Life is pain, highness.

He hummed. This ‘hour of the morning’ was more accurate phrasing given the current time and state of things. Whatever may have been his original intentions for slipping down to the kitchen when Logan an hour ago, there was little chance of him returning to bed now.

Sighing, he drained the last of his cup, determined to make good use of his ill-timed alertness. He’d just finished rinsing the mug when a cacophony of sound erupted in the living room. Dropping the cup—thankfully break-proof—he rushed to investigate.

A three-meter circular portal had opened in the wall next to the television. Unframed and not in its usual place in the hallway between the twin’s rooms, the boundary on this door to the Imagination wavered, crackling as it immediately began to shrink.

The roar of flames and the dragon that breathed them assaulted Logan’s ears. Smoke and soot spilled out, following by a second dragon’s cry. The boundary shrank further, now barely half a meter across. Just before the portal closed, a hand reached out. Bruised and bloodied, smeared with ash, the hand flailed, scrabbling for a handhold that was not there. The hand reached further and the once brilliant white of Roman’s tunic peeked into view.

Without thinking, Logan grabbed his hand and pulled the Prince free from the portal just as the boundary collapsed, sealing the fire and dragons in the Imagination behind it.

“Roman!”

Tunic and pants singed, thin wisps of smoke curled up from his clothes, his hair. Roman’s belt and scabbard were hot to the touch, as were the warped epaulettes on his shoulders. He had more wounds that Logan could count at a glance, with a slowly spreading dark stain creeping out from the gash in his trousers. Liberally dusted with soot, it was difficult to see precisely where the blood was coming from.

“Calculator Watch,” Roman mumbled, head heavy on Logan’s arm. His eyes were only half-open and even that seemed to require extraordinary effort. “Didn’t think anybody’d be up. No-one usually is.”

“You didn’t—you—No-one—You fool!” Logan sputtered, willingly expressing his worry as anger. It was easier. More productive. “How often do you go off gallivanting on your own in the Imagination in the middle of the night?”

Roman’s only answer was a shrug.

“Roman?” Logan shook him, wincing when Roman whimpered briefly before opening his eyes.

The hero’s mask slipped back into place and he gave Logan a crooked smile. “I shall be fine,” he said, voice quavering. “Just need a moment.”

“To hell with that,” Logan spat. It took a bit of work to get his feet under him in a squat but finally he got Roman properly positioned in his arms. He pushed up, lifting him off the floor. Roman’s arm fumbled, weakly looping over his shoulders.

“I can walk, Nerdy Wolverine,” he mumbled, eyes still closed.

“Mm-hm,” Logan grunted. “That’s your brother’s nickname for me.”

As Logan hoped, irritation sparked fresh energy in Roman’s limbs and he held on tighter. “Don’ wanna talk about him,” he growled.

“Fine. We can talk about what in the name of Newton you were doing out there instead,” Logan said. Grip finally stable, he staggered to the bathroom with his Princely burden. “But first we’re getting all this ash off you so I can see what we’re dealing with.”

“’m fine, Logan,” Roman mumbled.

Eyebrow raised, Logan didn’t need to say aloud what they both knew. If he couldn’t be bothered to come up with a new nickname—not to mention fight his way out of Logan’s grip, Roman most certainly was far from fine.

“Let’s get your wounds cleaned and then you can convince me just how ‘fine’ you are.”

~

Too shaky to stand—though he’d never admit it—Roman quickly acquiesced to Logan’s suggestion that a bath might be safer than a shower. Grateful to have avoided that particular argument, Logan held his tongue as he helped him into the tub, sudsing up his hair and back while Roman slowly worked to wash whatever else he could reach. Save for a burn and a nasty trio of gashes on his thighs—the dragon’s claws, Logan guessed—most of the other wounds covering his hands and face and shoulders were smaller. Burns, cuts, and bruises, some of which were already showing signs of his rapid healing.

Whatever else could be said for the brash, pig-headed, egotistical—Logan halted his own internal tirade. Whatever else could be said for him, Roman was, in the end, a more than adept fighter. Logan was certain anyone else—with the possible exception of his even more violent brother—would have fared far, far worse.

