Date: Thursday, June 05, 2003 2:23 PM Title: Falling Authors: Scy and Mala Email: firstname.lastname@example.org email@example.com Feedback: Of course. Fandom: X2 Pairing: Bobby/Logan Rating: PG-13
Notes: I spoke to Malisita about this, and I apparently made it catching. Yup. We share the madness- and the blame. Also-our cars should date. As Malisita said 'They'd have little mopeds together.'
Intimidated is not the same as attracted. Bobby told himself that at least once a day. More often lately.
Bobby was intimidated by a lot of people. The Professor. Dr. Grey. Cyclops when you touched one of his precious shiny cars. As far as he knew, he didn't want to spin ice crystal roses for them and woo them into bed.
Not that such a tactic would work with Logan.
He wasn't sure what was more disturbing- that he knew what wouldn't work on Logan, or that he wondered what would.
Beer seemed promising. Lots of it. And maybe a Cuban cigar. Porno flicks. The kind that made him slide his ice cold hand down his shorts in the middle of the night...and would surely inspire Logan to do the same.
The problem was, he had no access to those resources.
Not to mention why he was considering any of this. There were reasons for that he was unwilling to examine.
He was already different. Already something Other. A mutant freak. He couldn't...no...wouldn't...think about just how freakish he actually was.
But he couldn't stop thinking about Wolverine.
'Perfectly understandable' droned the voice of a lecturer- one who sounded suspiciously like any number of professors who he ignored much of the time.
That sounded reasonable. Normal. And only smelled if he got close.
But he was close...all the time...whenever Logan passed him in the hall...stared at him over the dinner table. He had more than 'concerns'.
He had it bad.
At first 'it' had been about Rogue.
His girlfriend and a man who she thought way too much about considering their age gap and numerous other factors. Among them being the fact that she had someone around all the time willing to try. To stay.
But now...now...he wasn't sure he was willing.
'It' was suddenly about a man with metal claws and blood in his eye and...and nothing that Bobby could even remotely relate to.
Crouched down to stay out of the way he'd seen that. Not just 'good at what he did,' but 'the best.'
Maybe 'the only.' And then he'd seen him cry. Howl, almost. Breaking with Cyclops and falling to the floor of the jet.
Holding Mr. Summers together while their leader broke.
Which made Bobby feel even worse.
There was death everywhere. Make-believe black crepe hung all over the mansion.
And here he was, having illicit fantasies about a man who had just lost Dr. Grey...like nobody's grief mattered.
Mr. Summers walked the halls as if someone else was in charge of his limbs.
Precise intonation during classes, pain in the air, and it was worse that no one saw him cry.
The visor allowed everyone to fool themselves into thinking he was more in control than was true.
But Logan...Logan had no visor.
Just the expression of someone who knew loss.
And everything was right there...in the tautness of his muscles...the pulse jumping in his cheek...the feral gleam in his eyes that said, clearly, "don't fuck with me."
Somehow that defensiveness didn't include Mr. Summers. They had arguments, the kind that made the students wince and hide in rooms together, but most of the time Logan tolerated any outburst with a kind of patience that made Bobby think of a healer. Pressing on a wound, seeing that all traces of infection were purged before sewing things up.
Bobby wondered if Logan would press on his own infection.
But, no, he wasn't attracted. Just intimidated.
Repeat that enough and he might believe it.
Repeat that enough and it might sound like an even bigger lie.
The sort of thing that kept boundaries clear, lit up 'do not enter' signs, and reminded him of reality.
A reality where someone like Logan would never go for someone like him. Even if he came bearing ice roses and a copy of "Biker Sluts."
Piotr had a copy of "Biker Sluts." How he'd smuggled it into a house full of telepaths, Bobby had no idea. Where he watched it...well, that was something he never wanted to know.
But he kept having mental images of the Professor wheeling in, catching Piotr all red, metal-handed, and going "Ah-ha! You've been naughty!"
So, there was another problem right there. Discovery. Why Rogue had always pushed him away during some of their hotter...er...colder...make-out sessions with whispers of, "Stop...someone could come in and find us..."
In a place where people phased through walls and didn't knock before entering your head and announcing the pizza would be here in twenty minutes, there was no such thing as privacy.
