was gone. “How did Joey go down?”

Dave watches you affectionately from the doorway in the bathroom as you hack away at your hair. “Effortlessly.” He murmurs.

“How do I look?” The transformation of your physical appearance is gradual yet significant. When you step away from the mirror and approach him, revealing the new you, he can’t help but smile.

“I can hardly recognise you,” he says, his voice soft. “You look... different.

Dave steps closer, his gaze roaming over your new look as he takes it in. He reaches up, running a hand through your hair, fingers caressing the strands. “You look beautiful.”

“Thank you,” a slight warmth rushes up your neck and ears at his complimentary praise.

Dave moves closer, standing a few inches from you. His hand tangled in your hair, he pulls you against him. Strong arms wrap around you, his hand resting in the small of your back, holding you flush against his chest.

Dave leans forward, tilting your chin up so that your eyes meet. There’s a deep tenderness in his gaze as he speaks, “I never want to lose you, you know that?”

“You won’t,” you promise. “Never. Neither Joey or me.”

Dave sighs, his relief evident. He leans his forehead against yours, drinking in the moment of comfort. The weight of the situation lifts from his shoulders for a brief moment.

“Good. I don’t know what I’d do if I ever lost you...”

Pulling backward to look down at you, his thumb gently caresses your cheek. He searches your eyes, before suddenly he places a soft, lingering kiss on your forehead.

His hand rests on the small of your back as he guides you to your bed with a gentleness that belies his strength. “You won’t ever need to know.” The promise sends a thrill of affection up his spine at your devout promise.

Once there, Dave lays down, pulling you onto the bed with him, manoeuvring the duvet so that he could tuck you in.

He wraps his arm around you, his body cradling yours, holding you tight against him. “I know...” He whispers, his voice a low, comforting rumble against your ear.

Dave warned you that in the coming days there would be someone coming to knock on their door about carols death, to leave it to him.

Three days after her death, they arrive.

Two of his officers greet him as he swings the door open. “Dave. We dropped by to have a chat, hoping that now is a good time.”

He eyes his men, nodding, fooling them with a deep gaze of concern. “Of course, what’s going on?”

“It’s Carol.. we got a call for a welfare check and she.. I’m sorry, sir. But she’s dead.”

Dave stutters, and his men express their sympathy. “How did she..”

“Suicide. Left a note and found her hanging from the ceiling fan.” One of his men turned to the police car they’d arrived in. “We don’t think the girls saw anything, but we recommend sending them to see someone anyway.”

Dave knew how it worked, they had to offer grief counselling as apart of the process.

“She struggled with her mental health for years but I never thought it would come to this,” Dave utters in disbelief.

They see you holding your son and wave to you. “Good morning ma’am.”

You smile and wave. “Good morning officers.”

They don’t recognise you.

“We didn’t know you had a son,” an officer commented.

Dave smiles proudly at his son. “I’ve been trying to keep my life as private as possible since the divorce.”

“Well, congratulations, sir.”

“What about my girls?” Dave asked, voice remains steady and composed as he plays his part, playing the role of the grieving ex-husband. He truly was concerned about his girls, though. They were so young, but with the family Dave had orchestrated, he knew they’d be down.

“We’ve got your girls in the back of the car, I’ll go get them.”

The sight of his daughters after twelve months since the initial divorce makes his resolve truly crumble, how much they had grown.

“Alice! Molly!” Dave's heart aches as he holds his two daughters in his arms, their presence filling him with intense emotion and relief. He had grown used to the pain of their absence in his life, the separation a constant weight on his shoulders.

But with them in his arms, the pain he had so valiantly endured crumbles. His eyes brimming with tears as he weeps gently into their shoulders, fingers clutching into their backs softly.

“We’ll.. give you some time to process all of this. I’m sorry again for your loss, Dave.”

Dave's grip tightens around his daughters, as if afraid to let them go again. He holds them close, a mix of grief and relief coursing through him.

“Thank you. Thank you for bringing them back to me.” He mutters to the men, not for delivering the news, but for returning his daughters home.

Dave watches as the officers leave, their departure marking the end of having to play the role of the devastated ex husband. Once they're gone, he turns back to his daughters.

“I've missed you both so much…” He says, voice choked up with emotion.

