Mine
Mine, an X-Men story in the movie universe by Brenda Antrim. Rated NC17, no copyright infringement intended.
If he didn't already see red in what passed for the natural course of events, the roar of his motorcycle being stolen by Wolverine would have done it.
Scott moved to the window with deceptive speed, not wanting to alarm his students, but unable to refrain from confirming with his eyes what his ears had told him. Logan Last Name Unknown had just headed off to the frozen tundra in search of his past -- riding Scott's pride and joy. Heat gathered behind his visor and he had to clench his fists behind his back to keep them away from the triggers on his ear cups. Fifteen years of the professor's tutelage and too many close calls with disaster were the only things that kept him from tearing off in hot pursuit.
Not to mention the Spanish quiz he was in the process of giving to eighteen anxious high school students.
He gritted his teeth and forced the snarl he could feel pulling at his lips into an appropriately neutral expression. He knew where the bike was going. He could get it back.
He damned well would.
The rest of the classes passed like sap through a tree on a winter day. He had a reputation to maintain, so he did, as much for the benefit of his students as himself. Their world was a shifting one, and could be a frightening one, and they needed as much stability as possible. He was a stable point to them, and he certainly wasn't going to allow one rogue mutant (no aspersion cast on Marie) to distract him from that.
After dinner, he went into the danger room and beat the holy crap out of several opponents. Then he tracked down Professor Xavier.
"Of course you may, Scott."
He closed his mouth at the same time he closed the door. "That obvious, or am I broadcasting?"
Charles smiled at him. "A little of both. I'm impressed." You didn't run out the door after him.
"I have learned a little restraint in the last decade or so." He gave his very best impression of wounded dignity. The professor saw right through him, as he'd intended.
"Perhaps a little too much."
Wounded dignity went from assumed to real in a flash. The professor raised a hand, stopping his protest at the same time that warmth filled him from the inside. Pride, and love, and understanding, an invisible pat on the back. He relaxed again.
"You work very hard. You seldom give yourself permission to play."
"You think I want to play with him?" Scott didn't have to fake his incredulity.
"I think you want to bloody his nose for him," the professor shot back. Scott grinned involuntarily. "You settled the conflict between yourselves to the extent that you were able to work as a team to rescue Marie. But the situation between you is far from truly settled. Things are calm here for the moment. Take some time. Go up to Canada. Talk to Logan." He paused, and matched Scott's grin with one of his own. "Try not to do anything too painful to either of you. And Scott," he cautioned, "you have issues to resolve, but so does Logan. You might find it within yourself to assist him in his search. When you're ready, come home."
"With my bike."
"With Logan."
He knew the professor could read his reaction to that suggestion, so he didn't bother to say 'When hell freezes over.' He simply waved and went upstairs to pack a bag. Besides, the last time he'd been in that part of Canada, it had looked like hell. Freezing over. He shook off the thought.
The door to the bedroom swung open and Jean stepped in. She stopped just over the threshold and stared from his bag to their bed. One eyebrow slowly raised. He could feel himself blushing.
"Off to get my bike back," he offered. The other brow rose to join the first one. He used to find the mannerism adorable. For some reason, now, it put him on the defensive. "I was going to tell you. Just finished clearing it with the professor."
She stepped forward, and leaned in to kiss him lightly. "Don't do anything impulsive. You might get scratched."
He kissed her back, opening his lips and trying to deepen the pressure. She drew away, leaving him with his mouth half open, feeling vaguely ridiculous. His jaw snapped shut and he glared down at his bag. Ever since Logan had shown up, he'd been forced to take a long hard look at his relationship with Jean. He hadn't been reassured by what he'd found. A touch of coolness, a sense of habit. The faint feeling of being taken for granted, and taking her for granted in turn.
"I can take care of myself," he muttered, feeling even more ridiculous for saying it. A long, cool finger slid under his chin and lifted his head up until he met her eyes. There was kindness there, and it unnerved him, because it seemed to have displaced the heat that had been there in the past.
"I know you can."
He clenched his teeth again, because he could swear he heard condescension in her tone. The finger tapped the point of his chin.
