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and there's no sympathy from sdn, either. naturally, he'd never expected it. but they're cold and expectant of him. like a dog trained for only one thing. the sudden smell of blood occupies his nose and his mind threatens to become shark-like in the frenzy of it. he hasn't killed in a while. he swallows thickly, still pressed tight to the wall, struggling to draw himself out of his thoughts. he can hear a gun sound out, isn't sure if he imagines it or not, five shots exactly. looks at the body before them and sees him. fucking robbie robertson. the look of betrayal in his eyes. that feeling again... animosity. the urge.

“They never do.” He sighs, wiping his hands off on his pants. The red smears across his uniform, but he doesn't care. The best part of not doing solo work is he could bill for his laundry. “Don't say anything about not doin’ it, either.” The poor sap on the ground went down clean; no twitches or groans or nothing. He was lucky. Logan steps around the body, then glances back at his mission partner. It doesn't take super senses to tell the guy is tense, but they sure do make it even more glaringly obvious. The guy’s wound up tighter than any spring Logan’s ever seen. So he paused, regards him with a raised brow and a wrinkled nose.

He didn’t even want to know how long they had been in there, way over the scheduled two hours that was for sure. He’d be hearing that gruff voice in his head all day, barking his mistakes at him, pointing out where he’d put his teammates at risk with his antics. Remy was a thief, and thieves were typically loners even in defense. This whole working as a team with synergy was still something he needed to adjust to.

Remy had never been happier to hear that computerized voice announce the termination of the session, the pressurized gust of air from the doors opening couldn’t be sweeter. Even with training over, somehow he felt Logan wasn’t quite done with him yet. Even if his lungs were burning, his ears still worked damn fine. Ruby eyes shut with an irritating scoff—dammit he could hear the lecture now.

He didn’t even bother looking over the analysis on the way out. Remy turned on his heels to face Logan, prodding him in the chest with the blunt end of his bō staff, perhaps firmer than intended.

Huh. 

He glances down at the staff jabbing into his sternum with a raised brow and a curled lip. 

But before Victor knows the extent of his fuck-up, he tells Logan what little he knows about the Weapon X deal. Logan returns to the pan on the heat to stir the mess of meat and whatever else that he's putting together as Victor talks. It feels almost friendly and fond, what little comradery they've up together since yesterday, but something about Logan having his back to him makes Victor uneasy. Victor fiddles with his fingers as he talks, twisting, popping his claws, and working them back in.

"Weapon X, I don't know much more than what I just told ya," He mutters. And that's the truth. "Since a few hints of a rumor, that it was some kinda.... experiment, thing that they did to ya. I do know that when I met ya, you had all natural claws and regular old bones. Now ya don't. You're full of that metal, whatever it is. I guess, that's what they did. How, why? I dunno. Between last I saw ya and know is a big empty spot. I was down in the pit, and you, I guess they took you and wiped your brain and did things to ya."

The longer he talks, the more he watches Logan, the more he trails off, cutting off his line of thinking. Victor's hand extends, and then contrasts into a fist. His claws scrape at the surface of the table in front of him. A low growl sounds in his chest. The idea of other people touching Logan infuriates him. The idea of other people hurting his mate makes him even angrier. If he could get his hands on even one of those sons of a bitches who did this, he'd tear them apart, starting at the feet. But he couldn't, they were all ghosts, and what Victor is left with is the cold reality. He failed to protect Logan. If he had stopped the mind wipe, if he had broken out sooner, if he had found him quicker. Things would be better. Maybe, just maybe, Logan would still love him and they could do all those things they talked about, but never did. Might never do, now.

His thoughts on what was and could be, brought him back to the present. To focus on the angle of Logan's shoulders. The broad width, powerful muscle, and strong arms. He remembers tracing each curve and plane of his back in idle moments together. Admiring, touching, loving. Victor had been so obsessed with Logan, he still is. Every inch of him. God, the things he would do for Logan if he'd just ask, his entire body is Logan's far as he's concerned. He just wants ... Victor knows Logan. And so he knows the tension that strings him up. The way his fists clenches around that wooden spoon and the stench of fear and anger that bubbles up beneath the surface of his skin. Immediately, Victor cows, out of sight but in deference nonetheless. As if he can pull back his words into his mouth and make it all better, and make himself smaller, and more good, and not so ugly and big and awful. He scratches at his own hands, unsure of what to say or what was the right thing to do. In another time, another life, he would get up and put his hand on Logan's shoulder to sooth him. But in this moment Victor lacks both the confidence and courage to even move a muscle. Logan could rip out his intestines and cut him apart one piece at a time, and the most Victor would do is roll over to let him.

