Logan wasn't planning on taking a kid. He knows he ain't suited to take care of one, but this kid needs him. It's an odd thought.
He'd only been passing through, and hating the perfect suburban lawns and rows of identical houses, when he'd smelled fear in Number Four.
From what little he remembers, Logan knows he's smelled a lot of fear. Usually he inspires it.
This wasn't the sort of fear from a nightmare. Logan knew that stench from waking up to shredded bedding and his breaths no more than harsh pants.
Number Four reeked of constant fear, with an undercurrent of piss. And there ain't any good reason for a home to smell like that.
If some asshole was beating on his wife and kids, well, Logan was prepared to stop it.
Instead, he'd found Harry locked away, forced to soil himself like a dog in a cage. Harry seems to have enhanced senses like Logan and hasn't said a word, but Logan's more of an animal than Harry, and he'd never treat a kid like that.
Some part of Logan still wants to storm back inside with his claws out, carve up his sorry excuse for relatives and paint the pristine, gleaming kitchen and floral wallpaper red with their blood.
Growling, Logan lights his cigar and clamps it between gritted teeth, fighting back the beast raging within him. He ain't going to orphan that little butterball, even if the even bigger one and the horsey woman deserve it.
Beside Logan, Harry freezes like a deer in the headlights. He'd been rocking, covering his ears and grinning at Logan's ride.
Logan blows out a cloud of smoke. "Ain't mad at you, bub. Harry."
Harry's fingers start drumming a beat in his hair. He's rocking again, leaning toward the motorcycle and then jerking back like he's expecting another growl or further punishment for getting too close. Over and over.
The motorcycle ain't equipped for a kid, and Logan doesn't have a helmet for himself, let alone Harry. Logan will heal from any crash, but kids have soft skulls. Or is that babies?
Logan doesn't trust Harry to hang on either, with the way he's keeping his hands clamped over his ears. Sighing, Logan stubs out his cigar on his palm, ignoring the brief burn that heals instantly. There are all sorts of ads against smoking these days, saying it's your worst enemy. Logan knows it ain't his worst enemy, but he doubts Harry's lungs heal.
He gets Harry sitting near the handlebars and swings on behind him, wrapping an arm around Harry's stomach.
Harry tenses when the engine growls and roars, but a laugh escapes him when they start moving. He cuts it off like he ain't allowed to laugh, either.
Logan may not be a cheerful guy, may not have heard anyone laugh like that in who knows how long, but he's not going to begrudge the kid his fun.
Once they're really moving, Harry cheers and whoops, enjoying the speed and the wind whipping through his hair.
They ride to Cokeworth, which, like the town Logan took Harry from, has rows and rows of identical houses. Logan checks them into the Railway Hotel. It's a gloomy place, but Logan's slept in far worse, and it's better than the cupboard. No spiders here, at least.
Harry keeps glancing out the window towards Logan's motorcycle, until Logan promises "We'll ride more tomorrow. We ain't staying here."
Logan kicks off his boots and stretches out on one of the beds. He could really do with his cowboy hat, but they don't sell 'em over here.
Harry starts to crawl into the wardrobe until Logan tells him to get in the other bed. The kid doesn't ask for a story or a lullaby, which is just as well.
"Stay in that bed," Logan warns, just in case Harry's thinking of sneaking back to the wardrobe. Remembering how he found Harry, he adds that he should get up and use the toilet if he has to.
Shutting his eyes, Logan hopes Harry has the sense not to crawl into Logan's bed if he's having a nightmare, or he might end up getting stabbed.
He really needs to find a better home for Harry, because he knows it ain't with him.
The next morning, they eat stale corn flakes before hitting the road. Harry's almost bouncing with excitement as he climbs onto the motorcycle, even if he still covers his ears.
Logan doesn't know where he's going. He just drives, stopping only to eat or relieve themselves, and spending the nights at seedy hotels. Logan's not concerned about Harry's safety. Anyone wanting to hurt the kid would have to get through him.
The TVs in the hotels never show hockey, and Logan's wondering if they should head to Canada or the States.
One time, as they eat burgers atop Logan's motorcycle, a bit of mayonnaise from Harry's burger drips down towards the shining chrome of the bike. When Logan looks down, there's no mayo, just a drop of water.
Huh. Is that Harry's mutation? Harry hunches like a dog about to be beaten, but Logan just tells him it's a neat trick. Not like mayo wouldn't have wiped off the bike, either. Harry's relatives really did a number on him.
Harry's starting to stink- has been for days, really, but even with his enhanced senses, Logan's used to the smell of body odor. He has to have his own by now.
Logan stops at a store to get Harry new clothes. The clothes he's been wearing clearly belonged to the other boy and are several sizes too large.
Harry gravitates towards flannel shirts and jeans, like Logan wears. It almost makes him look like Logan's son, which Logan ain't exactly comfortable with. It's not like he can keep Harry around forever. His life is no life for a kid.
He also finds a pair of headphones for Harry, a miniature version of what workers might wear when building things. Harry pulls them off, alarmed, but once he realizes they dull the noise of the motor and free his hands to grip the handlebars and pretend he's driving, well, it's the loudest Logan's heard him laugh.
Logan's cash is rapidly disappearing. One night, he checks into a slightly fancier hotel, leaves Harry in the room after telling him he's allowed to watch TV, and heads to the local pub. He has a few drinks, hears a few folks talk about cage fights in another pub, and knows where he can win some cash.
Logan returns in the early hours of the morning with a thick wad of £20 notes. Harry's asleep on the floor- he needs to sit close to see the TV, and Logan wonders if he needs glasses. The TVs still on, so he'd clearly fallen asleep before he could slink to the wardrobe.
Logan scowls at the players kicking around a ball. They really need to find somewhere with hockey.
Logan crouches to wake Harry up and send him to bed.
Harry doesn't look relaxed. His face is pinched, and he's tossing and turning. Nightmare.
"Wake up," Logan tells him, putting a hand on Harry's bony shoulder.
Harry gasps, jerking awake and stifling harsh breaths. It seems his forehead is hurting him now, not his ears. He's rubbing the lightning shaped scar above his eyes.
"Hey, bub. Harry." Logan says. "You had a nightmare."
Harry launches himself at Logan, clinging to him tightly. Logan awkwardly pats Harry's back. Harry doesn't cry into Logan's shirt or anything, and Logan's glad.
Harry's staring at the blindingly bright green paint on the wall.
Logan picks Harry up and deposits him in the bed. When Logan pulls away, Harry clings to his shirt, but reluctantly lets go.
Logan heads over to his own bed and says "Nobody's going to hurt ya here."
Harry looks away from the blinding green wall, and falls back asleep facing Logan.