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Rating: R Pairing: Scott/Logan [Movieverse] Archive: if you must... let me know Author's
Note: The rating is for
language, mainly and a little blood.
Hmmm. Follows:
‘That Smile’ Disclaimer:
Uh-huh. Still not
mine. Damn. Scott found himself watching Logan.
Actually, watching Logan watch him.
Since he’d kissed him that one day. Scott went about his business as usual, with his usual cool aplomb. Grading papers, teaching class, mediating disputes between students. Nipping trouble in the bud. Trying to get Jean to relax more, to cut down on the intensity of her research. Helping the Professor frame new arguments on the political front. Handling all the day-to-day administrative chores of running a school with quiet efficiency. Through it all he was aware of Logan’s hot, speculative gaze, but was careful to pay him no more attention than usual. He’d long since noticed a tendency for the eyes of people he conversed with to slide off his glasses after a while. They would often end up talking to his ear, or the air beyond his shoulder, or his chest. There were a rare few who had mastered the trick of actually catching his eyes behind the concealing lenses. Jean, of course. The Professor. Ororo. Kitty Pryde, Bobby Drake and Rogue, of the students. And Logan. Lately he’d noticed that Logan’s gaze wandered whenever they spoke. But it only wandered to one place. His mouth. He would wait for Scott to become aware of his gaze, then flick it back up to his eyes. Catching them through the glasses. Trying to read him. It was getting harder to keep his cool, yet he almost found it amusing. Almost. But it was the daily training sessions that had become most difficult. Twice a week they fought in leathers instead of looser clothing. Because they needed to know how to move in their combat gear. Old leathers, granted. Broken in and worn. But still more restrictive than standard exercise clothing. Scott was quick to note that the leathers Logan wore in training were the same slashed and stained ones that had barely survived the Statue of Liberty incident. The uniform Scott had loaned him. Once he’d come back from his apparently fruitless journey of self-discovery, they’d fitted him for a uniform of his own. Logan had half a dozen custom-made outfits hanging in his own locker now. Ones that fit him much better, that didn’t bind him anywhere. But he never chose any of those for practice. And Scott was loathe to question him. Because he could see Logan anticipating that very thing. The women would bail early. Storm, because she disliked hand-to-hand combat. Jean, because she was always eager to return to her research. That often left him alone with the Wolverine. “Not bad, Fearless Leader,” Logan’s mocking voice brought his attention sharply back to matters at hand. They were both circling warily around the room, moving fluidly through the obstacles. This was a no-powers exercise. He’d already thrown Logan once, surprising him from around a blind corner. He knew he wouldn’t be able to use that move again. The lighting was low in the Danger Room. A pungent odor of pine filled the air. The only way to tone down Logan’s enhanced sense of smell was to flood the room with a single scent. That was how he’d managed to catch him by surprise once. Scott paused, listening closely for the sound of movement. Nothing. Where had Logan gone? He heard a soft scrape behind him, but too late. He started to spin, but a hard arm had already closed around his neck. He brought his own hands up, to pull down, to try to break the hold, but a clenched fist pressed hard against his spine. He froze. Death waited inches away inside that strong arm. “Bang – you’re dead,” Logan whispered in his ear. “Shit,” Scott said, disgusted. “How do you move so quiet?” “Practice,” Logan said softly, his breath ruffling the short hair on Scott’s neck. He shifted under Logan’s pinioning arm, becoming suddenly very aware of their isolation, and their position. Tension spiraled up, betrayed by his sucked in breath. “You never asked me why,” Logan said, his fist moving away from Scott’s spine. But the arm around his throat didn’t relax. Scott lowered his own arms, letting them fall to his sides. One hand brushed a hard, leather clad thigh behind him. He closed it into a fist and pressed it against his own leg instead. “Why what?” he asked. Knowing, but asking anyway. “Why I kissed you,” Logan said. Scott stayed silent. Breathing as steadily as he could, feeling his blood pumping faster in his veins. And not just from recent exercise. Hot breath feathered against the back of his neck. “Don’t you want to know?” “No.” He could almost feel Logan’s surprise. Could imagine his bushy eyebrows climbing toward his hairline then dropping. Logan sucked in a hissing breath, his arm flexing against Scott’s throat. Not dangerously, just there. Immovable. “You should watch the Discovery Channel more.” Scott almost laughed at the apparent non sequiter. “Why?” “Then you’d understand about pack structure, alpha dog,” Logan said, his voice lowering ominously. Scott stiffened. Still not understanding completely, but with a better sense of the danger now. “Humans don’t work that way, Logan,” he said flatly. Warning him. Logan snorted in his hair. “Don’t think so, huh?” Scott considered that for a moment, then said, “So, what does that make you?” “Challenging you, top dog,” Logan said, lips brushing against the back of his neck. “Deal with it or…” Scott jerked away from the touch, pushing back briefly against the hard body behind him, then leaning forward. His hands closed around the irregular obstacle in front of him. Gripping it tightly. He choked slightly as the arm around his throat reminded him of the position he was in. Logan never moved. “Or what?” Scott finally managed to say. “You put me in my place or… I rip you apart.” And Scott could hear the satisfied smirk in his voice, feel the anticipation in the body behind him. Logan obviously thought he’d already won. Scott thought quickly, glancing around the room. He knew where he was, he always knew where he was. But was Logan in the right place? “Computer! Activate Pit 14,” Scott called to the air, already in motion. There was a metallic click, and the floor below Logan snapped opened. His right arm started to tighten around Scott’s throat as he fell, but Scott was prepared; he