HELICARRIER – LEVEL 7, DEBRIEFING SUITE – 10:14 PM
(Where the walls are see-through, the chairs are torture devices disguised as furniture, and the awkwardness is strong enough to qualify as a security risk.)
So. This was happening.
Harry slouched in the middle of a semicircle of weirdly ergonomic couches, radiating that particular blend of post-battle exhaustion, residual magical overdrive, and the resigned energy of a guy who knows he's about to be asked to do something horrifyingly awkward. Again.
He looked like a walking Calvin Klein ad crossed with a battle-scarred Greek god. The black tee clung to him like it had signed an NDA. His damp curls were just the right amount of tousled, and his green eyes still had that faint magical glow that said "I may spontaneously explode, but I'll look amazing doing it."
On his left, Jean sat with her arms crossed, flame-haired and still mildly on fire. Next to her, Natasha Romanoff lounged like a velvet-wrapped dagger—legs crossed, one brow lifted, every inch of her screaming "I could kill you with a hairpin and make it look like an accident."
Tonks, being Tonks, was upside down in a floating Stark chair, wearing sunglasses despite being indoors, and sipping something aggressively neon out of a novelty cup shaped like a skull.
Logan stood by the glass wall, brooding so hard he might as well have been commissioned by DC. His arms were crossed, his glare was on MAXIMUM, and his entire vibe screamed "I am way too old for this mutant soap opera nonsense."
Ororo didn't sit. She stood, backlit by city lights like a weather goddess auditioning for a fragrance ad. Calm. Beautiful. Quietly terrifying.
And then in walked Maria Hill.
Clipboard in one hand, tablet in the other, cheekbones sharp enough to pierce steel. She had the energy of someone who'd rather be buried in reports than dealing with this crowd of chaos goblins.
"Let me get this straight," she began, not bothering with a hello. "You broke into a blacksite, neutralized fourteen security systems, knocked out or sedated at least five operatives, reprogrammed a living weapon, and turned Mister Sinister into a magical amphibian. In leather."
"Also," Tonks said, flipping her shades down her nose, "we ordered pizza. With Sinister's card. Anchovies. Because we're petty."
Hill stared like she was contemplating retirement. "Right. Sinister is currently locked up in high-tier psychic containment. He is cuffed, gagged, drenched in anti-magic ink, and sitting in a glass box inside another glass box. If anyone breathes weird near him, the entire Helicarrier goes on lockdown."
"Could've just stabbed him in the knees," Logan muttered.
"We debated it," Hill deadpanned. "Twice. But we want intel. He has data on Hydra cells, black-market gene-banks, and some frankly disturbing files labeled 'Harry: Versions 1 through 12.'"
Harry raised a hand. "Can I request those files be set on fire and/or launched into the sun?"
"We're working on it," Hill said, too casually.
She tapped her tablet. The screen behind her lit up with a less-than-flattering freeze frame of Laura in mid-feral growl.
And boom. Just like that, the room got colder.
"Laura Kinney," Hill said. "Current status: conscious, verbal, pacing like a caged jaguar who just saw her therapist turn into a snack."
Jean winced. Natasha raised an eyebrow. Ororo sighed. Harry leaned back like he was bracing for impact.
"She imprinted," Jean explained. "Harry's DNA is close to hers. Her instincts read him as Alpha. And then they read him as..."
"Hot," Tonks offered.
Jean shot her a look. "As a mate. It triggered her fight-or-mate response. And she's not in the mood to fight."
Logan groaned. "She's my daughter."
"She's your clone," Natasha corrected. "Weird? Yes. But biologically? More your twin sister than your kid."
"Not helping," Logan growled.
"She's chemically locked in mating heat," Ororo said evenly. "Trauma, pheromones, adrenaline, and instinct all converging. The options are simple: combat or contact."
Hill didn't blink. "So we either let her punch someone until she's better. Or..."
"Or she climbs Harry like a tree," Tonks said.
"You guys realize I'm still in the room, right?" Harry muttered. "Not an object. Not a chew toy. Definitely not a therapy service."
