"I miss them, Logan. Do you?"
Between Sight and Silence alternate ending 🦋 deleted scene/archived
pairing: Logan Howlett x mutant fem!reader
summary: after you came back from stasis, a year after, you and Logan leave xmen behind. Happily with your own lives in his hand build cabin.
word counts: 3k
warnings/tags: cuddling, suggestive intimacy, talking about xmen and life
a/n: the format spacing is a bit weird bcs i use my phone to post this.. i usually use my laptop but I'm not at home.. anyway.. here we go fellas
request is open Series masterlist Logan Masterlist
Logan was stretched out in the old chair by the hearth, boots planted wide, shoulders loose in a way you rarely saw in him. His flannel sleeves were rolled up, forearms smudged faintly with sawdust from the day, and the smell of cut wood clung stubbornly to him. He didn’t speak, didn’t need to. He had his cigar pinched between two fingers, left unlit, just rolling it absently while his eyes tracked you the way they always did — like he was taking inventory, like he couldn’t quite believe you were real and here and his.
The cabin creaked the way only new wood did — settling into its shape, breathing against the weight of the night. Outside, the forest pressed close, pine needles whispering when the wind dragged across their boughs, the lake not far off catching pieces of moonlight in ripples. The world was quiet enough here that every sound carried: the pop of resin in the fire, the sigh of the logs shifting, the soft drag of wool across the floor when you shifted the blanket tighter around your shoulders.
You let the quiet sit. It wasn’t uncomfortable. The cabin was small, but it held space the mansion never could. Here, there were no footsteps echoing down hallways, no voices of students rising and falling in waves, no metal doors clanging in sublevels where missions were planned. Just wood, stone, and fire. Just breath and heartbeats.
“You keep starin’ like that, you’re gonna burn a hole through me,” you said finally, half-smiling into the blanket.
Logan huffed through his nose, something between a laugh and a growl. “Ain’t starin’. Just watchin’.”
“Mm. Creepy distinction.”
His mouth twitched, and for a moment he looked younger, softer, like the man he never let the world see. Then it was gone, his eyes narrowing, the line of his jaw tightening — not at you, but at something further, something out there in the dark beyond the cabin. You didn’t have to ask to know. The X-Men. The fight. The ghosts.
You shifted from the blanket cocoon, padding over to him on bare feet, the wood floor cool beneath your toes. He reached for you before you could even climb into his lap, a hand curling around your wrist, tugging until you were settled against him. You could feel it in the way he pulled you in — not desperate, but close enough. Close like he was anchoring himself.
Your cheek pressed to his shoulder, you breathed in smoke and pine and the faint salt of his skin.
“You think they’ll come for us?” you asked, voice low.
He didn’t answer right away. His hand rubbed slow circles against your hip, warm through the flannel you wore. Finally, he said, “If they do, they’ll find nothin’ worth takin’. Not from me.” His hand slid higher, up your spine, thumb brushing the back of your neck like a promise. “Not from you.”
The words settled into the fire-warmed air, heavy but grounding. You knew what he meant: he’d fight, claw, tear down anyone who came to drag you back into that world. But there was something else in it too — the aching truth that the world would never really stop spinning, even if you both had chosen to step off.
You leaned back enough to look at him. Firelight cut across his face, catching the grooves time and battle had carved into him, softening the harsh line of his brow. “You built this for us,” you whispered. “Doesn’t matter if they come. This… it’s ours.”
His eyes softened in a way you rarely saw — like steel bending, like something unbreakable finally choosing to yield. He bent his head and pressed his forehead to yours, the smallest thing, but it carried more weight than any vow.
The silence stretched, warm and steady, but your mind kept circling back — not to the fire, not to the safety of the walls he’d built, but to the memory of when he was gone. When you thought he might never come back.
“Dumb question,” you murmured against his shoulder, your voice barely a ripple. “Did I scare you… when I was gone? When— you know…”
The words trailed off, but he caught them. He always did. His hand stilled on your spine, the weight of it grounding and unyielding. For a long moment, he said nothing, and the fire snapped in the silence like it was daring him to fill it.
When he finally spoke, his voice was low, roughened at the edges. “Scare me? Darlin’, I was outta my fuckin’ mind.”
