Marvel: Reader Inserts

The Library ~ Part 11 ~ Logan Howlett x Reader

 It rained that morning. Not a storm, just a quiet drizzle— a gray mist that clung to the trees and slicked the stone path winding through the back garden of the mansion. The same path students had walked a thousand times. The same path you had once wandered, hand in hand with Logan.

The school had never been so silent. Every student. Every teacher. Every mutant who had once passed through the halls— they all stood there now, dressed in black, some holding flowers, some holding books.

The casket was simple. Hard-carved wood. No frills. No shine. Just smooth grain, warm color. Logan had built it himself one night when he couldn't sleep.

Ororo stood by Charles, her shoulders straight but her eyes glistening. Jamie held one of your notebooks in his arms like a sacred text. Hank looked like he hadn't slept in days. Jean and Scott stood side by side, holding hands. And Logan stood at the front. Still. No tie, no umbrella, no words. Just his hand on the casket.

Charles spoke softly. "She was not one of our warriors in the way the world expected. But she fought. Every day. For all of us. For the truth. For knowledge. For peace. She gave more than any of us could ask. And we are better for having loved her."

No one moved as Jamie stepped forward. He placed the notebook on the casket. "She saved me," he said quietly. "Before she ever got between me and a bad day or a mistake... she saved me. With stories. With patience. With kindness." He stepped back, lips trembling.

And still Logan didn't speak. He just stood there— drenched and unmoving— until the others began to file away. Eventually, it was just him, your casket, and the rain. He knelt beside the casket, placing a single book atop it— one of yours. The spine was cracked. The corners worn. You had read it a hundred times. He brushed his hand across the wood like it was your skin.

"I don't know how to stop loving you," he whispered. "I won't."

He stood slowly, fingers curling into fists. Then he turned and walked back towards the mansion. The casket would be buried in the garden. You name was already carved into stone by his own hands. And the world would go on. But Logan wouldn't. Not really. Because the library was quiet now and so was he.

~~~

The mansion was eerily quiet after the funeral. Most had gone to their rooms. Some students cried in corners, others sat in silence, unsure how to process the gaping hole left behind.

But Logan didn't rest. He hadn't changed out of the clothes he wore to hurt you. The black shirt you loved so much was still wet from the rain and clinging to his back like guilt. He stood in his room now, throwing things into a duffel with a kind of haunted precision— like if he moved fast enough, maybe the pain wouldn't catch him. Boots. Jacket. Cigars. A bottle of whiskey. The small photo of you tucked under his shaving kit. The zipper screamed shut. He threw the strap over his shoulder and turned for the door— only to find Ororo and Jean blocking his path.

He scowled, trying to sidestep them. "Move."

"No," Ororo's voice was firm.

Jean didn't speak. She didn't have to— her presence in his mind was quiet, humming, alert. She was ready if he bolted.

"I'm not doin' this," he growled. "Not stayin' here like nothin' happened."

"No one's asking you to pretend," Ororo said, stepping into his path more. "But running into the woods like a ghost in the night won't bring her back."

"You don't know what I need."

"I know she wouldn't want this."

He flinched.