"You have nothing to prove." Then she slid her fingertip over his lips. He stood still, letting it slide. Her head tilted to one side and she stared at him. "When you get back."
He nodded, although he wasn't sure what she meant by that. They'd talk? They'd make love? They'd break up? They'd pretend everything was fine, as they'd been doing for too long now? He was still trying to figure it out when she walked back out the door.
"Damnit." He slammed jeans, shorts, socks and sweaters into the bag. "I'm not the psychic in this relationship, Jean." He knew she couldn't hear him, but that made it easier to say. He couldn't seem to say these things to her when she was in the room. Couldn't seem to say anything that was truly important. Not any more.
Sighing deeply, he crammed the last of his clothing and his shaving kit into the bag and slung it over his shoulder. All the way down to the garage, into the truck, out onto the highway, he did his best to push the niggling doubts about Jean, and himself with Jean, into a nice tidy little locked-down compartment. It was what he did with every problem over which he had no control. It hurt that his love life should now be considered a 'problem.'
One more piece of blame to lay at Logan's door.
He ignored the patent unfairness in that thought and concentrated on the road. All the way to Canada on the trail of his bike, all through the night and into the next morning, he did his best to ignore the fact that he was running away from Jean as much as he was running toward Logan. He'd think about it when he had to. Not until then.
His subconscious must have been working overtime. He left his cell phone in his desk drawer and his beeper on the bureau.
It hadn't been as difficult as he'd expected. Mystique killed the guard on the night shift, then impersonated him at a crucial moment. Transfer papers were arranged. A convoy wreck that would have done the big screen version of The Fugitive proud was the work of a moment's thought. Their transport was waiting for them just outside the grounds.
Sabretooth and Toad were still recovering. But he had other resources. Mutants who were loyal to him. Money. False identities. In very little time he was across the border and heading for a hideaway on the shores of Lac Nilgaut. He relaxed against the soft leather seat and closed his eyes.
He'd miss the chess games. He'd miss Charles. He wouldn't miss the cage.
He always missed Charles.
Forcing the thought away, he turned to look out the window, watching the night pass by.
He looked around the frozen ruins of what must have once been an impressive military research facility and idly scratched at the bare rock with one partially-extended claw. The adamantium sheathing cut through the surface of the broken granite as if it had been made from soft clay. Logan stared at the crisp white line in the dull gray surface and wished, fiercely, that the past could be bared as easily.
The low rumble of an engine caught his ear and he looked down the dirt track that passed for a road. Keen eyes caught sight of the sleek black machine and, looking harder, the dim crimson gleam in the interior of the cab. He grinned. It wasn't a pleasant expression. He was in a foul mood. One-eye was nice tender meat to take it out on. Cyclops as whipping boy. Had a nice ring to it.
Making no attempt to hide, he lounged against the tumbled rock, looking as bored as he possibly could while Cyclops tore up in the truck. Hm. Nice handling, tasteful little rooster tail of gravel, stopped on a dime five inches from the toe of Logan's boot. Did the boy have to be so damned precise in everything?
Probably, he answered his own thought, as Cyclops swung down from the cab and descended on him like a sanitized WASP version of the Wrath of God. Logan's grin widened enough to expose his teeth. Summers exhibited an ounce of intelligence and stopped just outside biting range.
"Some way to repay hospitality, Wolverine," Cyclops growled at him.
Logan growled back, a guttural sound that rattled from deep in his chest and showed the boy scout what a *real* growl sounded like. Summers' face didn't change expression, but Logan could smell the caution in the man's scent.
"You could have asked." Smug prick.
"Wouldja've said yes, Cyke?" He made it clear he knew the answer to that one even as he asked it. Cyclops shrugged one shoulder.
"Maybe."
"Bullshit."
That was all it took. Summers launched into a sanctimonious sermon about charity and the professor and sticking together and common courtesy and a whole load of crap. Logan tuned out after the first huffy word. It was more interesting to watch the kid.
Smell him.