So, he says nothing.

He recognized the trigger point: mentioning the RV. in the few minutes it took for Victor to explain more, Logan had boiled over like an unwatched pot. Now Victor is desperately fanning the steam and turning down the heat. He almost rushes to fill in the gap of his words and fix it.

"We - we don't got to," he mumbles. "I guess. I mean, if ya, if ya like it so much. We'll figure out somethin' else. It's convenient, ain't gotta pay for a motel or anythin'..." It's not like even if they did that, there'd be a bed that Victor fits in. Or where Logan would want him. Might as well take the stupid RV. "And I don't think they know what your'e drivin' yet."

He can figure it out, they'll figure it out. His stomach pits nonetheless. What if Team X catches up to them? What if they take Logan away again? What if... he has to protect Logan, and he can't upset Logan. Victor briefly, feels sick, but the nausea passes and he's left scratching at his own hands, tugging at his hair.

"I ain't got nowhere else to go," he admits. "We always talked about... setting up up north. Buildin' a cabin somewhere up where there's no one to bug us and hidin' out there. Just the two of us." He breaths a soft sigh. "We'd fish and hunt for our food, and spend every night together."

Victor clears his throat, rubbing at his mouth to clear the flush on his face.

"Sorry, I guess that ain't a plan. Was just us shootin' the shit. Well uh, we could uh -- what do you wanna do?"

He had to lose everything again.

When would it be enough? When would it fucking stop? 

Never, that’s when. Not for him. If the people going after him had already done all the things Vic said, they’d never stop. Not until they had him. And when they caught him, what were they gonna do? He didn’t know. He didn’t even know what they’d done to him the first time - just that it made his head throb to think about. It was bad. That’s all he knew. He didn’t even know how bad - just bad. Just that he didn’t want to go back.

Just that Victor was right. 

God fucking damnit. 

He takes another deep breath, holds it, releases. Okay. Fuck it, okay. He wipes his hands down his face and steps backwards from the stove. One more step and his calf nudges against the little bench that half-surrounded the kitchen table. He sits, heavily. Drops his head into his hands again. He’s so tired. So heavy. This wasn’t supposed to happen. Fuck, it wasn’t supposed to happen. He had things figured out! Well- sort of. It wasn't much, hardly anything, but it was his. Except it wasn't. Okay, Logan. Fucking breathe. It's fine. It's fine! You can start over again. You’ve done it before.

It’s all you’ve ever done.

It’s fine. 

“These… Weapon X guys.” He begins without looking up, waving his hand in the air as though that would bring him some clarity. It doesn’t. “How long have they been after me? I only remember about…” He trails off again as he runs the math. He’d been with the Flight for about ten years. (The Flight. Could they handle this? He hadn’t talked to them since he left. … And shit, maybe they could make this go away, but it’d mean crawling back. It’d come at a price. Fuck, he was running from them already. He didn’t need to give Guardian a chance to drag him back. Not again.) “Eleven, twelve years? Something like that.” Another shrug as he sits up. “They been at it that long, they ain’t stopping.” Not until he’s dead or caught, and the first one is impossible. He should know.

He’d tried. 

Another forced breath as he stares at the ceiling. It's not much to look at - cheap metal with cheaper wallpaper plastered over it. It was covered in smoke stains and places the rust had bled through, and a few speckles from cooking accidents he’d deny if asked, and one odd mystery stain that he never bothered guessing the origins of. It had been there when he bought the damn thing, he was pretty sure. It had survived Victor’s cleaning attempts. It’d probably be there if they sold it, but, logically, it’d be better to torch the damn thing. … And all the memories that came with it. All of them. Anyone who bought it would have a target on their back, at least for a bit. It’d be better to total it in a ditch or set it on fire.

Or both. 

He keeps staring at the ceiling. He spent a lot of nights looking up at it when the dreams had gotten bad. He’d spent a lot of nights finding constellations in the cracks and discolourations. He knew them all by heart. This is a dumpster on wheels, a rolling shitheap, but it’s his. All of the memories in these dented aluminum walls were his. He’d made them himself, on his own time, doing his own thing. No Flight, no orders, no… No Weapon X, or Team X, whatever that was. Just him. 

And now he had to get rid of it. He closes his eyes and reminds himself to breathe again, even as his hands curl into fists.

He should check on the food. 

He makes himself stand and return to the little stove, giving the meat-mixture another stir. It’d be ready soon. At least, even if this is one of the last nights in his little home, he gets a hot meal. That’s something. 