“We missed you too!” His girls cherp into his shoulder. Molly, the older daughter of the two looks past her dad and sees you, holding a small baby in blue clothing. “Who is that?”

Dave looks over at you, a hint of pride and affection in his expression. He then follows Molly’s gaze, a soft smile tugging at his lips.

"That... that's Joey," Dave inquires softly, his voice filled with tenderness as he glances between his daughters and his infant son. He stands up, his hand still resting on his shoulders, gesturing for them to follow him.

"He’s your little brother.”

You slowly approach the girls holding your son in hand. “Hi girls, my name is rose. I’m Joey's mummy.”

“Like the flower?” Alice says.

The alias rolls off your tongue as you introduce yourself, the name Rose sounding unfamiliar and foreign to your ears, but it was necessary to move on with your new life.

Alice's comment, however, brings a slight smile to your face. "Yes, like the flower." You confirm, your voice soft and gentle. “Do you want to meet your baby brother?”

The girls' eyes light up with excitement as you offer for them to meet their new baby brother. They look up at Dave for confirmation, before turning back to you with eager nods. "Yes, please!" Molly says, her voice brimming with anticipation.

“His name is Joseph David York. But your dad and I call him little Joey.” Dave grins at the mention of his son's name, pride evident in his gaze. He steps closer as you speak.

“He looks like you, dad!” Molly comments. Your son did have Dave’s dark brown eyes—and the subtle curve of his nose. The infant was practically a carbon copy, your genetics failing on this conception.

"That's right. Joey does, doesn’t he?" Dave nods, his voice filled with affection.

Dave watches as his daughters take to the little baby, their hearts instantly won over by the sight of their young brother. The sounds of their admiration fill the air, soft and innocent.

His gaze falls on you, meeting your eyes with gratitude and relief. In that moment, everything seems to fall into place, a sense of peace and happiness washing over him.

Dave takes in the sight of his two daughters playing and cooing at Joey, their faces lit up with joy and affection. Beside them stands you, the woman he loves more than anything.

He feels a surge of contentment and gratitude, his heart swelling with the weight of it all. Dave's eyes meet yours, his expression filled with love and thankfulness.

Dave has achieved all he ever dreamed of and so much more, and he knew he couldn’t stop himself from wanting more. He wonders what your daughter would look like.

Logan may not say "I love you" often, but he shows it through small, constant touches—a hand on the back, a gentle squeeze of the shoulder, or simply holding hands.

Not a fan of explicit PDA, but will always touch you/stay close in public.

Tough exterior, but when it comes to his partner, he’s an overprotective softie. He’ll insist on walking them home, even if they can take care of themselves.

He can be extremely chivalrous too, always holding open the door for you.

Expresses his love through acts of service. He’ll fix things around the house without being asked, make breakfast before his partner wakes up, or leave a steaming cup of coffee on the counter with a note.

He's always leaving you little love notes if when leaves the house before you or knows he won't be home till late.

Though he pretends to hate it, Logan is a sucker for slow dancing in the kitchen at night, especially if it’s to an old blues or country song.

Any excuse to hold you close to him.

Logan values trust more than anything. Given how many times he’s been betrayed or manipulated, knowing someone trusts him, and that he can trust them in return, is what makes him feel truly loved and secure.

When sharing a bed, Logan always sleeps closest to the door—just in case someone comes through it. It’s a subconscious protective habit.

Always gets better rest with he's sleeping with his partner. The nightmares become less frequent when he's in their arms.

Heaven on earth is when you fall asleep on top of him. Your weight is extremely comforting.

He is incredibly careful with his strength, especially in intimate moments. He’s always conscious of not hurting his partner, and his gentleness with you is something he prides himself on.

I think it would take some convincing for him to be a rough with you. He's a dominant lover for sure, but he doesn't take pleasure in harming his partner.

Logan is an old soul and loves traditional romantic gestures—writing letters, giving flowers, and going for long walks. He may not be vocal about it, but his sincerity shines through.

Actually writes really beautiful poetry but NOBODY will ever read it. The words will die with him...if he ever dies.

God, I just know he is a secret romantic. This is so canon to me.

Tends to murmur endearments in his partner’s ear when they’re alone, things like "darlin’" or "sweetheart," in a tone so low and rough it gives them goosebumps.