You shifted, pulling back just enough to see his face. He wasn’t looking at you — his gaze was fixed on the fire, jaw tight, every line of him carved from something heavier than the cabin could hold.
“Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t sleep. Every time I closed my eyes all I saw was you—gone. Or worse.” He swallowed hard, his throat working. “I don’t scare easy, but losin’ you? That—” His hand clenched at your hip, as if testing that you were solid. “That damn near broke me.”
Your breath caught, shame and relief tangling in your chest. “I didn’t want to…” You faltered, shook your head. “I didn’t mean to leave you like that.”
Finally, his eyes dragged to yours. They were dark, steady, burning with that feral edge that always lived under his skin — but softer too, like he was letting you see the wound itself instead of the scar.
“You came back,” he said simply. Like that was the only thing that mattered. Then, quieter, almost to himself: “That’s what saved me.”
The fire cracked, the forest sighed, and you leaned into him again, letting his words settle the way embers did — slow, glowing, impossible to ignore.
Your hand rose before you even thought about it, fingers brushing along the rough edge of his jaw. The stubble rasped against your skin, grounding, real. His eyes flicked down to the touch, then back to yours, but he didn’t pull away.
“I’m so sorry,” you whispered. The words cracked at the edges, too small for what they carried. Sorry for scaring him. Sorry for leaving. Sorry for every weight you’d put on his shoulders, when all he’d ever wanted was to carry you into safety.
Logan’s jaw flexed under your touch, but he didn’t let the silence stretch this time. His hand came up, closing gently over your wrist.
“Don’t…” he said, voice rough, gravel dragged over something gentler. “Don’t you apologize for survivin’.” His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, slow, steady. “If anyone owes somethin’, it’s me. For not keepin’ you safe in the first place.”
The firelight painted him in gold and shadow, softening everything hard about him, but his eyes stayed sharp, locked on yours. The weight of his grip, the steel in his voice, the trembling edges beneath it — all of it told you the same thing: he wasn’t asking for forgiveness. He was swearing he’d never let it happen again.
You leaned closer until your forehead rested against his temple, your fingers still curled against his jaw. The apology lingered between you, but you let it dissolve in the warmth of his presence, in the vow unspoken but etched into the shape of his hold.
Your thumb lingered on his jaw, tracing the lines time had carved into him. The silence between you stretched, but another thought pressed out before you could stop it, soft and searching.
“How did you convince Charles?” Your voice was barely above the crackle of the fire. “You never told me about that. About us being here.”
For the first time that night, Logan’s eyes shifted — away from you, away from the hearth, out into the shadow-thickened dark beyond the cabin windows. His jaw worked once under your hand.
“Wasn’t much convincin’,” he muttered after a beat. “Chuck’s always been good at readin’ what folks need, even if he don’t like it.” His gaze came back to you, steady but shadowed. “Told him I wasn’t askin’ permission. Just a heads-up.”
You blinked. “And he just… let you walk?”
Logan’s mouth twisted into something between a smirk and a wince. “He didn’t try to stop me. Knew better. Tried talkin’, sure. Said the team needed us. Said they’d need you.” He paused, the weight of it pulling his shoulders taut. “But he saw it in me. That if I stayed, I’d burn out or tear the place apart. And he knew you’d follow me, no matter what he said.”
Your chest tightened — not from regret, but from the sharp ache of loyalty split down two paths. The mansion, the students, the people you’d fought beside. And this: the cabin, the quiet, the life Logan had bled his hands raw to build for you both.
“What did he say?” you asked softly.
Logan leaned back in the chair, dragging a hand over his face. When he spoke again, his voice was low, almost reluctant. “He said, ‘Find peace, Logan. If you can.’” His eyes flicked to you then, something fierce breaking through the weight. “And that’s exactly what I’m doin’.”
Your throat tightened. You pressed closer, tucking yourself against him as the fire burned lower. The world outside would always remember the two of you as X-Men, soldiers, fighters. But here, in this cabin he’d carved out with his own hands, you were just… his.
Logan’s arm stayed heavy around you, anchoring you to the present, but your voice slipped out before you could stop it.
“I miss ’em.”