"No," Natasha said smoothly. "But you are the best-looking outlet for a mutant hormone bomb. And let's be honest—you've been flirted with by worse. Remember that succubus? The one from space?"
"She tried to lay eggs in my chest cavity," Harry said.
Jean patted his thigh. "At least Laura won't do that. Probably."
Hill raised a hand. "Focus. We need resolution. Laura's not safe to deploy until she levels out. And frankly, she can't level out until her brain stops screaming 'Mate or Murder.'"
"We prep a room," Jean said. "Magic-proofed. Monitored. She gets to decide. No pressure. Just choice."
"We let her choose to maul Harry in a SHIELD-approved cuddle room," Natasha clarified.
"With condoms," Tonks added brightly. "Magically enhanced. Triple warded. Enchanted with anti-pregnancy and pro-pleasure runes. You're welcome."
Logan made a noise like a dying bear. Or a dad being forced to read his kid's fanfic.
"She deserves agency," Ororo said, her tone pure grace and thunder. "Whatever she chooses, it should come from strength, not chaos."
"Twelve hours," Hill said. "Then I want her cleared for action or secured. Until then, figure it out. And Harry?"
He looked up. Wary. Tired. Sparkling with just enough sarcasm to be illegal in twelve dimensions.
"Try not to fall in love with another assassin. We're running out of holding cells."
Harry grinned. Slow. Dangerous.
"No promises. But I'll keep the tongue injuries to a minimum."
Tonks spit out her soda laughing.
Jean groaned.
Natasha muttered, "Hot."
Ororo smiled like she was already planning the weather for their wedding.
And Logan?
Logan walked out.
Probably to go drink battery acid.
—
HELICARRIER – LEVEL 9, BIOSECURITY CONTAINMENT – 10:49 PM
(Or as Stark sarcastically called it on the maintenance logs: "The Oops Room.")
The door hissed open with the dramatic flair of a soap opera villain making an entrance. It was basically saying "Are you sure about this, buddy?" in mechanical tones.
Harry stepped in anyway. Because of course he did.
Immediately, the room hit him in the face with humidity and pheromones so thick he could taste the bad decisions. It smelled like ozone, adrenaline, and lust—all the ingredients for a future lawsuit.
The walls pulsed with soft light from magical runes. The air crackled. The room itself seemed to be holding its breath.
And in the center of all that electric tension stood Laura.
Barefoot. Tank top torn in strategic places. Hair wild. Eyes glowing gold like a jungle cat that had absolutely decided what was for dinner—and spoiler alert, it wasn't pizza.
"Hi," Harry said, lifting a brow. "Love what you've done with the murder-glare. It's very 'predator on a Vogue cover.'"
Laura didn't reply.
She growled.
It was low, primal, and distinctly un-chill. Like every neuron in her brain had been replaced with the word MINE in blinking red neon.
Then she pounced.
And for the record?
Harry had braced.
Didn't help.
One moment he was upright, the next he was airborne, then bam—back slammed against the padded wall like a chew toy at a werewolf daycare.
Laura was on him, straddling his hips, claws at his collarbone, breathing like she'd just sprinted through a forest and didn't not enjoy the idea of biting him.
"Mine," she hissed.
Harry sighed. "Okay, first of all, possessiveness is not sexy unless it comes with snacks. Second—"
She kissed him.
No, scratch that—she devoured him.
Her mouth crashed into his like a lightning strike made out of teeth, heat, and the urgent need to do deeply irresponsible things. Her hands fisted in his shirt. Her claws accidentally-on-purpose shredded it, like the fabric had personally offended her.
"Right," Harry muttered, catching her wrists mid-scratch, green eyes glowing like eldritch lanterns. "So we're skipping foreplay and heading straight to the 'murder-cuddle' phase of the evening?"
She growled again, louder, face buried in his neck. Her breath was fire, her body a furnace of tension and fury and pure mutant want.
And Harry?
Yeah. He wasn't made of stone.
