Betsy Braddock glanced at her co-pilot, more than a little disturbed the the usually-unflappable Kurt Wagner was fidgeting like a toddler on Red Bull. He'd not been still from the moment Professor Xavier informed the team of his worries that Logan and Teva had been gone long enough without contact, long enough that he had used Cerebro to locate them when they didn't answer several calls to their cellphones.
The restlessness had only gotten worse when only Logan's psychic signature was found, and not where it was expected to be. Betsy had almost told Kurt to stay home, that should could find their teammate on her own, but not even God Himself could have kept Kurt away from the man he'd adopted as a brother.
Even Kurt's tail was twitching erratically, the spade-shaped tip swishing back and forth behind his head. Betsy had to concentrate on blocking him out despite her considerable psychic defenses, simply because he was projecting so hard, but she couldn't begrudge him. She, too, saw Logan as a brother, had shared a psychic bond with the Canadian at one point, and she could not help but worry that the worst had happened, as it always seemed to. Mutants never got a happy ending though Logan's luck seemed to be worse than most.
"There is one place, just there," Kurt said, pointing through the cockpit window of the smaller aircraft they'd taken. The Blackbird was a bit too big and they weren't sure they'd have the room to set down either easily or stealthily, though that last wasn't too much of a concern. They'd found Logan out in the middle of bloody BFE, but even were it a more populated spot, she could influence anyone into believing they'd seen nothing at all.
"I see it," she replied, going through the motions with barely a thought. She was already scanning with both the craft's sensors and her own powers, the purple butterfly of her psychic energy seeking what might not be noticed with the other senses. "I've got him," she announced after a moment.
Kurt disappeared in a bamf of brimstone, not even waiting for her in his eagerness since she'd already shown him where Logan was, and the deep snow at this high latitude wasn't enough to deter his determined bounding. He could hear Betsy behind him, cursing softly to herself as she picked her way carefully; ninjas just weren't suited to tromping through snow up to their knees.
They found him under a great stand of balsam firs, huddled in a fetal position as if even in unconsciousness he was trying to protect himself, and Kurt felt his stomach drop as he hit his knees. The feral mutant was wearing the remains of a t-shirt and jeans, and though he could survive nothing at all in lower temperatures, his condition was a worry.
"Logan," Kurt said quietly, reaching out with the top of his tail to touch the other man. He knew full well what Logan was capable of and that he could get his tail away faster than a hand.
When no response was forthcoming, Betsy arrived and knelt as well, heedless of the snow melting into her pants.
"Allow me," she said, reaching out with her psi. The purple butterfly alighted gently against the dark head of hair that was barely visible curled up as he was.
Logan groaned, a tortured sound that seemed incongruous to the fact he was physically fine, and Betsy felt her heart clench. While she couldn't penetrate further than the uppermost realm of his psyche without his conscious consent, that was enough to make her gasp and press a hand to her stomach at the wall of grief he couldn't fight past.
"Betts?" came his rough voice, more hoarse than she'd ever heard it before so that she had to lean forward to catch it, to understand him.
"I'm here, Logan. As is Kurt."
He relaxed a bare fraction, enough to lift his head and open his eyes, and there was such agony in their dark depths that she cried out.
Kurt scooted in close and pulled Logan up into his arms. The acrobat was probably one of a bare fraction who could even attempt physical contact like this without receiving a violent response. Even so, Logan's muscles clenched and his fingers gripped the back of Kurt's coat, knuckles white and hands shaking.
"We are here, mein bruder," Kurt said softly, one three-fingered hand rubbing at his friend's back while the other arm was locked tight around his shoulders to keep him upright. "What has happened?"
For several long minutes, all Logan could get out was a mumbling growl, as if he'd forgotten the ways of speech. He shook with the effort until he went almost slack again, exhausted, his head against Kurt's shoulder. His eyes went out of focus.
Betsy called her telepathy to the fore again, letting Logan see the butterfly that made a mask over her face.
"May I?" she asked, receiving the barest nod of acceptance. This time she floated but a moment at the periphery of his thoughts to anchor herself before she went deeper, afraid of what she would find there.
Blood. Sabretooth. Screaming. Death.
She could see it clearly as any image on a television, played in nauseating technicolor brutality, his own recollection of Teva's fight against Victor Creed; Betsy herself knew full well what he was capable of, had nearly died at his hands. Teva's ultimately-futile fight was hard to watch, helpless without any way to defend herself against a man whose strength probably ranked close to Piotr's while enduring anything she could throw at him.
The image slowly went red, not just with Logan's beast at the surface but also with the one Teva had acquired from her newly-wed husband. Betsy had to pull back more abruptly than she wanted to but she didn't think she could do any more damage to his mind than had already been done. The grief was a very effective insulation.
When she shared the information with Kurt, the blue man held Logan tighter, and only then did Logan show any signs of humanity as he broke. It was a mark of not just how far gone he was but also how much he trusted them that he didn't care, didn't hold it in, didn't worry that he might appear weak to them. If anything, it was a relief that he could drop his guard instead of cramming it down like he'd done so often in the past, waiting until it exploded into a berzerker fury. It meant he would be able to heal from this latest blow.
With his body half-burrowed against Kurt's, Logan let Betsy hold him from behind so that he was surrounded. His sobs were painful to hear coming from a man for whom crying was a rarity, his body jerking with each ragged breath in and out, and even though he'd surrendered to the pain his muscles still corded with stress. And for the first time, he was chilled to the touch. Always before when Betsy touched him he was warm, very nearly radiated heat.