The words sat fragile in the space between you, quieter than the creak of settling wood.
Logan’s chest rose slow under your cheek. He didn’t answer right away, didn’t fill the silence with false comfort. His hand rubbed once down your arm, calloused thumb catching on the fabric.
“Yeah,” he said finally, voice low, roughened. “I know.”
You closed your eyes, guilt catching sharp in your chest. “The kids… everyone. Even the arguments in the halls. It feels—wrong sometimes. Like I walked out on family.”
His jaw flexed against your temple. You felt the rumble of his words before you heard them. “You didn’t walk out. You chose somethin’ for yourself. For us. That don’t erase what you had with them.”
You lifted your head, searching his face in the dim glow. “Do you miss them too?”
Logan’s eyes flicked away, catching the firelight like molten amber. For a heartbeat, you thought he wouldn’t answer. Then, softer than you’d ever heard him: “Every damn day.” His arm tightened around you, his mouth brushing the crown of your head like a vow. “But I’d miss you more, and we survived long enough. Let's have this life now. Tired of waiting..”
The ache stayed, but it bent under his words, softened into something you could bear. The fire popped, the forest breathed, and in the fragile quiet you let yourself believe that missing them didn’t mean you’d made the wrong choice.
You leaned into him, guilt and longing still twisting in your chest, when his voice cut low into the hush.
“We’ll visit ’em for Thanksgiving.”
It was muttered, almost like he didn’t want to give the words away — but you heard them, felt them rumble against you where your cheek rested on his chest.
Your eyes lifted to his. “You mean it?”
His mouth twitched, not quite a smile, not quite a frown. “Ain’t sayin’ I’ll wear a tie or sit through Summers carvin’ a bird like he invented the damn holiday. But… yeah. We’ll go. Let ‘em see you’re safe. Let ‘em see we’re okay.” His hand cupped the back of your head, pulling you in tighter. “Then we come home.”
The word home caught you, lodged like warmth in your ribs. For years you’d never thought you’d have one. Now you had this cabin, the man who built it with his hands and stubborn heart, and the thin thread still tying you to the people you’d left behind.
Home. And family. Both, somehow.
You let your eyes slip shut, breathing him in, and whispered, “Then I can live with that.”
You tightened your fingers over his, feeling the warmth of his palm against your stomach. The firelight painted his smirk in gold and shadow, and you couldn’t stop the words from slipping out, half a laugh, half a sigh.
“It’s only been a year we’ve been married. And you’re relentless — knocking me up like it’s a sport.”
Logan’s head tilted back just a fraction, a low rumble of a laugh rolling out of him. His eyes narrowed at you, amused and wolfish all at once.
“Relentless, huh?” he drawled, leaning closer until his nose brushed your hair. “Darlin’, you say that like you don’t climb me just as much.”
You swatted his chest with your free hand, though your grin betrayed you. “That’s not the point.”
“The hell it ain’t.” His smirk deepened, his voice dropping to a rasp against your ear. “Face it — you love it here. Us. This.” His hand pressed firmer to your bump, and his eyes softened, molten heat shifting into something achingly tender. “And if it means fillin’ this cabin with more of you… I ain’t apologizin’.”
You smacked his chest, the sound a sharp thump against his flannel. “Logan!” you scolded, heat rushing to your cheeks at his vulgarity.
He only chuckled, entirely unrepentant, that low gravelly sound vibrating through his chest under your palm. “What?” His eyes gleamed as he bent down to nuzzle the line of your jaw, his scruff brushing your skin. “Ain’t nothin’ but the truth.”
“You’re impossible,” you huffed again, trying to keep the indignation in your tone, though your lips were already curving against his hair.
“Yeah,” he muttered, softer now, the humor fading into something more fragile. His hand spread over your bump again, thumb stroking slow. “But somehow, you still put up with me.”
He stilled beneath you, the playful spark draining from his face as every line of his body went taut. His head turned just slightly, the way he always did when his ears caught something yours never could. For a heartbeat, he looked less like a man and more like some animal frozen on a ridge — alert, primal, listening.
Your fingers tightened on his shirt. “What?” you asked, your own voice quieter than you meant, bracing to stand from his lap if he needed to move.