He flipped her. Smoothly. Like they'd rehearsed this in some twisted X-Men ballet. She landed with a soft oof on the mat, arms pinned, legs locked with his.
Now he was above.
"Alpha, huh?" he said, voice low and velvet-edged. "So that's the deal. You smell my DNA, and suddenly it's all 'claim, mount, repeat'?"
She didn't answer. Just bared her teeth and arched under him like she was about to either kiss him or rip his throat out. Possibly both.
"Still not a fan of the murder part," he muttered, adjusting his grip as her claws scratched down his abs, carving thin red lines that healed almost instantly. "But points for enthusiasm."
Laura's eyes locked on his.
There was no calculation there. No reason. Just instinct and raw heat and that terrifying, beautiful need that didn't come from logic or desire—just biology.
"I don't want to think," she said, voice breathless and broken. "I want you."
The silence that followed could have cracked the Helicarrier in two.
Harry didn't move. Didn't blink.
Then he kissed her.
Not gently. Not savagely. Just right.
And she melted. Then snapped. Then wrapped her legs around his waist and pulled him close like she planned on keeping him there until the next apocalypse.
They rolled. Again.
His shirt? Gone.
Her tank top? Ripped to shreds and floating somewhere near the ceiling like a very confused ghost.
Every kiss was teeth. Every caress was claws. Every sigh was a declaration of war on self-control.
They didn't go all the way.
But they got close enough that the room filed a sexual harassment complaint on their behalf.
Skin to skin. Lips to neck. Hands in hair. His magic sparked between them like a live wire—hers answered with growls and gasps and the soft, broken sound of someone who didn't know how to be wanted, but was trying anyway.
"Still think I'm your Alpha?" he asked, voice cracked and wrecked and stupidly smug.
Laura blinked up at him, face flushed, chest heaving, golden eyes soft for the first time in hours.
"You're not my Alpha," she whispered. "You're just... mine."
And Harry, for once in his life, didn't smirk.
Didn't joke.
Didn't say anything.
He just kissed her again. Slower, this time. Like a promise. Like a storm breaking.
Because she was right.
And she wasn't alone anymore.
Meanwhile, outside the cell...
Maria Hill stared at the surveillance screen, one hand hovering over a button labeled "Abort Mission" and the other clutching a very judgmental coffee mug.
She sighed. Loudly.
"If one more person says 'soulmate,' I'm opening the emergency airlock. I don't even care if we're over New York."
—
HELICARRIER – LEVEL 9, BIOSECURITY CONTAINMENT – 12:12 AM
(Post-clawing, post-snarling, post-several shirts sacrificed to the gods of mutant courtship.)
The room had calmed, but only just. It still smelled like electricity, adrenaline, and a very specific type of pheromonal chaos that could probably be bottled and labeled "Poor Decisions, Vol. 3."
Harry lay sprawled on the padded floor like he'd just survived a magical tornado, which, in fairness, he kind of had. Naked from the waist up, scratches across his chest already fading thanks to accelerated healing and mild divine stubbornness, he had one arm over his eyes and the other lazily draped across what remained of his dignity.
Next to him, Laura Kinney was curled under a SHIELD blanket that was doing its best, bless it. Her claws had retracted, but only just. Her hair was a tangled war zone. Her toes brushed his leg in a way that might've been accidental, but also might've been territorial. Her eyes, still faintly glowing, kept flicking toward his face like she was waiting for him to bolt, vanish, or turn into a pumpkin.
"...So," she said, her voice raw and low like her throat had recently hosted a concert of growls. "Was that a one-time thing?"
Harry sighed. It was the kind of sigh you made after saving the world again and then realizing you'd left the oven on. "Well, unless you plan on mauling me and bolting, no. That wasn't just mutant heat and poorly timed chemistry. That was you clawing your way back from the edge. And also, you owe me a new shirt. Again."
Laura snorted, then immediately looked confused about how the sound escaped. "Didn't feel like healing. Felt like an exorcism. With extra hormones."
