Fervent Feelings

X-Logan Chapter 21 - Who or Why, What's One is One

Logan shuts the metal door behind him with a heavy clang, the sound echoing through the rundown warehouse. It's a far cry from the world they once knew—his home, his hideout, his sanctuary now reduced to this dilapidated shell of a place. Charles' voice drifts through the air, rambling in disjointed sentences, audible even from this distance. Logan lets out a weary sigh, dropping his duffle bag onto the nearby table with a loud thud, the weight of it matching the exhaustion in his bones.

"He's having a bad day," Caliban's voice pierces through the quiet, the albino man standing off to the side, arms crossed as he observes Logan's entrance.

"They're all bad days," Logan mutters, fishing a small white prescription bag from his pant pocket and tossing it onto the counter. The weariness in his voice betrays the toll of too many long nights, too many fights that never seem to end.

"He needed these six hours ago," Caliban replies, inspecting the crumpled paper bag with a critical eye. Logan limps over to the sink, the slight hitch in his step evidence of a wound that never quite healed.

"This is not enough, you know." Caliban moves about the dingy kitchen, his movements calculated as Logan pops open the fridge and grabs a beer. "Won't see us through the week."

"I'm working on it," Logan responds through a sigh, turning just as Caliban holds out the medicine toward him.

"Your turn." Caliban's tone is flat, but the unspoken weight lingers in the air. "I've had a rough night."

Logan rolls his eyes and snatches the bag, the pills rattling. "Well... poor you." His sarcasm is as sharp as ever as he slams the beer down on the counter with a dull thud, heading down the hall.

"In other news," Caliban continues, watching Logan with a knowing gaze. "He told me last night he's communicating with someone."

Logan shakes his head, flicking on the lights illuminating the space as he searches for something. "He's not talking to anybody."

"Don't be so sure..." Caliban presses. "He's got all these details. Even says they have a friend that you know."

Logan pauses for a moment, his brow furrowing, but he quickly brushes it off. "I thought that tank was supposed to act as a barrier," Caliban adds, his voice trailing after Logan. "It's got them cracks in it."

"Just please stop," Logan snaps, rifling through a drawer with quick, irritated movements.

"Bottom left," Caliban directs, his tone calm amidst the tension. Logan grabs what he needs, a quick nod of thanks passing between them before he heads toward the door, prepping the vial and needle as he walks.

"You're not listening," Caliban persists, his footsteps following Logan's down the hall. "He's been asking questions again—about why we're here. I think he's trying to read my mind."

"That's what these are for." Logan raises the bag of pills over his shoulder, pushing open the heavy door that leads to the sun-scorched exterior of their hideout.

The wind whips against him as he strides toward the water tank, its rusted frame standing like a grim reminder of the life they now lead. He opens the door, the metal creaking as he steps inside, shutting the world out behind him.

Inside, the chaos of Charles' mind is palpable—his voice echoes in waves of confusion and pain. Logan fights through it, trying to remain steady as Charles' seizure hits with brutal force. After a desperate game of cat and mouse with the delirious professor, Logan finally gets the needle in, watching as the medicine flows into Charles' veins, calming the storm raging in his mind.

Carefully, Logan lifts Charles' frail body, placing him back in his bed with the tenderness of someone who's been through this too many times. He hands him the pills, the same routine they've done a hundred times before.