Heat rose from his skin as Cyclops worked himself into a royal snit. His cheeks flushed, the glint behind his visor flashed like a light over a hooker's door, and his fists clenched and unclenched in time with his breathing. In the crisp cold sweetness of the morning air, he smelled like salt and aloe and apples. It was a weird combination. It made Logan hungry.
Not just for food.
The thought that Cyclops was ridiculously cute for an overgrown do-gooder freak made him pause mid-sniff. He turned the thought over and examined it from a couple different angles. It didn't surprise him, which made him wonder how long that had been going on. Jeannie turned him on. He hadn't figured that Jean's boyfriend had, too. The thought made him chuckle. Wouldn't Summers shit a brick if he knew.
Opening his mouth to break into the diatribe in progress and scatter Cyclops' brain cells to the four winds, he was utterly shocked to find he couldn't move. In that instant three things hit him at once.
His entire body was on fire, from the inside out. It lanced through his bones, as if he was hard-wired to an electrical current and somebody'd just thrown the switch. He wasn't standing on his own two feet any more. He was hanging in the air a few inches above the ground. It hurt like a son of a bitch.
There was a honking big black Land Rover at the side of the road, and he'd been so distracted by Summers yelling at him and his own wayward libido he'd completely missed its arrival. A man was standing next to it. He recognized Magneto in the same instant he realized the third important thing.
Summers had whirled in place, seen the threat and jumped in front of him. That was to be expected. Even if Cyclops hated his guts, which he no doubt did, he'd had Protect The Herd drilled into him by the professor to the point where he'd probably protect Magneto if he didn't take the time to think about it first. It was heart-warming, in a stupid super hero kind of way. Because Magneto wasn't just electrifying Logan's body.
He was using it.
As a weapon.
Against Scott.
At the exact same moment that he ripped Cyclops' visor from his face, Magneto propelled Logan forward, whipping him around to face Summers and forcing Logan to clamp his arms and legs around the other man's body like a cage. He felt his claws extending against his will and cursed sibilantly through clenched jaws as he fought to keep them from puncturing Scott's lower back. His feet curved up behind Scott's Achilles' tendons and he forced his fingers to extend, spreading out over the exposed rib cage, howling behind his teeth at the pain as the position kept his claws away from vulnerable flesh.
Cyclops was asking him something, urgently, screaming against his ear, but he couldn't make out the words. Couldn't've answered even if he could've heard anything over the shriek of his own muscle and bone, fighting with every molecule in him not to give in to Magneto's power. He could feel the veins popping out under his skin and the muscles spasming.
Fighting his own implants, fighting the siren command of Magneto, Logan sank deeply into his subconscious. He drew on all his senses at the instinctual level, imprinting Scott Summers on his mind and body. Dragging in deep gulps of air, he cataloged and stored every component of the man's scent; the press of his chest, thighs, calves, hands and skin learned the feel of the body shaking in his arms; the trapped thrum of Scott's heart against him echoed the rhythm of his own heart. Cyclops was his : his to protect, his not to kill. Determined not to allow Magneto to use him as an instrument of murder, Logan pitted his mind and soul against his traitorous body.
He lost.
Blood dripped from his knuckles where the claws were bending toward Scott's back, and from his lips where he'd driven his teeth into them. Sweat and tears of effort trickled down his face. The howl behind his teeth escaped as a choked, high-pitched, inhuman wail.
Then, as suddenly as it began, it was over.
Too deeply entrenched in his own personal battle to realize that rescue had arrived, Logan gave in to the incredible pain ripping his body apart and lost consciousness.
The situation exploded with no warning.
One minute Scott was telling Logan that he had all the manners of a wild dog raised by bears and the next moment Logan was floating in the air like an abductee in a bad episode of The X-Files. His eyes had widened and he'd looked terrified. That, in itself, had terrified Scott, instantaneously and unreasoningly. He'd pivoted on one heel and seen exactly what it was that had freaked Logan out so badly.
He'd barely had time to get his hand up to his visor and yell warning before an invisible force whipped out and ripped it off his face. He clamped his eyes shut instinctively, only then remembering that he was wearing his back-up visor, and it was built on a metal frame. Then the world shifted on its axis, and Logan grabbed him in the bear hug from hell, and he was yelling again. This time, he was asking Logan what on Earth he thought he was doing.