He cracked one eye open. Emerald green. Wicked. Too pretty to be legal in certain dimensions. "Please. I've had worse first dates. One girl turned into a basilisk halfway through dinner. I still flinch near seafood."
That earned the tiniest twitch of her lips. For Laura, it might as well have been a belly laugh.
"So," she said again, more cautious this time. "The redhead. The storm goddess. The bubblegum-haired one. And the spy who's probably assassinated at least three people for chewing with their mouths open. They your... girlfriends?"
"Yep," Harry said, popping the 'p' because he was that kind of menace. "Jean, Ororo, Tonks, and Natasha. Collectively known as the Circle of People Who Keep Me Alive, Despite My Best Efforts."
Laura blinked. "They knew you were coming in here? With me like this?"
Harry nodded. "I gave them the rundown. Imprinting. Hormones. Probable fight-or-mate scenario. Natasha didn't even blink. Ororo just asked if I needed a weather-proof blanket. Tonks suggested adding glitter to the post-mating room."
Laura stared at him. "And Jean?"
"Said if you wanted in, you were welcome. No pressure. No politics. Just choice."
She blinked again. Claws tapped against the mat.
"Harem?"
"Tonks' word, not mine. I prefer 'chaotically polyamorous paramilitary cuddle squad.'"
A beat. Then Laura let out a breath that might've been a laugh. Or a low growl. Possibly both.
"And you're okay with this? With me?"
"Laura," he said, shifting onto his side, brushing a lock of hair away from her face, "you've been treated like a weapon, a clone, a project, a threat. But here's the truth: you're none of those things. You're someone who deserves love that isn't transactional. If you want to be part of this mess? I'm in. We're in."
Her eyes shimmered, golden and wide. She looked like she wanted to bolt. Or bite him again.
"I don't know how to be... part of people."
"Good," Harry said. "We suck at it too. You'll fit right in."
They lay there, quietly. Claws dormant. Magic settled. Just... people.
Until Laura asked, quietly, "Is this the part where I call you my Alpha? Or bondmate? Or... boyfriend?"
Harry grinned, the kind that could launch a thousand ships or at least cause a security lockdown.
"Only if you want to. But heads up: if you say 'mate' in front of Logan, he might burst into flames."
Laura smirked. Real. Sharp. Hers.
"Then I'm definitely saying it. Loudly."
Outside, in the surveillance suite, Hill rubbed her temples while Natasha, sipping from her wine glass, murmured, "Bet five bucks she calls him mate before breakfast."
Tonks cackled. "I'm making jackets."
Hill didn't look up. "If someone says soulmate, I'm airlocking the building."
—
HELICARRIER – LEVEL 9, BIOSECURITY CONTAINMENT – 3:42 AM
(The air here still smells like sex, sweat, magic, and the kind of poor life choices that deserve their own support group.)
The silence was so thick you could cut it with a cursed dagger. And that was saying something, because the room was still ridiculously humid and charged with leftover magic. It looked like it'd survived a hurricane — a hurricane made of pheromones and bad decisions.
Harry lay sprawled across the padded floor like someone who'd just survived a gladiator match and an awkward family reunion. His SHIELD-issued blanket was bunched around his waist, looking less like protection and more like a shredded trophy. The kind of trophy you keep because, well, nobody else is brave enough to touch it.
Next to him, Laura Kinney was draped diagonally across the mat, looking exactly like a feral goddess who'd just claimed the world and Harry's willpower as her own. Her skin was flushed in that perfectly-wild "I just mauled my problems into submission" kind of way. Her hair was a glorious mess that screamed "I don't have time to care, and neither should you." And that smirk? Oh, that smug, alpha-level, "I own this chaos" smirk that dared you to challenge it.
They reeked. Not just of sex, but ozone, adrenaline, and some spicy combination of raw power and whatever magical shampoo Harry used that made him smell like a forest right after a storm.
Laura scrunched her nose, looking like she was debating whether to vomit or laugh. "Okay. We definitely reek."
Harry groaned, which sounded suspiciously like a mix between "I'm exhausted" and "I might have to kill someone soon." "Correction. You reek. I smell like a victorious cinnamon roll. You're welcome."