An unknown time passed as they supported him, ignoring the snow soaking their clothing. He was quiet, now, though there was still a fine tremor that had nothing to do with the cold. When he shifted they eased their hold on him, helped him get to his feet and caught him when he stumbled for a moment.
They let him set the pace back to the jet, strapping him in when he seemed unable to do so himself. Betsy couldn't remember ever seeing him so lost, nearly helpless, and she wondered if Teva's death had permanently wounded his psyche. She'd been able to feel the raw edges where the telempath's link to Logan had been ripped apart, knew that that kind of injury could do irreparable mental damage.
He was silent on the flight back, one hand clenched in a fist in his lap, the other dangling. Betsy and Kurt didn't force him to talk and didn't speak to each other except regarding the flight itself.
Charles and Hank were waiting for them in the hangar. Betsy quickly shared what she knew, watched her mentor and her friend react to the news; Hank seemed the hardest hit.
"Could you handle a trip to the medbay," the doctor asked, "or would you rather get some rest?"
Logan blinked. "I just wanna sleep for now," he mumbled, not looking at any of them. With no further words he walked off and after a moment Kurt followed.
The German was for once at a loss for words, and unsure if Logan even registered much of what was said to him. He wasn't naturally talkative but this was laconic even for him. He was likely in shock, if the glazed look in his eyes was any indication. He moved like one in a trance.
Once in his room, Logan collapsed facedown on the bed and appeared to fall asleep.
Kurt sat at the desk, moving a stack of books from the chair. They were all English textbooks from the writing class Teva had been teaching, with dogeared pages and numerous neon colored flags sticking out.
The desk itself was rather neat because of Logan's natural tendency towards order. His Japanese textbook lay on top of his closed netbook along with a pen and notepad.
The rest of the room was controlled chaos. Teva tended to keep her clothing neatly put away whereas Logan devolved into typical male behavior with clothes scattered here and there, focused mainly in a pile by the hamper. Neither was given to knickknacks; Teva's better guitars were in their stands against one wall, while Logan had put the Clan Yashida daishō on display on top of a tall chest of drawers, backed by a scroll in kanji.
It made Kurt's heart ache to see it all, to know that Logan had been dealt another harsh blow, one that Kurt was unsure Logan could come back from. The older man had become withdrawn after losing Mariko so long ago; Teva had been entwined with Logan mind and soul, known him more intimately than any other person in his long life. To lose her would mean losing a piece of himself.
Kurt made a quick 'port to his own room and back, just long enough to grab his battered copy of The Lord of the Rings trilogy and a bottle of water. He wasn't sure how long Logan would be out but he didn't want him to wake up alone.
Tom Bombadil had just wished the four Hobbits farewell when a strangled groan pulled Kurt's attention from his book.
Logan was sitting up, his hands rubbing at his face and then into his hair. "Hey," he said, his voice soft and hoarse.
"Guten abend," Kurt replied, placing one thick fingers as a bookmark. He knew better than to ask how his friend was doing, and he didn't want to dredge up pain. "I expect you'd like a shower. Shall I scrounge us up some dinner?"
"Sure." Well, monosyllabic answers were better than nothing. At least it was in the affirmative.
He gave Logan 20 minutes, more out of propriety on his own part; the Canadian wasn't given to fits of modesty and would think nothing of Kurt being there if he came out of the bathroom naked. When he returned he found Logan – clean and dressed in his usual t-shirt and jeans – out on the terrace, face turned towards the setting sun.
"How long's it been?" he asked.
"Six weeks. It took us a little over one to track you down when we became concerned." Kurt set down the tray he'd brought, carrying bowls of reheated stew, crusty pieces of homemade bread and cups of cider. "We were only able to find your psychic signature."
Logan nodded, still looking away. "Weren't even at the cabin a day," he said, voice quiet. "Knew it was comin'. Thought maybe we'd get more time."
Kurt heard the soft patter of blood on stone, knew Logan was unsheathing his claws just enough to break the skin. He'd seen him do it before and knew it was more an unconscious reflex than deliberate self-harm. Even so, he was slightly surprised that Logan was talking at all. He'd expected silence.
He knew better than to bring up anything religious. As long as they'd known each other, the closest Logan had ever come to declaring faith was to say he was sure someone out there was deliberately playing with him. He practiced a version of Zen Buddhism but that was more philosophy than theology, and he didn't always adhere to the Eight-Fold Path.
"How far's the news spread?"
The question drew Kurt from his thoughts. "Just the staff, so far. We didn't want to worry the children, I expect Charles will address it in a day or two."
"The kids'll take it hard."
"Logan-"
"I'm fine," Logan cut him off. He laughed roughly. "No, that's a load of horseshit. It hurts, Elf, worse than I thought it could, but she'd kick my ass if I let it take me down." He turned to his friend, absently wiping blood on his pants; his other hand held something, his fingers worrying at it. "I wanna fuckin' howl at the moon for all the good it'd do me."
He sat down at the small wrought-iron table, picked up a cup of cider and drained it like a man dying of thirst. When he set it down, he also put down whatever was in his other hand.
"Is that...?" Kurt leaned forward, his lambent yellow eyes easily seeing in the growing dusk. On the table between them lay Teva's wedding ring. "How did you get it?"
Logan shrugged. "Was in my pocket along with a bit of paper with Deadpool's stupid symbol on it."
"But why would he do something like that?"
"Because he's batshit crazy?" Logan shrugged again. "No use tryin' to figure Wade out." He lifted the chain holding his dogtags over his head, opened the catch and slid the ring onto it before closing it again and putting the chain back around his neck.
"Thanks, Kurt." He didn't elaborate what he meant, but it didn't matter.
"Anything, Logan."