This is a story about Logans nightmares, it involves a lot of Wolvy torture (sorry I'm a sick puppy) so don't read it if you cant handle that sort of thing. I wrote it last night because I couldn't sleep, so its not like I have been working on it for days.
Disclaimer: I don't own them Marvel do.
The smell of champagne reaches his nostrils and its wrong for him to smell champagne. This place should only smell of steel and blood and terrible pain. Of urine, vomit and broken spirits. Of his broken spirit.
He hears happy voices and its wrong that they're laughing. In this place only cold orders are heard and his own screams. He doesn't know the sound of joy anymore.
The taste of a fluid fills his mouth and its wrong, because his mouth usually taste only blood and
sweat and water when he's allowed to drink. This fluid is mixed with them, he thinks, as he fells himself drowning.
He blacks out. The only relief he is allowed, and for a second, an eternity, he is beyond their control.
He sees men in uniforms; he sees their faces and its wrong because only men with white masks are allowed here.
He fells the scalpel cut through flesh, fat and muscle tissue, He fell molten adamantium covering his
exposed bone and its right because pain is the only feeling allowed here. He fells…
… His claws break through the skin on his knuckles, as he sits in bed being mentally kicked into a state of conscious. His heart beating so hard against his metal coated rips, that if it didn't happen every night, he would think he where having a heart attack. The pain from the dream is still in his body and as he makes his way to the bathroom, he looks at the shadows to make sure he really is alone, that he has left the dream. He vomits from the pain and runs his hands over his intact body. When he fells like now, he have to make sure its not covered in black drawings and wounds. Slowly he awakes.
There was a time when the telepats of the mansion wanted to know what he dreamed of. They wanted to help. They said it wasn't good for him not being able to get some proper rest. They said he shouldn't be afraid of sharing his dreams with them they could handle it. They where wrong.
They put sensors on him so they would know when to enter his mind. Not that it was necessary. Apparently he cries in his sleep when the dreams come. He just thought the moister on his cheeks was sweat. It has been so long since he has cried awake that he didn't recognise it as tears.
They waited while he slept. The Professor, Jean and Cyke for protection. When the dream started the Professor entered his mind and projected the thoughts to the two others. They said and thought they could handle it. They where wrong.
He awoke to chaos. The Professor was passed out; Jean was throwing up and Cykes hands shook as he helped him remove the sensors from his skin.
The offers of help stopped.
The dawn finally comes and he washes the smell of pain and fear from his skin, before he joins the breakfast table. On mornings like this he drinks whisky with his breakfast.
There was a time where they would have talked of the irresponsibility of that. Where Ororo would have talked about ones body being a temple even if you have a healingfactor. And Cyke would have said he was a bad rolemodel for the children
Now it is Cyke who hands him the bottle.