It hadn't taken very long before he realized Logan wasn't thinking at all. Logan was too busy turning himself inside out trying not to become a mutant bone compactor. Scott didn't need to be able to see to know the strain Logan's body was undergoing. The muscles pressed against him from ear to heel were hard as iron and fighting like mad to pull away from him.
There wasn't a damned thing he could do. Logan's face was mashed against the side of his neck. Arms like titanium bands were wrapped around his torso and he could feel each individual fingertip like a bar of iron pressing against him. There was the whisper of a knife's edge along the base of his rib cage, and he gulped. In his mind's eye, he could imagine what it must be doing to Logan to resist Magneto's will.
When the blood began to slide down his back, and it wasn't his, he didn't have to imagine. He knew.
He also knew the instant when Logan lost the fight to protect him. A thin, reedy sound like an animal dying in agony reverberated through his jawbone as Logan wailed against him. Six distinct pricks cut into the skin of his back, and the arms and legs that had caged him pressed him so closely he couldn't draw a deep breath.
"It's not your fault," he rasped out, not knowing if Logan could hear him, needing to absolve him anyway. Then he heard a noise he hadn't been able to discern over the sound of Logan's labored breathing in his ear.
The heavy thump-thump of helicopter blades. He recognized the whine of the engine. It was the professor's design. Very little metal. A whole lot of composite and plastic alloy. Nothing for Magneto to manipulate.
The pinging of automatic weapon-fire.
The squeal of tires on loose dirt as Magneto's car disappeared down the track.
Closer still, so close he felt it more than heard it, the hiss of Logan's breath against his neck. A single word, so soft he wasn't sure afterward that he hadn't imagined it, a whisper.
"Mine."
The thunder of his heart trying to beat out of his chest echoed in his ears, and the labored rasp of air hurt him as his compressed lungs tried to draw breath.
He turned his visor-less face into the side of Logan's, burying it in bristly sideburn, and waited for rescue. Thankfully, it wasn't long in coming.
The first reaction Charles had to Erik's escape was a total lack of reaction. That in itself was worrisome. He shouldn't have been conflicted. Erik was an old friend, but also his strongest enemy. He spelled doom for the very mutants he sought to lead and protect, simply by targeting every normal human as an enemy to mutants. He should at the very least feel outraged. Fly into action to assure that Magneto was caught and returned to custody. He most certainly should not be feeling relief.
Erik had always confused him.
Reading a man's mind like an open book was of no use when his heart was locked out of reach. Charles took a deep breath. "Jean, call Scott."
Her wide-eyed look wasn't reassuring. His cell phone's ringing ... in his office.
His response to that was unambiguous. Damn.
Yes.
She paced him to the war room. Storm was there, waiting. The next few hours were a blur of activity. He tried Cerebro with mixed results. His own thoughts were too chaotic. They interfered with his ability to focus. He needed his surrogate son by his side. He needed his old friend. He needed both of them safe, and both of them within reach.
He wasn't getting anything he needed.
The second time he strapped on the Cerebro helmet, he forced himself to concentrate, clutching the arms of his chair until his fingers ached. Vertigo struck, as always, and he controlled his stomach by force of will, as usual. Finally, he was able to find a trace of Scott.
The world contracted to a single pinpoint of contact then flashed like gelignite inside his brain. The distinctive tang that was Erik's personal signature collided with the fresh apple scent of Scott and the earthy strength of Logan. All in one place. All at one time.
He tore the helmet off and screamed for Jean, mental voice adding urgency to the physical. They had no time. No time at all, if they were going to save him.
He couldn't, for the life of him, decide which 'him' it was most imperative to save. He didn't allow himself to think of that, either. There was simply no time.
Jean jumped from the gunship before it settled to the ground. She reached out to Scott with her mind before the retrieval team reached the two entwined figures lying on the rocks. His thoughts were confused, but showed no indication of injury or extreme pain. Reassured, she reached out to the unconscious Logan's mind.