She slapped his chest — claws mercifully retracted, for now. "I'm covered in you," she muttered, inspecting her skin like it was a Jackson Pollock painting of questionable life choices and stains. "Head to toe. Like some kind of... magical mating trophy."
Harry's lips twitched into a smirk. Eyes closed, he added with the casual arrogance of a man who knows he's way too charming, "I aim to please. Consider it my gift to the world."
"Shower," Laura commanded, already pushing herself up and tossing the remains of the blanket aside with zero ceremony. "Now. Or I will drag you in there by the—"
"I'm going! I'm going!" Harry scrambled up like a cat who'd been worshipped a little too enthusiastically. "No need to get violent again. Yet."
The adjacent decontamination suite had been primed, naturally, thanks to SHIELD's team of elves who apparently expected the worst — and delivered clean clothes, a bottle of eucalyptus something-or-other body wash, and a little note from Tonks that read: "Don't break the water heater, you horny gremlins."
Laura tossed the note back like it was the kind of treasure map that led to certain death. "Tempting."
Steam curled into the air as she stepped under the hot spray like she owned every droplet of water in the room. Not even bothering to look back, she crooked a clawed finger. "Come on."
Harry followed, because obviously, why not? He was nothing if not predictable in the face of gorgeous mutant chaos.
The hot water hit them both, instantly fogging up the mirrors, runes on the walls, and probably at least one poor surveillance camera whose firmware was now suffering PTSD.
Laura tilted her face into the spray with a satisfied purr, her muscles slowly uncoiling from the tension of the last few hours. The jungle-cat tightness in her shoulders melted away, replaced by something softer — almost... tender.
Harry was right behind her, lathering up his hands with a suspiciously citrusy body wash that smelled like a questionable vacation he hadn't actually taken. "Back massage? I'm offering professional-grade pampering here."
Laura spun on him, eyes flashing gold and full of fire. "Later. Right now, I want to practice something. Something important."
Harry blinked. "Practice… what, exactly? Dodging mutant murder claws?"
She pressed a kiss to his jaw, then whispered low against his throat, "I've had a lot of... enthusiastic training tonight. But I want to get really good at it. You know... deep strategy. Long game."
His eyebrow shot up. "Still talking about fighting? Because last I checked, that's not exactly the kind of 'long game' I'm expecting."
Her tongue dragged slowly across his collarbone.
"Oh," Harry said, voice dropping two octaves. "Right. Definitely not fighting."
Laura smirked like she'd just won the mutant Olympics. "I've got goals."
"Okay," Harry rasped, voice cracking just enough to sound dangerously sexy. "Let's call this... advanced tactical proficiency."
She grinned like she was about to declare war.
Then she dropped to her knees.
Outside, in the surveillance suite…
Maria Hill hit pause, slid the feed into a folder ominously labeled "Do Not Open Without Therapy" — then deleted the whole thing anyway.
Tonks handed out victory cupcakes with the enthusiasm of a war general celebrating a minor but delicious win.
Ororo sipped her tea, serene as ever. "The storm has passed."
Logan sat in the hallway, nursing a beer and muttering, "I need earplugs. And industrial-strength bleach."
Natasha took a slow sip of wine, raising an eyebrow. "Told you they'd shower eventually."
Jean didn't even look up from her book. "Twenty minutes before round two, mark my words."
—
HELICARRIER – LEVEL 9, DECONTAMINATION SUITE – 3:57 AM
(AKA the "Mutant Biology Lab," or as Harry liked to call it, "That one weird science class nobody signed up for.")
Laura stayed on her knees longer than absolutely necessary, eyes locked on Harry like she was running the kind of lethal calculations only a genetically engineered weapon-cub could—minus the usual impulse to shred him into confetti.
Then, with a grin that was half "I just won the lottery" and half "I could take you down in a second if I wanted," she looked up and dropped the bomb:
"By the way... your sperm tastes like pineapples."
