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When they travel back in time and Logan’s still alive, by the skin of his sharp little teeth, Wolverine gives Quentin a look, one he pointedly ignores, but her thought—the command—is just too damn loud.
Don’t do anything stupid, Phoenix.
And yet, in the afterglow, when he’s talked Logan out of both his guilt and his jeans, when he’s gotten everything he’s wanted since he was a teenager and his harness straps are lying loose on his thighs, Quentin leans in to light a cigarette on the end of Logan’s cigar, locking eyes with him for a long moment before he pulls back, letting a thin trail of smoke leak into the already muggy air. They badly need to crack a window—god knows what the sex reek is doing to Logan’s senses.
“We could fix your healing factor,” he offers, letting the crackle of Her flames creep into his voice.
Logan doesn’t have the grace to seem shocked by the offer—doesn’t startle or cough, doesn’t even tense beside him. Just sighs and shakes his head.
“Nah, kid.”
Quentin’s jaw works, ashing his cigarette. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s what you said last time.”
He hates proving Jubilee right.