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Pietro was out for the day. (y/n) had shoo’d him from the house for some peace and quiet after a long few days of arguing and torture. Probably would have shoo’d Logan out too, but he’s an ”Adult” . So he sat grumbling on the couch, trying to find something on tv, and not seem too obvious that he was watching (y/n) work on her house chores.

“Nothin’ on.” He mumbled.
“Try Married with Children.” She snipped back at him, not even looking up from wiping down the side table next to the couch.
“Excuse me?”
“No? Simpsons? Or is that later tonight? Channel 20 or 38. I always confuse it with Magnum PI. But that’s more Hank’s style, now, ain’t it?” She looked up, letting Logan see the mischievous sparkle in her eyes.
“Well,” he grumbled, more to himself than her, “somebodies being a little sassy today.” A long moment of silence answered, with only the tv running a commercial .
“You deserve a little sass.” She whispered. Logan’s head snapped up, watching her closely. She looked up to meet his eyes. For once, she looked years older. Tiredness flashed, and a evident weariness was here. He could see years of history in her eyes,centuries of living, reminders a painful past and a dull hope for the present or future. She looked back at the side table, superficially rubbing it a bit more. “After all you put me through. You and Pietro.” A chuckle, and a small smirk. “My scars have never ached more.” She straightened and went off to work on another chore upstairs. Logan sat there for a moment, soaking in what she had said, committing her tired look to memory, before pulling his lazy self off the couch to follow her upstairs.

(Y/n) had disappeared into her bedroom, the one room in the house Logan hadn’t venture into. He hovered outside for a moment, before carefully pushing open the door. The room was not over crowded, but had plenty of older, almost artifact like, objects. A huge Colonial style painting of a ship on calm seas, hung over the head board. Trinkets were here and there, from different eras of time, the selves were litter with titles and classics , some with lettering so faint from age or overuse , it had become unreadable. She looked at him in the mirror from the other side of the room, where she stood putting away laundry from the plastic basket at her feet. She watched in for a few moments, taking in the room.
“Don’t hover there. It only makes the belittling feelings grow. The stuff here has history. Everyone says it makes them feel small, that is, until they come in and try to understand it. At that point, well, most just end up confused.” She gave a chuckle, as he carefully made his way in.
“All this…. Stuff ...”
“I collected it. Lived through it. Earned it, Fought for it, Did bad things for it. It’s the past. My Past.”
“How old are you exactly?”
“Now, Logan, thats not a very nice thing to ask a woman.” He remained silent, and waited for an answer. (y/n) sighed softly. “Born in 1843. Puts me older than you.” He glanced sharply at her.
“How do you-”
“Charles told me what he must.” She interjected. “I don’t know how many years we’re different, Logan, just that I’m older. But I do know your history was painful. I hear you when you don’t sleep at night. I don’t either, not anymore. I’ve been living the nightmares. No, not nightmares. Memories. ”

She sat carefully on the bed, over a worn patterned quilt with frayed edges. Logan sat next to her. SIlence overtook them. Logan took in the room, how she had that tired look again. The room resonated history, of pain and love and indifference and hatred. Of Memories. She fit right in, the same feelings painted over her face.
“I don’t remember much.” He said softly. It was odd, talking about his past. But it didn’t feel wrong. “Fragments. Nothing too… concrete before the metal. Charles brought some back. Meeting him. Saving the president. That whole escapade. But not much more.” (y/n) didn’t say anything, but understanding was etched into her features. “Pain. Lots of pain. Hatred. Death. Lots ‘a that too. Somebody special and somebody trusted. Imprints of ‘em, like that faded dream you had a few nights ago that you can’t remember the details, ya know? “
“yeah” she whispered, digging bare toes into the worn area rug. A few moments of silence past again. (y/n) let out a long breath.
“I’ve lived so many lives.” she started, almost whispering. “A slave. A farmer. A servant. A wife. A widow. Carefree. Hard pressed. War stricken. Peace loving. An assassin. A mercenary. A soldier. A lover. So much bad with so much good. In balance, though it never seemed so. All that time, saw through all alone. Sometimes, it doesn’t even feel real, though I lived it all through.” He rested a hand on her lower back, to comfort her. She jerked away from his touch, but not before her felt scars though her thin shirt. He watched her silently compose herself. He reached and touched her lower back again, she jumped slightly but didn’t remove herself from his touch.He rubbed the scars faintly through her shirt.
“May I?” He asked softly.
“You’re being very un-Logan like.” She said, ever so quietly, turning her back to him. He lifted the end of her shirt, revealing the long, angry, old whipping scars the crossed over her skin. His fingers ghosted over them and she shivered.
“Am I now?”
“Yes, Yes you most definitely are. Are you being… caring?” Logan was practically on the other side of the room, as soon as Pietro’s voice rang out. Pietro leaned against the door frame, signature smirk playing across his face. He kept glancing between them. Logan face was hard, angry, looking to pick a fight. (y/n) was struggling to compose herself, and put back on the joking, playful, albeit sometimes short fused facade they knew.
“Aaaahhhhh. Something totally went down!” Pietro rubbed his hands together gleefully, before zipping off. Downstairs you could hear him making small little comments about what might of went down. Logan stole one last glance toward (y/n), gave a sigh, then left gruffly.
“Lookin’ out on the mornin’ rain, I use ‘ta feel so uninspired” (y/n) sang softly sang as she went to finish putting the laundry away. Taking the basket back to the laundry room downstairs, she acted as if nothing went down, ignored Pietro’s ribbing and jabs toward Logan, singing all the way. Pietro made some kissy faces toward her as she moved another clean batch of laundry to fold to the living room coffee table. She made them right back, hiding her pain and playing the part she had perfected so well.