Harry's emerald eye shot open, glowing with a mix of disbelief and something dangerously close to "Is this a compliment or a threat?" "Pineapples? Seriously? That's... ridiculously specific. And borderline tropical for a warzone."
Laura shrugged like she was auditioning for "Mutants with Culinary Opinions." "I'm just saying, if mutant heroics don't pan out, I might open a smoothie bar. You've just given me the secret ingredient."
Harry laughed—the kind of deep, rumbling laugh that makes you wonder how someone can sound like a Greek god and a stand-up comedian at the same time. "Glad to provide… comprehensive data collection. All in a night's work."
She pushed herself up, hair dripping wild like a jungle cat on a caffeine binge, and tossed him a challenge: "Enough lab rat experiments. Time to shower before the Helicarrier files a noise complaint or sends a SWAT team."
Harry took her hand, pulling himself up with a grin that said Game on. Or maybe Definitely breaking the noise rules. Probably both.
Water slammed down, hot and heavy enough to fog up the mirrors, the runes on the walls, and possibly every surveillance camera in a five-mile radius.
This time, they moved like a chaotic dance—slippery, laughing, throwing each other those heated looks that said, You're lucky I'm feeling merciful tonight.
Harry was busy shampooing his curls into submission, the scent of citrus and something vaguely questionable wafting off him. Laura, surprisingly tender, reached around and began to soap his back.
"You're not half bad at this," Harry teased, voice dripping with mock surprise.
Laura rolled her eyes. "Don't get cocky. This is strictly professional. Like, 'keep you alive and maybe slightly less smelly' professional."
He winked. "Professional chaos. My specialty."
When the water finally ran clear and the steam swirled around them like a misty aftershock of their own brand of magic, they stepped out.
Waiting on the bench were clothes—carefully chosen, freshly laundered, and definitely not smelling like the aftermath of a mutant orgy.
Laura picked up her shirt, sniffed it with mock suspicion, and smirked. "If this smells like pineapples, I'm blaming you."
Harry grabbed his own shirt, shooting her a mock glare that could have melted steel. "Hey! Not responsible for your mutant taste buds. Or your wildly unpredictable charm."
They dressed quickly, the silence between them charged with unspoken promises and a quiet kind of understanding that only comes from surviving a war... or, you know, an extremely intense night of mutual destruction.
As they finally headed toward the exit, Harry shot her a grin so sharp it could cut glass. "Ready to face the team? Or should we just declare a 'No More Insane Mutant Nights' moratorium?"
Laura laughed, claws safely tucked away like a well-behaved secret weapon. "We'll negotiate. But I'm betting on 'one more round.'"
Harry groaned, but the smile curling his lips was all kinds of defeat—and exactly the kind of surrender he wanted. Because with Laura, "one more round" was never a question. It was a promise.
—
HELICARRIER – LEVEL 9, STAGING DECK – 4:15 AM
(Where relationships are complicated, superpowers are mood-dependent, and Logan is two growls away from being banned from therapy forever.)
The doors hissed open with a sigh that sounded vaguely judgmental. Like even the Helicarrier was tired of their antics.
Harry Potter (yes, that Harry Potter—currently rocking post-shower curls, a black tactical shirt that hugged his chest like it had a crush, and his usual I-might-kiss-you-or-set-you-on-fire grin) stepped out holding hands with Laura Kinney, the walking, talking definition of don't touch me unless I say so.
Behind them, steam billowed like the aftermath of a very enthusiastic magical-bonding hurricane. Probably because it was.
And waiting just outside the blast radius? The rest of the squad. The girlfriends. The Avengers of sass, stormy looks, and superhuman thirst.
Jean Grey, all fire and control, looked like she could rebuild a star with a thought (and ruin your self-esteem with one eyebrow). Ororo Munroe was poised in white, equal parts goddess and thunderstorm. Natasha Romanoff leaned against a wall, boots crossed, looking like she'd killed two men before breakfast. And Nymphadora Tonks? Wearing unicorn slippers, a hoodie that said Emotionally Chaotic Neutral, and sipping a neon smoothie with zero shame.