Even if he were to figure out what worked on Logan...not that he was planning to, of course...where would they do...uh...anything?
Of course, Logan probably had ways to get around all of the nonexistent privacy issues.
He could clear a room by walking..stalking in and acting more feral than usual.
All the teachers had a way, he knew. Ms. Munroe, Mr. Summers...surely they didn't freak out every time they wanted to jerk off in the shower.
Granted, nobody barged in on them. Teachers had an amount of respect. It came with having their own room.
Logan had his own room.
Not that Bobby was planning to go there.
At any time. For any reason.
Curiosity was not a reason.
Especially not with a six pack of beer and a hopeful, "Will you fuck me and make me a man?" expression attached.
Unadvised, definitely, and likely a 'really dumb idea.'
And yet he was in front of a closed door.
Fist poised to knock.
With six bottles of Miller Genuine Draft and a hard-on bigger than New York State.
Suddenly he had a new idea of what stupidity meant.
His tombstone would read: 'He wasn't intimidated OR attracted...just really, really, stupid.'
And he was standing there, contemplating the floral arrangement and the moving classical piece that would play as John and Piotr carried his casket out of a lovely chapel, when the door swung backwards and open...
There should have been a dramatic change in the musical score that played only in his head. Something. A 'run away now' warning. Nope. Instead he was caught.
Somehow, Bobby knew that Logan would have no patience tonight.
And the growled, half-drowsy, "The Hell're you doing here?" only served to prove that.
Notes: Mala is my co writer ::singing it loudly:: Okay, I'll stop now. There are few things as wonderful as a co writer who will poke you with something sharp when you're babbling-reminding you that yes, there is a plot, or at least a suggestion of one to be followed. And that's not even going into all those lovely ideas that I didn't come up with.... Mala rocks. Evil Mutant Parts Unknown is different from normal parts unknown. It's a place where Magneto and Mystique watch campy gay movies and bitch about Charles's tragic male pattern baldness.
Bobby was aware he was staring. There was an explanation for his inability to speak. To answer complex questions like "The Hell're you doing here?"
Logan was shirtless and looked mussed..
He blamed his fascination with rebellious wanderer types on the rather impossible standards set at the school.
Mr. Summers was the one who everyone wanted to be, but all that gloss sometimes hurt the eyes. His visor both restricted and protected. Unmentioned was that he himself was among those kept safe.
Logan was the outsider, following what rules he agreed with and discouraging reckless behavior just by being around.
There were factions divided on which was worse- taking one of Mr. Summers' perverse exams, or training with Logan.
Bobby glanced down at what he was holding, recalling some of the harsher punishments devised for underage drinking.
And this after he'd told Logan that there wasn't any alcohol in the school.
Logan's eyes fell to the 'offerings of goodwill', and Bobby could feel that expression, even with his head down.
Swearing would be a given.
Maybe mocking laughter.
The way things were tumbling, Logan would probably smell what he wanted at any moment.
It was humiliatingly easy to imagine his scent.
Then Logan would give him that disgusted look Bobby knew drove Mr. Summers nuts.
//I know what you're thinking and I know better.//
What the students knew about Logan was derived largely from Rogue, or eavesdropping.
The teachers liked to enforce 'need to know' policy around their charges.
As if life wasn't already out of their control.
Funny how even the invulnerable loner got worn down.
The duties Logan had decided were his to take on tethered him to the school, when it was normal for him to wander.
Staying in one place was an obvious strain.
One did not go around bothering a large caged predator.
Particularly when said creature was stressed and tired.
Anyone with sense knew that. But, as Bobby was well aware, he hadn't demonstrated good judgment since the beginning of this encounter.
"Iceman," Logan said, implying that by using such courtesies as codenames, he was being unbelievably accommodating.
In other words, if he knew what was good for his continued respiration, Bobby would get to the point. Immediately.
"I..brought beer. And stuff." Bobby held up the gifts awkwardly, hoping his body language was as submissive as a wolf with belly exposed.
//Don't hurt me. I have presents.//
Which would be worse, being drained of life, powers and a dazzling career fighting evil, or being eviscerated? He was leaning toward whichever would bring a quick end to his embarrassment.
