Chapter 224: White Wolf
The phone rang for the fifth time.
Logan didn't move. He lay sprawled on the hardwood floor of his room in Xavier's mansion, half-buried in empty beer cans that glittered like tin trophies in the dim light. The air reeked of hops and metal, and his shirt was half-open, claws tapping absentmindedly against an unopened can on his chest.
"Go to hell," he muttered at the ringing, slurring just enough to betray the week-long bender. His healing factor burned through alcohol fast, but he'd been stubborn. He could out-drink his own biology if he worked at it.
The ringing stopped. Sweet silence. He closed his eyes.
Then it started again.
Logan growled, rolling onto his side and crushing a couple cans flat. "Persistent little bastard, ain't ya…"
The door creaked open. A soft rush of wind, the scent of rain, and Storm's voice: cool, clipped, and laced with amusement. "Logan. Are you truly so helpless you cannot answer a phone?"
He cracked one bleary eye open. "Ro… hiccup… I been busy." He gestured weakly at the mountain of cans like it was a monument to labor. "Construction project."
She arched a brow, stepping gracefully between the wreckage. "Yes. A cathedral to self-pity. How very you."
The phone kept ringing.
Logan groaned. "I can't care less."
Storm sighed, regal even in exasperation. She picked up the receiver and answered with calm poise. "Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters."
There was a pause. Then Storm's lips twitched, just slightly, betraying a smile that wasn't for Logan. She hummed softly as the voice on the other end spoke, then covered the mouthpiece and looked at him. "Logan. A call for you."
He frowned suspiciously. "Hiccup. What's with that enigmatic smile, Ro?"
"Perhaps," she said lightly, handing him the receiver, "you should discover that yourself."
He snatched it, pressing it to his ear. "Yeah, what?"
A voice, soft and steady as a heartbeat, answered.
"Logan-san."
His face changed in an instant. Beer haze gone, blood alive with fire. His eyes went wide, then softer than Storm had seen in years. "Mari?"
"I am sorry to call so suddenly," Mariko said gently. "But… if you wish, I would like to see you."
He sat bolt upright, crushing cans under him like snapping bones. "I'll come at once."
---
The airport smelled of jet fuel, coffee, perfume, and the sweat of impatient travelers. Logan ignored it all, nose hunting for one scent — clean jasmine with an undercurrent of steel.
And then he saw her.
Mariko Yashida stood by the arrivals gate, hair tied back, suitcase at her side, calm but nervous. When her eyes found him, they softened.
"Sorry for the waiting," Logan said, breathless, voice rough.
"I was at fault," she replied. "Making it sudden."
He stepped closer, scanning her face like he couldn't believe it. "But why are you here? Why now?"
Mariko set her suitcase down, hands folded in front of her, eyes steady on his. "Because I will live here from now on. In America. I wish to open a Japanese-style restaurant."
Logan blinked. "Really? Then what about your clan? About the Yashidas?"
Her answer was calm, practiced, but her eyes betrayed the weight. "I let my cousin, Shiro Yashida, manage in my place. He is… capable."
"Sunfire, huh?" Logan muttered. "Cocky flame-head. But he'll do." His gaze sharpened. "Why, Mari? Why leave it all behind?"
She stepped closer, voice low and trembling with honesty. "Because it is my atonement. For you, Logan-san."
The words hit him like claws to the gut. He swallowed, conflicted. "I don't know whether to be happy — 'cause it means you're free from politics, free from that poison — or sad… 'cause it feels like you wouldn't have come at all if our marriage hadn't been cancelled."
Mariko lowered her gaze. "I am sorry."
He hated the weight in her voice, so he forced a grin, changing the subject. "So. What'll you name this restaurant of yours?"
Her eyes lit faintly with mischief. "Honor and Duty."
Logan barked a short laugh. "Figures. Sounds like somethin' Chuck would approve of."
Then Mariko hesitated, fingers fidgeting with the strap of her suitcase. When she spoke again, her voice was quieter. "Or… perhaps… White Wolf. White for clean. So that you do not always say ugly things about yourself, Logan-san."
He froze. Opened his mouth. Closed it again. Tried once more. Nothing came. For a man who always had a growl or a curse at hand, he was suddenly speechless.
So he did the only thing that made sense. He pulled her into his arms and kissed her, fierce and trembling, the taste of beer and salt still on his lips.
Her hands clutched at his shoulders, and for the first time since the wedding, the world felt steady again.
---
That night, Logan returned to the mansion with a foolish grin plastered on his face. He pushed the door open and swaggered into the common room like a man reborn.
The X-Men were waiting — Storm serene, Nightcrawler perched upside-down from a ceiling beam, Kitty with Lockheed curled around her shoulders, Colossus towering solemnly, Rogue lounging with arms crossed.
They all looked at him. Looked at his grin. And each wore the same damn expression — knowing, smug, enigmatic smiles.
Logan stopped dead. "You crittens already knew, didn't ya?"
Kitty burst out giggling, hiding her face behind her hands. "We maybe… had a hunch!"
Nightcrawler flipped down to the floor, tail curling smugly. "Mein Gott, you should have seen yourself this past week. Like a woman weeping! Surrounded by cans, muttering at the ceiling."
"Da," Colossus rumbled in his thick accent, face deadpan but eyes twinkling. "I feared we would need bulldozer to remove all empties from your room."
Rogue smirked, chin tilted. "You were moping louder than a country song, sugah. Ain't subtle."
Storm merely folded her arms, her smile warm but imperious. "I told you patience, Logan. But you never listen."
Logan grunted, cheeks heating despite himself. He scratched at his beard, then growled half-heartedly. "You all think you're real funny, don't ya?"
Kitty grinned. "Kinda, yeah."
Even Lockheed chirped in agreement.
For a moment, Logan just stood there, staring at them, the weight of their teasing crashing against the warmth beneath it. Then, slowly, a different kind of smile tugged at his face — smaller, quieter, real.
A smile not born of beer, or bravado, or claws, but of family.
And for the first time in a long while, Logan let it stay.