Fire raced through her brain and cramped her muscles. She doubled over, nearly retching from the agony she found.
A blanket of calm encompassed her mind, distancing her from Logan's injuries, and she gasped a strangled "Thank you" in the professor's general direction. As the men were loaded onto a single stretcher and lifted to the bay of the helicopter, she reached forward again, with a great deal more care.
What she found wasn't reassuring. No thoughts above the line of basic instinctive behavior; no words; no mental verbalization at all. There was no 'Logan' to be found, only the distinct flavor of 'Wolverine' in pure primal form. She shivered.
It wasn't right to find such thoughts exciting. They needed her to be a doctor, not a woman. Especially not when the man to whom she was currently committed was in possible danger from the object of her fascination.
Pushing the inappropriate reactions down as far as she possibly could, she made a preliminary examination. What she found was almost as fascinating as the base mutant personality that formed Logan's foundation. Once in the medical lab, with access to her equipment, she was able to confirm her initial diagnoses.
Logan had suffered severe damage to every major muscle group in his body. Tendons were shredded. Joints were dislocated. Every knuckle in both hands had been knocked out of place. There were hairline cracks in every single bone, perpendicular to the adamantium implants lining them. He had literally broken every bone in his body and ruptured every muscle and joint to keep from hurting Scott.
Tears caught in her throat. This was a level of self restraint and protectiveness she couldn't even imagine. She swallowed, and looked up to catch Scott's garnet gaze behind ruby quartz lenses. He was watching her steadily. She stared back at him.
"Is he going to be okay?" Scott asked.
"I don't know," she answered as honestly as she could. "He ... hurt himself badly trying to protect you." She walked around the side of the exam table and reached for a cloth and antibiotic cream. "He didn't manage to stop himself completely -- "
"He did the best he could!"
Scott's quick defense of the man he'd claimed to despise gave her pause. She glanced up at the back of Scott's head. It was tilted forward. She ventured a little way into his thoughts, and her hands stilled at what she found.
Gratitude. Grief. Frustrated anger. Shared pain. Awe. Protectiveness. A twisted thread of desire.
The last made her hands tremble.
She had responded to Logan on a primal level, herself. She couldn't blame Scott for doing the same. She certainly couldn't blame him for an emotion so deeply buried he probably was unaware of it himself. She knew her boyfriend. He wasn't particularly experienced. It appeared there was more to his aversion to Logan than simple jealousy.
For some reason, the thought made her smile. Maybe she wasn't the only one feeling constricted by their relationship. Maybe she wasn't the only one who had the urge to roam.
And maybe she wasn't the only one in their relationship who had the urge to roam toward Logan.
Smoothing cream over the shallow cuts and taping gauze over them, she stroked Scott's hair comfortingly. "It's going to be a little while before he wakes up. Why don't you relax, try to get some sleep? His body's repairing itself, but he's going to have to heal up before we can untangle the two of you."
"Don't suppose some grease and a big pair of pliers would do it?" There was superficial hope and underlying nervousness in Scott's voice. She shook her head.
"He's got a good hold on you. The only way we could separate you two is to cut his arms and legs off. I don't think even Logan's healing factor could repair that much damage. You're stuck for the duration."
She saw more than heard his sigh. He didn't protest any further. Just settled his head against Logan's shoulder, wrapped his arms around the sturdy waist, and closed his eyes.
He looked amazingly comfortable.
She tried not to think about it.
Ouch.
Tired.
Ached. Everywhere.
It took a hell of a long time before the world came back into focus. When it did, the first thing he smelled was sweat and apples.
His shoulders and his hips ached. His hands felt like he'd been punching solid cement for hours. His eyes were blurry.
On second glance, maybe not.
Logan concentrated on bringing his eyes back into focus and finally figured out that what he was looking at was too close to focus on it. Floppy brown hair and a scattering of freckles across pale skin. A single bead of sweat trickled over the cheekbone an inch from the end of his nose. He could see the fine thin hair on the surface along the hairline, bisected by black metal.
He blinked.