He was leaning toward whichever involved Logan...not Marie.
If he was oh, sensible, he'd fall for someone with whom he might have a hope in some dimension of having a relationship.
Sensible was the equivalent of 'simple.' Neither of which fit his life, or took his mind off the silence.
The room was too quiet. No Johnny playing 'how long can I nearly set my bed on fire until Bobby loses it.'
He was used to staying awake, barely controlling the urge to freeze certain parts of his obnoxious roommate.
St. John made him an insomniac and hadn't stuck around to gloat.
The trio had dissolved, shattered more like,. and the parts didn't look so neat divided up.
His issues with shiny sharp things had clearly melted down the connections which told an otherwise intelligent young man to 'stand back, sharp is bad.'
Those crossed wires were so going to be fatal.
It wouldn't go over well with the Professor if Logan used him as an oversized cat toy, but Logan could come up with a believable excuse.
Long dormant programming brought to the surface by Bobby's habit of following Logan around being a general pain in the ass.
The Professor would nod seriously, offer his condolences to Bobby's family, and compare meditation techniques with Logan.
He hadn't thought much past giving stuff to Logan and not being thrown out a window or dumped somewhere never to be seen again.
The idea of a 'next step' was beyond him.
Logan looked at Bobby in a searching way that worried the teenager until he remembered that Logan wasn't telepathic. The little voice that sing-songed 'has animal senses' was beaten down quickly.
Logan's room was not only disturbingly quiet, it was clean. For some reason, all the gruesome speculation about 'Wolverine's den' paraded through his head like stills from a horror film.
There weren't any corpses lying around, but the closet door was closed, so he wasn't entirely reassured.
The space was extremely neat. As though being indoors and any sort of instructor were concession enough. Logan didn't advertise his presence. There was no telling how long he would stay. Or that he was staying here at all.
Logan sprawled back on the bed, looking way too much like a pornographic invitation for Bobby's state of mind.
"Is this your idea of bonding?" he asked, and Bobby took his not being kicked out as a sign he could sit down.
What was that? Bondage? No, that wasn't right. That was "Biker Sluts." Bonding. Right. Bonding.
Oh, answering might be polite.
Robert Drake, brilliant conversationalist and all-around suave guy.
At this rate, he was going to bore Wolverine to death before anything happened.
Being a superhero wasn't in the cards for him, oh no. His true calling was to write the definitive work on How To Fail In Attracting The Object of One's Affection.
Not that he had affection.
Clearing his throat Bobby cast about frantically for something to say. Other than all of the readily available conversation openers that never failed to reveal his nervousness.
Like..."Nice weather, huh?"
And "How about them Mets?"
"Excuse me, are you naked under that towel?"
Fortunately for him, Logan was not, unlike some of the other more regal and feminine teachers, in the habit of wearing only a towel at night.
The skin-hugging jeans, though, were quite possibly worse.
Towels were loose. Suggestive. Jeans were tight. And left nothing to the imagination.
Therefore, it was perfectly understandable for him to have trouble..focusing.
"So...erhm...weather?" he chirped, picking the the first of his weak options for conversation.
"Outside. It's...uh...warming up, huh?"
Oh, smooth Drake. That would get a reaction alright.
Wolverine shrugged, gesturing to the half-open window that dominated the spare suite almost as much as he did.
And Bobby realized that he must've been outside. Maybe if he hadn't been outside, he would've answered the door naked. That was...oh holy shit...so much worse than a towel.
Logan smelled like the woods. Earthy. Green. Like good, clean, dirt and moss and grass that expanded for miles. Bobby suddenly wondered how that lush, wild, landscape would look covered in frost.
"Beer?" he offered, lamely, swallowing away the image of himself lounging on naked Logan skin. "'S cold. And...if it isn't...I can...chill it."
"And your parents believed you were at a prep school for the gifted?"
"They got caught up in all the flashy brochures."
Logan snorted, coming off the bed and stalking towards him. "They're even more gullible than you are."
"Well, I'm pretty gullible. So, that's saying a lot." His mouth was moving and the closer Logan got to him, the less he had control over what was pouring out of it.
