I Held A Butterfly
ARCHIVE: Anywhere. Email forwarding is OK.
RATING: R for M/M sexual situations.
FANDOM/SPOILERS: X-Men. Movie canon only.
SERIES: Sucks To Be You: Episode II
SUMMARY: Logan/Scott. Logan's room. Games.
FEEDBACK: Yes, any and all comments welcome.
DISCLAIMER: Marvel. Fox. Not me.
MORE FIC: http://prillalar.tripod.com/fic/fic.html
TIMELINE: For the purposes of this series, I'm inserting an as
yet unspecified amount of time between the completion of the
mission and Logan's departure. At least a couple of weeks.
"I touched a flower and it wilted,
I held a butterfly and it died
in my hand..."
The second time I went to Logan's room, it was easier. We didn't speak, just got the job done.
The third time, I touched him, his thighs, his chest -- the hair, the warmth -- and he didn't stop me.
The fourth time, we got into the bed and I fisted him, then myself. Nuzzled the side of his neck and felt him lean into it. Lingered as long as I dared, flank to flank with Logan, naked and away from Jean.
I was starting to relax, just a little. Logan hadn't told anyone, hadn't even hinted. Hadn't moved on Jean, either, though his eyes followed her whenever she was in the room. If I could keep my eyes and mind off him, well, then things would be okay.
The fifth time I went to Logan's room, he slammed me up against the wall and put a knife to my throat.
I didn't move. My heart raced. He had me pinned and his body was so heavy. Later, I'd edit the memory, add some definition -- the press of his thigh, the arm spanning my chest, a thrill of heat running through me. Cold spot of pain on my neck. But at the moment, I was only terrified.
He was nearly smiling at me and I knew I'd been right not to trust him at first. Wrong to change my mind. I had to get away. Into hero mode, Cyclops. But it wasn't working.
Then I noticed. "A knife?"
He smiled for real and let me go. The blade flashed through the air and it was gone.
"You bastard." I rubbed my neck. The skin was unbroken.
"It's for you."
"What?"
"Every boy should have a knife." He moved his hand and the knife was there again. "I'll show you how to use it."
"Yes, Scoutmaster." My back was still against the wall. He moved in closer, so I could feel the temperature change between us.
"You'd love to play those games, wouldn't you?"
Too much. "Dammit, Logan, do we have to have this male bonding moment?"
He didn't answer, just played with the knife, sent it glittering in the air and rolling handle over handle. Like some fucking ninja.
"Where did you learn to do that?"
"I don't know." He looked at me like he thought I was going to say something. I didn't. "Take it." He snapped the knife and it closed. He pressed it into my hand. His fingertips weren't callused like I thought they'd be.
"A switchblade?"
"Balisong. Butterfly knife." He showed me the how the handles hid the blade and hinged open to reveal it. "Hold it like this." He took my hand, pulled my fingers around the handles. "Then flick it and catch the handle when it swings up."
I flicked it and the handle swung up and bashed my knuckles.
"Try again."
I tried again. And again. And again until my fingers were stiff and I could release the blade to his satisfaction. Maybe now we could get on with it. Logan pulled off his shirt. Yes. I moved towards him, reaching out to drop the knife on the dresser.
He caught my wrist. "Cut me."
Oh god. "No..."
"Don't you want to stick it to me, Cyclops?" His fingers tightened. I could feel the metal under his skin. A manacle. It hurt. "Come on, cut me."
I didn't want to. I didn't know how it would feel, what kind of person it would make me. My jaw began to ache.
He let go. Stared at me, again the near-smile, nostrils flaring. Something stood out around him, like an electrical field, enveloping me, pulling, pushing me. I felt pressure building in my chest. My lungs wouldn't expand. I tried to swallow and couldn't.
"Cut me," he said.
I opened the knife. The blade caught the light and I could breathe again. I reached out, concentrating on not letting my hand shake. I felt a little dizzy. The blade was sharp and there was hardly any resistance as the tip slid into his skin.
He didn't flinch, I don't think. But I was looking at the line I was drawing along his rib. One inch, two, three. Straight as I could make it. The blood beaded along the cut. I thought about the pain. It would be sharp, clean. Then the skin closed up and it was like I'd never touched him.
"Again." His voice was low, with rough edges that made me want to fall on him, cover his body with mine, touch him everywhere I could reach.
I cut him again, a longer line and deeper, sweeping in a curve up his chest. And watched it heal again. He didn't say anything, but I knew what he wanted. So I swirled the blade along his skin, over his belly, up his side, across his chest, whorls and patterns in blood. I wondered if I could kill him, if I stabbed just right, found the spot between the ribs to reach his heart or slashed deep to twist the blade in his gut.
He looked at me and I knew that I couldn't, even if I wanted to. His skin was healed, unmarked. The knife was sticky with blood and hair. I dropped it on the floor.
The sound came first, the soft click and whine of metal. And we were back where we began, my back to the wall, his claw -- just one -- stroking over my cheek, down the side of my neck. He wasn't cutting me, I didn't think. The tip trailed into the hollow of my throat and I could feel it the pulse beating against it.
I didn't think he'd hurt me, but I wasn't sure. Then the blade moved away from my skin, down the front of my shirt. A slice and a twist sent a button arcing through the air, skittering to a stop under the dresser. One by one, he cut them all away. I didn't see where they all went. But each button that came free wound me up a little tighter. When the last one fell, I was fighting to keep still, to regulate my breathing.
A movement of his head and I pulled the shirt free, tossed it into the corner. The claw slid over my chest, around and around. I knew he wasn't cutting me, but it felt like he was burning me instead, cold, cold metal freezing the skin, etching pictures in dead flesh.
"Where do you want it?"
Everywhere, I thought. Slash my chest, bite my cheek, leave your smell all over me, mark me so no one else will have me. Everywhere.
Then panic bubbled up inside me. Jean. Not yet. I wasn't ready. Jean. What he wanted.
I shook my head slightly, then closed my eyes. I felt him step away, heard the claw slide back. When I looked again, he was just standing there, watching me.
Logan's mouth twitched like he was about to laugh. "What do you want, then?"
I wanted to kiss him, to feel his teeth against my lips, to suck his tongue into my mouth so he could taste my fear. I wanted him to wrap himself around me, to hold me while I struggled. I wanted him to eat me alive. I wanted him to want that too. He knew that and he asked me and he knew I couldn't answer.
So I shook my head again and followed him over to the bed. Sucked him off again. Stroked myself through my pants. It was my turn to do the laundry anyhow. Wished that this could be enough. Wished that he had never come here. Hoped that he would never leave.
I got up to go, the taste of him still in my mouth. Pulling on my shirt, I wondered if I'd make it back to change without anyone noticing. Damn, I'd have to leave the buttons there.
"Aren't you forgetting something, Summers?"
"What's that?"
He picked up the knife, wiped the blade on his own discarded shirt, flipped it closed, tossed it to me. "Careful with that. It's probably illegal here."
It was heavy in my hand. I liked the way it felt. Slipping it into my pocket, I looked at Logan's hands, thought about the claws. Another time.
"Thank you," I said and left.
The End