dropped and spun into his arm, pivoting on the handhold under his left hand, slamming up with his own right arm to knock Logan’s away. He was free, half hanging off the obstacle, feet braced at the edge of the pit. Logan tumbled into the padding at the bottom, extended blades on both hands scraping loudly against the metal walls, sending up sparks. Scott let off a tight blast of energy that struck the wall just over Logan's shoulder. Exactly where he'd aimed. “Fuck!” Logan shouted from where he lay on the pads, glaring up at him. Shaking metal bits out of his hair. “Bang – you’re dead,” Scott said, free hand steady at the controls of his visor as he stared down into the pit. Logan snarled up at him and brandished his claws. Then he deliberately retracted them with a harsh flick of his arms. “You stupid son of a bitch!” Logan screamed up at him, bouncing up on his feet, his face dark with outrage. “I could have fuckin’ killed you!” Scott just shook his head, a tight smile on his face. “You didn’t. And I didn't kill you either.” Logan froze then, staring up at him. His expression suddenly paled with shock. “Fuck, Scotty,” he said hoarsely. “I cut you.” Scott’s peripheral vision was greatly constrained by his combat visor. But he saw something dark drip down and splash against the padding below. He lifted his arm, gazing curiously at the long clean slice down the leather that covered his forearm. And the welling blood underneath. There was no pain yet. “So you did,” Scott said calmly, trying to assess the damage. Logan scrambled to the far side of the pit, slapping at the safety controls that extended the exit ladder. Rungs popped out of the wall and he was halfway up them in a flash. Scott watched him come as the blood dripped, holding his position. When Logan was clear of the pit, he ordered the computer to close it again, stepping easily onto the sliding hatch. Then Logan was on him, one hand around the wrist of the cut arm dragging it up, the other coming up sharply under his chin, elbow planted in his chest. Momentum drove them both back hard against the obstacle. Scott grunted as he hit, pinned again, and gritted his teeth, glaring at Logan. “What the hell are you doing?” he demanded. Logan snarled at him and covered his mouth with his. Hot lips pried his mouth open, a strong tongue surged inside. Searing. Fierce. Scott groaned as Logan savaged his mouth, finally twisted his head away. Both of them gasped for air. Logan buried his face in his neck, breathing harsh, hand gently stroking the other side of Scott’s neck. “I cut you,” he repeated, voice shaking. Then he stepped back and examined the wound. Scott watched Logan warily. Confused by his actions. First competitive, then sexual, then almost emotional. Logan looked into his visor, frowning when his gaze couldn’t pierce the thicker ruby quartz. He wrapped his hand carefully around Scott’s arm, squeezing tightly to slow the bleeding. Scott's leathers were already slick with blood and he felt the first sharp sting of pain. “Gonna need stitches,” Logan said gruffly, tugging him away from the wall. “C’mon. I’ll let Jeannie tear you a new one.” “Thanks a lot. I needed that image,” Scott said dryly. Logan’s laugh was low and dark as he led him to the medical bay. Scott sat, stripped to the waist, on an examination table in the middle of the lab. His leathers were bunched around his waist, smeared with blood. There were streaks of it on his chest as well, but no more cuts. A rough pressure bandage had been wrapped around his arm to slow the bleeding while Jean prepared to stitch the cut. It was long, but fairly shallow, running through the meat of his forearm. The leather suit had saved him from worse. Logan was standing just outside of his range of vision in the visor. Scott twisted around and stared at him. “Stand where I can see you,” he said with quiet intensity. The command registered. Logan lifted his chin aggressively, a sneer on his lips, but he moved over to lean against the table opposite Scott. Then he folded his arms over his chest and glared. Jean shot him a puzzled look as she readied her supplies. Her hands were covered in fresh rubber gloves. One bloody set had already been discarded after she finished the initial examination of her fiancée's wound. “Well, this is certainly an interesting twist on the usual pissing contest,” she said, brows raised behind her working glasses. “Is any of that yours, Logan?” She nodded toward the blood visible on his skin through the old claw marks on the leather over his belly. “No,” Scott answered for him, still staring at him. Logan’s lip lifted in a silent snarl. Jean rolled her eyes and turned back to Scott, sliding her equipment table over the floor. She began removing sterile pre-threaded sutures from their protective packaging, laying them out neatly on the stainless steel tray. “He all right, Jeannie?” Logan asked, shooting her a hot glance. A frown furrowed her brow. She glanced between the two men curiously. Scott was still staring at Logan for some reason, his expression hard. “He’ll be fine once I stitch this up, Logan,” she said calmly, spreading out her tools. "It looked like more blood than it actually was." "I want my regular glasses," Scott said, watching Logan. His voice was hard, cold. Logan frowned and shifted, lowering his arms to his sides. He tried to meet Scott's gaze. Couldn't through the visor and snarled in frustration. The moment dragged. Tension rose. Jean looked up, staring at Scott with puzzled concern. "All right," Logan finally snapped. Then he stalked away, angry steps echoing loudly in the big room until the hiss of the closing door cut them off. Jean stared after him in astonishment. "What was that all about?" she asked cautiously, glancing at Scott out of the corner of her eyes. He sighed heavily and something seemed to drain out of him. A tension or a kind of battle-readiness. He lifted his uninjured arm and rubbed wearily at his forehead, frowning behind his visor. She recognized the small signs of stress on his face. "I wish I knew for sure," he said, a wry smile twisting his lips. She smiled gently at him and held up the needle and it's dangling suture. She shook it back and forth teasingly. "Didn't want him to hear you whimper when I stitched this up, huh, big boy?" Scott just smiled and held out his arm.
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