"You say a lot in general. Too much. Fact, you need to shut up." And then there was Logan in his personal space. Too close. Forest primeval. Leaning down.
And when stupid Bobby would've hoped for a kiss...for the scrape of stubble against his jaw, there was only the slide of a bottle from the paper carton that was clenched in his hand and two rapid strides backwards.
"What the hell do you think you're doing, Kid?" he asked, quietly, throat convulsing as he swallowed a mouthful of beer.
Caught. He was totally caught.
He debated playing dumb, but Logan would see through that in a heartbeat.
Gift-giving involved planning, which in turn utilized brain power. So, it was too late to act as though he had no idea what was going on.
The temperature was dropping significantly. A sign that Bobby's powers were responding to his mood and going haywire.
Control was, apparently, something that he'd lost some time ago.
"It's a simple question, Bobby," Logan's eyes flashed over the ice on the windowsill...the crisp, sharp blades hanging from the doorknob. "Nothing to get riled over."
And he wanted to laugh. Was he the savage beast now? Needing to be soothed?
The five remaining bottles of beer and the carton they'd come in were a solid block of ice and nothing shattered, nothing tore, when it hit the floor with a resounding thump.
"I'm...going to go now."
Everyone knew that Logan could move quickly. Bobby had seen the man protecting the mansion- doing a better job than he'd dared to imagine- so he wasn't ignorant of Wolverine's speed. What he wasn't prepared for was being the one pursued.
In a matter of seconds, he was flush against the closed door instead of safely on the other side of it. Trapped between wood and hot, sweaty, skin that hid a hard core of adamantium.
Logan's hips held him firm, the denim of his jeans rubbing the frayed gaps in Bobby's...widening the holes. And the ceiling was the consistency of an ice rink.
Squirming seemed pointless.
He'd read somewhere that struggling was only an invitation for the animal with claws to dig in and hold on tighter.
He'd come to Logan's room with one hormonally-charged, idiotic, objective. Now, he had another one entirely. Run. Run away.
Run away and pretend this never happened.
Maybe in a few years, when he was done dying of shame, he could join the X-Men again.
But, until then. he was going to go live in a tunnel somewhere like a recluse and babble to himself about "sanctuary" like the Hunchback of Notre Dame.
Just as soon as he got free.
It was insulting how easily Logan held him in place.
If there was beer unfrozen, it would be drunk, and Bobby would be flailing around, ignored in favor of quenching thirst.
In fact, Logan could probably drink beer, bench press three students, and keep holding him against the door all at the same time.
"Bobby, why'd you really come here?" he asked softly, dangerously.
High pitched noises were really unmanly. He needed to remember that.
And kissing a guy. That was unmanly, too. Especially kissing a mutant guy. But, suddenly, that's what he was doing. And he couldn't stop.
Because stopping meant forming words...and how could he do that when Logan tasted so good? Like alcohol and salt and something tangy and wild.
Any minute now, there was going to be a fist in his face. Claws coming out the other side of it. His big gay head on a skewer.
But he would die happy.
That would make John's trip back from evil mutant parts unknown for his funeral well worth it.
Yet, Logan wasn't pulling away.
Maybe he'd been expecting this.
When Hormonal Mutants Attack! Or Kiss! Wait for the sequel- Groping With A Free Hand!.
Instinct was a wonderful thing. When one was kissed, normally the gesture was reciprocated. Logan, obviously, had no need to feel threatened. He was able to maintain his equilibrium and enjoy the experience. Or, at least, Bobby hoped he was enjoying the experience.
A bit unfair, Bobby thought, because he was plastered to a door, couldn't move, and couldn't break away from the kiss he'd initiated even if he'd wanted to. Logan's free hand rested on Bobby's side, both holding him still and serving as a reminder of the fact he wasn't alone.
That hand was both holding him still and serving as a reminder that ice-related hijinks were strictly verboten. But when he withdrew, finally pulled away, Bobby saw that his lips were blue-tinged and frost had formed on his eyelashes.
Oddly enough, Bobby was the only one shivering.
The back of Logan's hand skated along his face, down the side of his neck and he thought...this is it...this is the end. Blades. Gutting. Tragedy.