Laura slowed.
"You're stalling," Harry whispered.
"I'm recalibrating my exit strategy."
"They don't bite."
"I do."
Harry grinned. "That's why you're their favorite already."
Jean folded her arms. "Well, well. If it isn't Feral Spice and British Vanilla returning from their steamy soap opera."
"We prefer the term 'battle-tested and lightly exfoliated,'" Harry said cheerfully.
Tonks sniffed. "You smell like sex, eucalyptus, and... is that pineapple?"
Laura blinked. "Told you."
Natasha snorted. "I knew I tasted something tropical the last time we kissed."
Harry raised an eyebrow. "You saying my kisses come with a cocktail menu now?"
"Only if you add coconut," Jean muttered.
Laura looked between them, eyes narrowed. "So you're all just... fine with this? With me?"
Ororo stepped forward, regal and calm. "You chose connection over control. That matters here."
"Also, you didn't break Harry."
"He healed," Laura deadpanned.
"That's what he's for," Natasha said.
Tonks added, "It's basically magical polyam therapy. We have a group chat and everything."
Laura blinked. "A chat?"
Jean smirked. "With emojis."
"You're not serious."
Harry shrugged. "She made a Storm + Fire + Chaos Girls sticker pack."
Tonks held up her phone. "Look, this one is me turning into a cat to escape awkward feelings."
"And this one's me setting a vampire on fire," Jean added.
Laura stared at them.
Then, slowly—very slowly—she grinned. Just a little. Sharp at the edges. Real.
"You people are insane."
"Welcome to the team," Ororo said.
Before Laura could respond, a low growl cut through the deck like a buzzsaw made of bad decisions.
"You defiled my daughter."
Enter: Logan. Aka Wolverine. Aka Hugh Jackman in full Dad Mode with bonus side of Canadian rage.
He stepped out of the shadows like a regret-flavored popsicle, arms crossed, jaw clenched, eyes squinting like he was trying to murder Harry with vision alone.
Harry didn't flinch. He just turned slowly, emerald eyes gleaming like a cat who'd licked the cream, the spoon, and the entire dessert cart.
"Technically," Harry said, "she defiled me. I was the emotionally compromised cinnamon roll."
Tonks wheezed.
Natasha covered her mouth to hide a grin. "That's... one version."
Logan's voice dropped an octave. "This isn't funny."
"Disagree," Ororo said serenely. "It's hilarious."
"Logan," Jean said, "breathe. Count to ten. Remember your therapy llama."
"I don't have a therapy llama."
"Exactly. And that's the problem."
Harry stepped forward, hands casually in his pockets. "Look, I respect you. I even watched that Wolves of Canada documentary in your honor. But Laura's not a kid. She chose this. Chose me. And if you've got a problem with that, we can settle it the wizarding way."
Logan squinted. "Duel?"
"Rock-paper-scissors. Shirtless. In a hot tub. Loser apologizes and buys the winner tacos."
A beat of stunned silence.
Tonks whispered, "Please say yes."
Logan groaned. The sound of a man who had seen too much, lived too long, and desperately needed ear bleach.
"If you hurt her, Potter, I'll use your ribs as toothpicks."
"Dibs on the clavicle," Laura added sweetly.
Harry smiled. "That's what I love about this family. So supportive. So stabby."
Logan muttered something that sounded suspiciously like "British twit" and stomped off toward the elevator.
Tonks lobbed a grape after him. "We love you, Dad!"
"DON'T PUSH IT."
As the elevator doors slammed shut behind him, Jean clapped her hands. "Okay. Debrief at 0700. Buffet opens at six. I'm making waffles and regret."
Natasha raised an eyebrow at Laura. "You in?"
Laura looked at Harry, then the girls. Slowly nodded. "I'll bring syrup."
Harry grinned.
And under the hum of Helicarrier engines, surrounded by goddesses, assassins, and one aggressively stabby girlfriend, he thought: This? Yeah. This is exactly the kind of chaos I signed up for.
---
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