“Shh,” he murmured, eyes narrowing toward the window. The forest was quiet, the kind of quiet that usually soothed you. But Logan’s stillness turned it heavy, made you hear every creak of the cabin and shift of wind outside.
You swallowed. “Logan?”
His lips twitched, somewhere between annoyance and reluctant amusement. “Damn rabbit,” he muttered. “Chewin’ through the carrots I planted last week.”
You let out the breath you’d been holding and swatted his chest again, though softer this time. “You nearly gave me a heart attack over a bunny?”
He gave you a look, as if yes, even rabbits are serious business when they were on his land. “It’s not just a bunny. It’s a thief. Ain’t buildin’ this place up from nothin’ just to feed the whole damn forest.”
You covered your mouth to smother the laugh bubbling up. “Logan… you realize you sound like an old farmer right now?”
He didn’t answer, just grunted, still listening to the faint rustle outside. Then his hand slid back over your bump, his thumb stroking in circles like he was grounding himself. “Guess it ain’t the worst thing in the world. Baby’ll have plenty of stories about how their old man wrestled rabbits for carrots.”
This time, you couldn’t hold back the laugh.
Your laughter was still shaking through you when you felt it — the subtle change in his touch. The lazy circles his thumb had been tracing over your bump slowed, then drifted lower, his palm spreading wider against your body. His other hand, the one resting against your hip, began to wander too — sliding over the curve of your waist, up the line of your ribs with a patience that made your breath catch.
“Logan…” you warned softly, half-hearted, because your pulse was already betraying you.
He rumbled something low in his chest, not quite words, the sound brushing against your skin like a growl smoothed down into affection. His mouth found your jaw again, unhurried, his scruff rasping your skin as he pressed a kiss just beneath your ear.
“I’m bein’ good,” he muttered, though his hands said otherwise — mapping you, coaxing you closer. “Just remindin’ you who you married.”
You shook your head, but your body melted against his all the same, warmth sparking where his rough fingers splayed across you. “As if I could forget.”
You blinked up at him, cheeks still warm from his words, from the way he spoiled you without even realizing it. And then—poof.
His hands closed on nothing but air.
Logan froze, wide-eyed for the fraction of a second it took him to realize you’d vanished right off his lap. His head turning sharp, nostrils flaring as he caught your scent still lingering close. “...Really?” he growled into the empty space.
Your laugh spilled out from the corner of the cabin, where you shimmered back into view leaning against the wall. “Couldn’t help it,” you said, smiling sly. “You were getting too sentimental.”
His jaw flexed, but the corner of his mouth betrayed him with the start of a smirk. He pushed up from the chair, slow and deliberate, eyes narrowing as they locked on you. “You think disappearin’ gets you outta this?”
You shrugged, feigning innocence even as your pulse jumped. “Worked just now.”
Logan caught you before you could flicker out of his reach again, but instead of scolding, he pressed a kiss to your hair and gently steered you back toward the chair by the fire. His hands were firm on your shoulders, his voice gruff but careful. “Sit. I’ll handle dinner tonight.”
You arched a brow at him, half-amused. “You? Cooking? Again?”
“Don’t sound so shocked,” he muttered, guiding you down until you were settled. “Ain’t the first time. Won’t be the last.”
It wasn’t, and that was the truth. The rhythm of your days had settled into something steady — on the nights when the ache in your back or the muscle spasms had you barely moving, he would quietly step in, rolling up his sleeves and taking over the kitchen without a second thought. Sometimes it was a proper meal, other times it was just something he threw together with what you had on hand. But it was always enough. Always done with a kind of clumsy, earnest care that made your chest ache.
Watching him now — tugging open the pantry, muttering to himself about whether the potatoes had gone soft — you couldn’t help but smile. “You’re spoiling me again.”
“Yeah, well,” he said without looking back, pulling out a pan with a clang, “gotta feed the mama and the baby before you get cranky and craving weird things when you're hungry.”
You give him a stink eyes as a protest. Logan just gruffly laughs. "I made my point. You are scary when you crave weird food combinations. There is still a whole jar of pickled garlic & oranges you asked me to make in the fridge last weekend."
You huffed and demanded him to start cooking more than yapping.