Sniffed again.
Flexed his arms and legs experimentally.
The man sleeping in his arms snuffled and shifted closer. He wasn't sure, because he couldn't remember the last time anybody'd done it with him, but he had a sneaking suspicion that he and the sweet-smelling guy wrapped up in his arms were snuggling.
Two things hit him at once.
The guy in his arms was Scott Summers, and his body was in no hurry to let go.
His body could move, and his brain was screaming at him to get the hell away from Scott Summers.
Since his bones would actually obey him again, he uncurled himself from around Cyclops and threw himself into the far corner of the medical lab. His teeth bared in a snarl, his claws reflexively unsheathed, he looked around for the threat that was the last thing he remembered.
All he saw was Storm. She looked confused.
Not as confused as he felt. "Magneto?" he asked. It came out sounding something like, "Mmgnnm?" He swallowed, several times, and worked the muscles along his jaw. Shit. That hurt, too. He absently sheathed his claws, and winced.
Son of a bitch. Even the hair on the back of his hands hurt. His knees cramped, and he sat in a less than graceful heap.
"Are you all right?"
The voice came from the other side of the exam table. He peered across the floor. Half sitting, half kneeling, Cyclops peered back at him through the bottom rungs of the table. Looked like he'd sent the kid ass over teakettle when he'd bolted. He shrugged apologetically, then nodded. Slowly.
His neck hurt.
Summers pulled himself to his feet and clung to the side of the exam bed. From the way he was standing, he wasn't in the greatest shape himself. Storm moved a little hesitantly toward Logan. He closed his lips over his teeth and did his best to look harmless. She didn't buy the act, but she was game, and came over to crouch down beside him. He sniffed. She smelled good, clean and biting like snow. Not as good as apple cider, over there, but still ... he blinked.
Well, hell.
He glanced down at the erection growing in his lap, sideways at Ororo who was looking jumpy, and over at Cyclops who was bending at the waist, stretching out his back.
Showing off his legs.
Highlighting his ass.
Logan moved again on instinct, scooting past Storm, skirting around Cyclops, and heading off down the corridor to his assigned room as fast as his legs could carry him. He didn't come out the rest of the night.
Jean called once. He refused to answer the door. He felt a little tickle at the back of his skull and bellowed, "Get the hell out o' my head!" It disappeared, and so did she. Nobody else bothered him until breakfast.
Of all the people they could have sent to fetch him, it had to be the one he couldn't turn away. Marie looked torn between being overjoyed to see him and unsure if he wanted to see her. He gave her a careful hug, and followed her down to the pancakes.
Breakfast passed in a blur. She babbled about friends and classes and some kid named Bobby. She only asked him once if he was back to stay. He'd just looked at her. She played with her eggs for a moment, then asked him what he'd found in Canada.
"Not much," he told his own plate. "So, who's Bobby?"
She looked at him closely, then followed his lead. After breakfast, she went off to class. He looked over at Jean. She cocked her head at him. He shook his at her. Then he went for a walk.
An hour of tromping around the hills of upstate New York worked the residual soreness out of his muscles. He sat on the side of a hill and stared down at the school grounds. He hadn't the faintest idea what to do next. A large part of him wanted to go back to Canada and pick up the trail where he'd left off.
A smaller, but pig-headed, part of him didn't want to leave.
The little tickle was back, lighter this time, almost like somebody was knocking instead of poking around. His forehead wrinkled at the sensation, and he asked aloud, feeling stupid, "Yeah?"
May we talk? the professor's voice asked in his head. Logan concentrated on saying Yes back, mentally, and actually felt the professor flinch.
"Sorry," he spoke out loud again. It was easier that way, even if he did feel like an idiot, talking to thin air. "Didn't mean to yell."
Quite all right. When will you be coming back to the house?
"Now?"
I'll meet you in your room, if that would be all right, then?
He nodded. The professor backed out of his thoughts as delicately as he'd entered.
As good as his word, the professor was waiting for him in the hallway outside his room. It felt a little strange to be playing host in the other man's own house, but he opened the door and gestured for Xavier to precede him. With a nearly imperceptible whine, the chair rolled forward and turned to face him. He sat on the edge of the bed.
