Fervent Feelings

X-Logan Chapter 22 - A Whirlwinds Coming Around

"Just stay quiet," I murmur to Laura, our bodies squeezed into the cramped, dark trunk of the car. The air is thick with tension, the tight space forcing us to breathe in shallow whispers. I can't see her, but I hear the soft rustling of her clothes and the subtle shifts of her small frame, letting me know she's nodding.

The car slows, jerking slightly as it pulls into park. Without warning, Laura clamors to push the trunk open, desperate for freedom from the oppressive heat. "Laura, wait!" I hiss, my voice barely above a whisper. I stumble out after her, blinking against the sunlight that assaults my eyes.

Ahead, Logan strides toward a worn-down building, his broad frame tense with purpose. Another man, shrouded in layers of clothing, his face not visible, calls after him. We duck behind a cluster of overturned barrels, my heart racing as I peek between the gaps.

A military-type car pulls into the driveway. Pierce, the man with the robotic arm, steps forward, exchanging words with Logan. His voice is calm, too calm.

Beside me, Laura stands gripping a lone metal pipe she found on the ground, her knuckles turning white as she eyes Pierce with dangerous intent. Before I can stop her, she lets out a feral roar and hurls the pipe with unnerving precision, knocking Pierce to the ground. The clang of metal against flesh echoes in the still air as his body hits the dirt, unconscious.

I remain crouched, tugging at Laura's wrist, her small hand gripped tightly in mine. My pulse quickens as a new presence fills the air, their emotions a tangled mess of confusion and sorrow.

"Logan... Logan!" an old man's voice calls out, crackling with age. The man rolls into view, wheeling himself forward in a battered old chair. His presence sends a chill down my spine, recognition blossoming deep in my chest. It's him—the man from my dreams, the one who feels like home and heartbreak all at once.

"This is Laura," the old man says gently, "Caliban, come!" The shrouded figure from earlier steps forward at his side. "This is who I've been telling you about. This is Laura... and an old friend, Y/N."

I freeze, my body stiffening at the mention of my name. Old friend? My eyes dart between them, unsure of what to think. Laura steps forward, her usually hardened expression softening as the man speaks to her in soothing tones, his words in Spanish. I don't understand much of it, but whatever he says seems to calm her, and she inches closer.

"No, Laura, wait," I call out, rising to my feet, but the old man waves us over, his frail hand gesturing for us to follow.

"It's alright," he reassures, his voice soft but commanding. "Come, come here."

That feeling—grief, sorrow, love, and recognition—hits me again, stronger this time. I turn and meet Logan's gaze, his eyes heavy with something I can't quite place. He looks at me like he's seen a ghost, and for a brief moment, the air between us is thick with unspoken words. But Laura's impatient tug on my hand breaks the spell, and I follow her to the man in the wheelchair.

Charles, the old man, rolls forward, leading us through the 'yard' toward a dingy, makeshift home. "It's safe here," he assures, leading us into the kitchen, handing Laura a bowl of cereal. He hands me a glass of water, my parched throat grateful for the relief. His eyes linger on us, filled with wonder and something deeper—hope.

Without a word, Laura begins eating, her tiny hands clutching the bowl as if it's the only solid thing in her world. Charles starts communicating with her, but not with words. There's something unspoken, something telepathic, passing between them.

Logan enters the kitchen, his steps heavy with exhaustion. His gaze sweeps over us, then lands on Laura's bag. Without warning, he grabs it, tugging at the worn fabric. Laura's eyes narrow as she grips the bag in return, and they're locked in a silent battle of tug-o-war.