After refreshing the bath four separate times when the water grew too murky to do much more than simply spread the blood and soot around, Logan deemed him sufficiently cleansed and helped him out of the tub. Wrapping him first in the largest towel he could find, Logan protected his modesty the best he could while still patting him dry.

The bandages would stick better to dry skin.

Clearly still too weak to use his Creative powers to simply conjure fresh clothes, Roman needed Logan to summon an existing tee-shirt and shorts from upstairs. Finally dressed, Logan settled him into a seat on the edge of the tub and knelt in front of him. He opened the first aid kit and pulled out the gauze and a tube of bactine.

“This may sting a bit,” he warned before dabbing it around the deepest of the wounds. Roman flinched but didn’t make a sound and simply watched Logan work without complaint or comment.

His silence was unnerving.

“So would you like to tell me what you were attempting to accomplish out there?” Logan asked as he wound Roman’s thigh in a triple layer of gauze.

“Does it matter?” he asked quietly. “I failed.”

Logan liked it better when he called him a nerd. Tearing off a bit of tape to seal the edges of the wrapping, Logan hummed. “I would not characterize arriving home alive as a failure.”

Leaning against the wall, Roman’s eyes fell shut. “It’s not a success,” he muttered.

“Falsehood,” Logan said, sharper than he’d intended.

Roman’s eyes flew open, red-rimmed and glossy with tears.

“You, Roman, are worth far more than some Pyrrhic victory over the creatures of your Imagination,” he said firmly. “You are a vital part of Thomas’ psyche. Beyond carrying half his creativity, you bear his sense of strength and self-assurance and his—”

“But I’m not his hero anymore, though, am I?” he said, pulling away. “Heroes don’t hurt people.”

“Roman, you did not intend to harm Thomas with your ruling,” Logan began. “You were merely—”

“I mean De—I mean Janus.” Roman huffed and looked away, nostrils flared. “And you.”

Oh.

Logan stared at him for a long moment before busying himself with the first aid kit. Eyes focused on the blistering burn along Roman’s other thigh, he shook his head. “I am unharmed by anything you have said to me.”

“Do you want Janus to show up?” Roman said. “We both know that’s not true.”

He spread another layer of burn cream to Roman’s leg before answering. “I… suppose it is not entirely accurate that your words have had zero impact me,” he finally said, glancing up from the corner of his eye. “I… I have endeavored not to… fixate on it, though. I have a job to do.”

“Is that all I am to you? Is that all this is?” Roman asked, gesturing around them at the towel drying on the rack, the open first aid kit. “You’re just doing your job to—to—to keep ‘Thomas’ psyche’ well?” he sputtered and pounding his fist on the edge of the tub. “We used to be friends, dammit!”

“I—” An inexplicable lump grew in Logan’s throat and he shook his head. Roman simply watched him wrap fresh gauze over his burn. Arms crossed over his chest and jaw set, Roman wore the posture of impatience, annoyance. Anger.

But his eyes were still wet and he made no move to leave the cramped bathroom.

Logan sighed. “No,” he said at last. “No, Roman, of course that’s not all you are to—When…” He took in the cuts and burns and bruises littering Roman’s body and he shuddered. “When I first saw your hand reaching out from the Imagination, all I could think was, well… I couldn’t think. I just…” He frowned, searching fruitlessly for the right word. “I just… felt.”

Silence dropped between them again but Roman’s crossed arms loosened, slowly sliding back down to rest at his sides.

Clearing his throat, Logan reached for the hand with the most burns. “I do not believe I am ready to discuss my… feelings on the matter,” he said. “Yet,” he added, meeting Roman’s eyes. “But believe me when I tell you it is heroic to attempt this conversation.”

Roman’s face softened into an almost smile.

“And, perhaps—if you wish—I could accompany you to speak with Janus,” Logan offered with a small shrug as he dabbed ointment over Roman’s burnt knuckles. “I could… mediate during the conversation or help you prepare beforehand by serving as a sounding board of sorts or—“