"I wanted to update you. Magneto has been captured. It would seem that Mystique took a curve too quickly. They were unconscious in the wreckage when the police caught up with them, and they were able to incarcerate him before he could awaken and turn on them."
Logan nodded, not quite sure what to say. Good, sprang to mind, but there was something about the professor that made him not want to rub it in, no matter that Magneto had hurt him and nearly made him kill Cyclops. The older man's face was expressionless, but his scent was sad. Old blood, there. Old ties.
"I was wondering if I could ask a favor of you, before you return to your quest."
He gave the professor a skeptical look. Made him sound like Don Quixote or something. Before he could call him on it, Xavier went on.
"If you feel up to doing some training, perhaps you could demonstrate some self defense moves for the students?"
Calm hazel eyes pinned him in place. It wasn't a lot to ask. Nothing at all, really. He'd made a living as a fighter for years. The kids could probably benefit from his experience.
He nodded again. "Gotta knock some of the rust off before I try to show anybody anything." He felt healed, but he didn't know how much damage Magneto had done, and he didn't want to fall on his ass in front of the whole school.
In front of Cyclops.
"Whenever you'd like, please feel free to use the Danger Room."
He looked sideways at the professor, who explained about the training facilities at the school. Logan grinned. It actually sounded like fun. Not much different from the cages where he'd fought to support himself. Only less chance of getting kicked in the balls. Maybe.
"We are pleased to have you back with us, Logan," Xavier told him with quiet sincerity, interrupting his meandering thoughts. "I personally wanted to thank you for putting yourself in grave danger in order to protect Scott. He means a great deal to me."
Logan's head dipped, and he stared at the bedspread. After a moment, he heard the door swing open, and the soft whir of the wheelchair as the professor left. It was a long time before he eventually got up off the bed and headed down into the basement of the school in search of the Danger Room.
He heard them before he got to the room. Sure, his hearing was incredible, and the walls were reinforced, but even regular ears could've heard that Jean and Scott weren't exactly on the best of terms.
Pausing in the corridor outside the room, he eavesdropped shamelessly.
" -- in no hurry -- " The solid thwack of a foot hitting a body, followed by a gasp of air. " -- to let go, now were you?" Jean, to Scott, sounding really pissed off.
" -- not like I had a lot of choice -- " Another gasp, then a skid, and the thump and glide of a fall rolling into a rebound. "Besides, why are you getting upset?"
The slap of skin on skin, a bitten-off groan, and several thumps in a row. "Absolutely -- no reason -- " A wheeze as she gulped air, then a venomous snipe, "should I be jealous?"
The impact of a large body bouncing off a wall, then several pants, and Scott's expressionless voice, "Would you be?"
Rapid footfalls, then the swish of air past a flying body, followed by twin thuds. Eventually, Jean answered, just as tonelessly, "No."
When there were no more sounds of combat, and no more interesting tidbits of argument, Logan opened the door. "Is this a private party, or can anybody join the fun?"
His entrance distracted Cyclops, who twisted to look at him just as Jean launched herself at him. Unprepared for the attack, he went down under it, and she hit him much harder than she'd intended. Scott's head bounced against the wall and he slumped bonelessly to the floor. She rolled with him, hand still raised, fist clenched, poised to hit him again.
The sight triggered a feral reaction in Logan, and he was on her before he knew he was moving. He growled a single word, "Mine!" and knocked her completely across the floor with one swipe of his hand. His claws were still extending when he made contact or he would have cut her to pieces. She flew across the room and landed in the opposite corner near the door. Shaken, she stared at him, making no attempt to move.
Her shock saved her life.
Threat dispatched, Wolverine leaned over Cyclops' still form. One hand went out and lightly tapped the top of the brown head. With a nearly-silent moan, the body twitched and the customary ruby glow appeared behind his visor as he blinked his eyes open.
"Scott?" Jean crept forward.
Wolverine smelled her. He turned with a snarl and advanced on her. Showing excellent survival instincts, Jean dove out the door and slammed it shut between them.