Some tension eases away when he’s told he can keep his things. The man doesn’t even ask what’s in the box, he just agrees. Weird, but Lucy decides he’s not going to question it. Not out loud, at least. He doesn’t want to risk the man deciding Lucy has a point, looking inside, seeing the bird skull, and changing his mind and making Lucy leave it all here.

Or worse, risk him seeing it and throwing it away.

Considering the one he has was found completely randomly, he doesn’t know when he might ever be able to find another one. Sure, he could maybe just make one—and the means by which he could varied quite a bit—but he doesn’t want to do that.

He doesn’t want to risk using his powers like that in front of this man when he doesn’t really know how he’ll respond to it (barely flinching in the bedroom doesn’t count, when he was busy trying to keep Lucy calm and get him out of there, because of course he wouldn’t make a big deal of them, then). And the other things he can think of doing to get himself a bird skull just sound awful, even in his own head.

So he nods, and he keeps the box close, and he keeps his mouth shut about it. Breathes for what just might be the first time in months when they get outside and he sees over his shoulder that the Johnsons aren’t following.

They’re glaring through a window, but the curtains quickly shut. Lucy isn’t sure if it was them that shut them or him, but whatever the case, he’s seemingly free from them.

You don’t have to worry about them ever again. Promise.

Only time will tell if that’s true. He really hopes it is—for the first time in a long time, Lucy hopes.

He nods eagerly, the hint of a smile with missing front teeth making an appearance for a second or two before he schools his expression into something more serious. Wanting to show he’s telling the truth when he says, “I can be good.” He tries not to think about how those words taste like a lie on his tongue.

He has to swallow back the question of whether or not he’ll be allowed to fly the jet, not wanting to push his luck, even though he really wants to. Even though he thinks he probably could fly it, if he was asked to. How hard can it be?

It’s difficult not to say all that, but he somehow manages.

That smile makes a reappearance when he finally sees the jet, growing into something awed. “Woah,” he breathes. “It’s huge!” More than that, it’s so cool!

“Yup, that's her.” He nods. He’s staring up at the jet with his arms crossed loosely over his chest. “We call her the Blackbird.” The pride in his voice is audible. No, he hadn’t built the old girl, or played any real part in its creation, but damn if she wasn’t a beauty. “Top of the line and state of the art. Ain’t a thing in the sky that can outpace or out shoot it.” He lets the moment hang for a bit, just standing and admiring the jet. Then he gives the kid a nod. 

“C’mon, we’re not goin’ anywhere by standing around.” The gangplank lowers with a hiss, and Logan begins the trek up. It’s good to be back on board. The sooner they could leave that place in the dust, the better - and he was pretty sure the kid would agree. 

“Working off some frustration.” He didn’t need to know that frustration was a dry spell and the anniversary of her brothers’ deaths. The word instead came with a hard right hook to the dummy’s face that sent its head skittering and bouncing away. Well…

Turning back to him again–because what else was she going to do now?–emerald green eyes flickered down, then up his frame. Assessing curiously before she eased into a defensive stance; that same cool smile staying comfortably on her features.

Why the hell not. 

❛   are you sure i can't talk you into re-joining the Avengers ?   ❜ might as well shoot her shot while they are together. it can't hurt, even if she already knows the answer. ❛   i'm in charge now, so yanno . . . it'd give you FREE REIGN.   ❜ not her best sell, but he already knows how much he means to her.

even if she cannot bring herself to say it. some part of her still thinks she has a cool image to maintain.

Carol knew he'd agree, which is why she's already SMIRKING, arms outstretched to photon blast a couple of them on her side. before rushing forward for a couple of good old-fashioned punches.

as soon as her fist connects with a NOW-BROKEN  nose, she laughs at his question. ❛   i thought the implication that i would win was clear from the beginning.   ❜ then again, she should probably be keeping count. some finger guns later, she's knocked out a couple more. ❛   meaning, you are cooking dinner.   ❜

He'd be lying if he said he hadn't considered it. Right now, he was on call. He’d come in when the Avengers needed him, but he was an X-Man through and through. Might not have always been, but he always would be now. 

… 

Wouldn’t he? 

Guess that was the real question. Even he wasn’t sure of the answer. He never did like labels. Wherever he went, though, and whatever team he reported to, he’d always show up when she called him. 

“Don’t act like I’m all that hard to find.” He grins. “The yellow ain’t exactly for stealth.” His chuckle is undercut by the sound of his fist introducing itself to a face it didn’t like. Seemed that the feeling was mutual. A parry of claws and a slice down, easy as breathing.