Heavy on whispered praises in bed, so low its like he's speaking directly into your mind.

Never, ever forgets a birthday or an anniversary. This goes for all his friends.

Logan is the person everyone goes to when they need to spill their secrets. He never judges, just listens, and gives advice when it’s needed. His friends know their secrets are safe with him.

He's secretly a huge gossip and loves to hear about the young mutants drama. He'll act annoyed but he's listening to every word.

He may not be the most social, but he’s fiercely loyal to his friends. If they’re in trouble, he’s the first to show up, no questions asked.

Incredible memory for his friends’ favorite drinks. When they meet up at a bar, he’ll have everyone’s order ready before they even sit down.

Logan knows when someone needs to talk and when they just need company. He’s the type to sit quietly beside a friend, sharing a drink or a cigar, letting them know they’re not alone.

Perfectly content with sitting in companionable silence for hours.

He’s surprisingly good at cooking, and loves to feed his friends. It’s one of the few domestic things he takes pride in, and he finds peace in the routine of it.

Never breaks a promise, no matter how small. If he says he’ll do it, whether it’s fixing something for you or showing up for a drink, he does it.

Logan brings back small souvenirs from missions for his partner, whether it's a pretty rock he found in a river bed, a flower pressed into his notebook, or a feather tucked into his jacket.

It's his way of saying "I was thinking of you while I was away"

Has a shoebox full of old polaroid's of his long-gone friends. He rarely looks at them, but keeps them to feel connected to those he's lost.

Also writes letters to his dead friends and keeps them in the box as well. It helps him process his grief.

Loves the smell and feel of old books. He can often be found in second-hand bookstores (or Xavier's library), running his fingers over the spines and flipping through the pages just to take in the scent.

Old!Logan needs reading glasses but is too stubborn to admit it. He’ll wear them when he’s alone, grumbling about how small the print is getting these days.

Has a soft spot for classic cartoons like "Looney Tunes." If he’s flipping channels and catches one, he’ll stop and watch, chuckling at the slapstick humor.

Logan is not a morning person. He’s grumpy before his first cup of coffee, and everyone knows to give him space until he’s had it.

"I CAN'T GIRLBOSS WITHOUT MY COFFEE"

He is a creature of habit, and he always orders the same meal at his favorite diners—usually steak, eggs, and a black coffee. The waitstaff know his order by heart.

Logan has a way with animals, even the ones that are usually skittish or aggressive. It’s like they sense he’s one of them, and they naturally trust him.

Modern day disney princess lookin' ass

Logan pretends to hate puns, but deep down, he finds them hilarious. If someone cracks a particularly bad one, he’ll groan, but there’s always a hint of a smile on his face.

*cough cough* I'm looking at you Wade

Ridiculously competitive at board games. Especially Monopoly and Scrabble. He’ll argue over the rules and demand a rematch if he loses.

When Logan is working on something mechanical, like fixing a motorcycle or sharpening his claws, he has a habit of whistling old tunes from the 1940s.

Guilty pleasure for musicals.

I had to put that in I'm sorry...

Has a small collection of vintage lighters from all the places he’s traveled. He likes the look and feel of a good lighter in his hand.

Keeps a collection of old dog tags from the wars he’s fought in. He doesn’t wear them but keeps them as a reminder.

Also has a small but growing collection of "World’s Best" mugs—like "World’s Best Dad," "World’s Best Boss," etc. He picks them up when traveling.

He likes the irony of it, because he would never describe himself as the "World's Best" of anything.

Logan loves the sound of old vinyl records. He has a small collection of blues, jazz, and country albums that he listens to when he wants to unwind.

Secretly believes in superstitions. Like always knocking on wood or avoiding walking under ladders. He knows it’s irrational, but after living as long as he has, he figures it’s better to be safe than sorry.

Hopeless with modern technology. He’s constantly asking for help with his phone, and he’s convinced that A.I. is out to get him.

He’s also been known to tap the screen harder when it doesn’t work, as if that will fix the problem.

Despite everything he’s been through, Logan believes in giving people a second chance. He knows what it’s like to be lost, to make mistakes, and to want to start over. He’s patient with those who are trying to better themselves and is willing to help them find their way.

Logan is a natural born leader.

And he deserves a life full of peace, love, and happiness