"Logan?" Scott's voice was groggy, but strong enough to distract Wolverine. He turned back to his prey, claws extending. "Hell!" There was fear in his voice. In his scent. It disturbed Wolverine.
The claws flashed down, once, twice, a third time. Material parted like butter before a hot knife, without a mark appearing on the pale flesh below the black fabric. Cyclops froze. Wolverine grunted in pleasure. That was more like it.
The limbs beneath his moved, and he used those movements to pin them to the ground. His hands moved over skin and muscle, learning the flesh, bending it to his need. His mouth followed his hands, tasting and biting, nuzzling until the movements changed, moving toward him instead of away. There was heat there, against his skin, and a salt-sweet taste on his tongue, and small wounded sounds filling his ears. He lost control of his senses when he lost control of the situation, and they took him where he needed to be.
Surrounding Scott. Over Scott. Inside Scott. His Scott.
He smelled semen mixed with sweat and felt constriction milking him. Cyclops' body bucked under him, and he held on, letting go of the last of his strength. He bit down, hard, on the tendon beneath his mouth, tasting sweat and blood and exulting in the feast for his senses. When he finally came, he howled.
So did Scott.
Charles had just dismissed the last of the students from his office after physics class when Jean's mental scream brought him to attention in his chair. Concentrating on her visual description of the events in the Danger Room, he reached out effortlessly to monitor the situation. He hadn't expected Logan to attack Scott and Jean, not after the protectiveness he'd shown when the men had been under attack from Erik.
The mental atmosphere in the Danger Room reminded him of a swamp. Murky, over-heated, and incredibly damp. There were few coherent thoughts to be found anywhere, and a great deal of animal instinct running rampant. Logan's mind was distinctly primal, and he quickly gave up the attempt to find any logic to which he could appeal within it. Drawing on his familiarity with and affection for Scott, he delved into his long-time student's mind.
Once there, essentially, he got stuck, frozen in shock.
Passion, in a red-painted world, heat and movement and reaction denying protest, if any could have been made when he was so overwhelmed. Charles slipped further into Scott's thoughts, unable to stop himself, fascinated and overpowered right along with Scott.
Synapses fired randomly, rendering Scott incapable of rationality. His normally strictly controlled protege was completely out of control. Scott's world consisted in its entirety of teeth raking along the side of his neck, claw-tips edging fiery hieroglyphics along his flanks, bulky thighs stretching his legs apart, white-hot heat at his center, pushing him past pain into a pleasure he'd never before experienced. His knees were clamped under Logan's forearms, his head was tipped back as Logan's mouth ravaged his throat, his jaw, his cheek, his mouth. His weight was on his shoulders as Logan rammed deeply into him, sparking incredible sensation with each thrust, turning him inside out and making him love it.
Charles felt tension spiral to climax, felt Scott's scream, felt Logan's answering howl. Felt them fall together, Scott's arms winding automatically around Logan's back, holding him close. He heard Logan whispering a single word, "Mine," over and over into Scott's skin. Felt the answer Scott couldn't give, projected through touch, accepted through skin.
With a start, he yanked his mind out of Scott's with much less finesse than he usually showed. Thankfully, Scott was too caught up in Logan to notice. Swallowing to ameliorate the effects of a dry mouth, chagrined to realize he'd been panting, he sent out a calming reassurance to Jean that Scott was perfectly all right. It's a remnant of the protectiveness Logan showed during Magneto's attack, he sent her. It's manifesting itself as possessiveness. Scott is safe with Logan. Others might not be, and he told her to seal off the danger room until the men came out on their own. She was skeptical at first, but he reinforced the reassurance with command, and she did as he bade.
Staring sightlessly out the window, Charles firmly ordered his body to calm down, and smiled to himself. The mind was certainly the primary erogenous zone, and sex was, in his case, in this case, all in the mind. The smile turned wry and self-aware. Acknowledging the irony as well as the need, he dialed up the warden at the maximum security prison to which Erik had been remanded. He would be visiting.
Soon.
The End