It had been three months since Jean came back from the dead, three months since she had killed Scott and Chuck, three months since she had begged him to kill her.
He had waited what he thought was a reasonable amount of time before leaving; he helped Storm co-ordinate the school’s reopening, he had wished Hank well when he accepted the president’s new job offer, he waited hopefully for Marie to return - touchable or not, he didn’t care. When she didn’t, he went to Storm’s new office - Chuck’s old one - and told her he was leaving. It wasn’t a great shock to her and she didn’t argue. “After all,” she told him with a small smile “The older kids are really looking forward to being in charge.” He helped her go through résumés of teachers looking for work in the area, and most of Xavier’s former students who turned out for the service had offered to stay and help out. He said goodbye to Storm two months after it happened.
Heading in no particular direction, and with no real plan, he rode back lanes and country roads until he felt tired enough to stop for the night. Logan didn’t know how long he had been riding, but he did know that he needed a drink - bad. Once he hit the Canadian backwoods, every bar, tavern and roadhouse all looked the same: dirt parking lots, small wooden structures, disused Coke machine by the door. Pulling into the deserted parking lot and shutting off the engine, Logan checked his watch and saw it was a little after 1am. Seeing the lights on, he decided to give it a shot - at least ask if there was a motel around nearby. He looked around a moment, unsure - he’d been here before, hadn’t he?
Finding the door unlocked, Logan made his way inside and brushed snow from his jacket as he passed an old cigarette machine. He stopped dead in his tracks when he heard a shotgun being cocked not ten feet behind him.
“Heard a noise.” the old man said. “Thought it might be an animal.” He stepped forward out of the shadows, his Winchester 1200 shotgun aimed straight at Logan’s heart. He turned slowly to face the old man, noting with some apprehension the look of recognition in his eyes. “I remember you.”
“Yeah?” Logan asked, clearly a challenge. All he wanted was a beer, but he stood ready to fight if needs be.
“Yeah.” the old man spoke again, lowering his weapon and moving to stand behind the old timber bar and Logan took a seat. “Kitchen‘s closed.”
“All I want is a beer.” Logan told him, watching the old man as he laid his Winchester down on the bar. He took a bottle from beneath the bar and popped the cap.
“You got caught in a hell of a storm.” he told Logan, handing him the bottle.
“Oh, yeah.” he replied, taking a long draw of his beer.
“You heading home?” the old man asked, his voice softer than it had been only a moment ago. The two men only looked at each other for a moment before Logan responded.
“Something like that.”
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