He tensed, waiting for the death blow...but all that came was a weary sigh.
And..."You don't want this, Bobby."
Wait, that was wrong.
While he wasn't looking forward to Logan gutting him, the kissing was wanted. Oh, yes. He wanted it. That's why he'd come here.
And maybe Logan saw the beginnings of that protest forming in his eyes because his fingers curved into his shoulder, warningly, accompanied by a terse, "You're confused, Kid. It happens all the time."
"It does?" Bobby glanced around, automatically. Maybe instead of corpses, there were nubile teenagers in various states of undress hidden in the closet? "Is that why John left?" he joked, feebly.
"Not to me," Logan ground out with a degree of impatience.
Logan could growl. Bobby hadn't believed Rogue.
Apparently he owed her an apology.
"That's a shame." And before he could think twice, write an epitaph for his tombstone, or imagine somebody singing a moving rendition of "Wind Beneath My Wings", he was hooking one arm around Logan's waist and licking the ice from his mouth.
One kiss was forgivable. Two was...was not registering any complaints quite yet.
For someone saying this wasn't what was called for, Logan was doing a good job of participating. And he kissed like he killed. Without holding anything back.
No wonder Bobby felt like he was dying of lust.
Without blood or oxygen going to his brain, he was going to freeze the entire mansion.
He was going to freeze the mansion and go up in flames.
There was something off about that thought.
But, there was something on about being in Logan's arms.
Besides the unavoidable cliches that sprang to mind-like lovers in fields of over-bright wildflowers.
The image of Logan with a flower between his teeth was at once frightening and arousing.
Yeah, he was really messed up.
With his luck, allergies would present the next obstacle to intimacy.
Clearly resigned to Bobby's complete stupidity, Logan had made the best of the situation.
And, apparently, when dealing with a teenager whose mind was not on current events it was best to remind him.
Instead of gently patting or stroking Bobby, the most blunt approach was employed.
As he stared up at the ceiling from his new position, Bobby reflected that Logan moved quickly enough to make one suspect teleportation or black ops training. As he didn't smell sulfur, the latter seemed the most likely.
Logan crouched over him, expression that of a pleased hunter who had run down his prey after a lengthy chase. Ice had spread into dark hair and Bobby wondered how often Wolverine went about in the forest without clothing.
For all his reaction, it might have been a sweltering July day.
While being underneath Wolverine was a wholly interesting experience, one that he wanted to explore further, Bobby felt that he owed it to the older man to demonstrate some finesse with his own abilities.
A good hold on Logan and a twisting move that he'd picked up in the Danger Room put him on top.
There was no protest from Logan, who looked more indulgent than offended.
The plan was clearly to let Bobby work out his confusion. he'd gotten himself in deep enough that he was responsible for getting himself back out.
Bobby was good at freezing stuff, he didn't have so much luck with removing cold. But a challenge had to be met.
Being close to Rogue was terrifying in that he had to remember how deadly her skin was, but also wonderful because she trusted him enough to be within her space. Despite that privilege, Bobby found himself seeking out close quarters with others. If just so that he could remember what touch was like.
Gloves, scarves, and countless other garments designed for the pretty girl he dated but couldn't cuddle were barriers thicker than concrete sometimes.
Logan, on the other hand, lay comfortably below him, waiting and shirtless. Practically screaming "touch me, I won' t kill you" with his patient silence.
How best to apologize for near hypothermia? With nudity! That would be one chapter in his book where a lot of detail was used.
A laying on of hands could have been interpreted as a way to measure the extent of freezing, or just a sneaky feeling up of Logan.
Logan had the look of someone not content to wait around for Bobby to get his head in order, so a little action was in order. With one 'snikkt' of his claws, things were ripped and tossed aside.
And then there was skin against skin. Without cloth or underlying muscle set in 'keep away' mode.
Voicing how fascinated he was by such a concept would have revealed him as a gibbering wreck. Which was the truth, but in a stressful situation, it was nice to think that he displayed some calm.
Bent over Logan as if in worship, Bobby inhaled that outdoorsy odor that made him think about rolling in heaps of leaves.
A lick to Logan's chest got a rumble of approval so he did it again.
The best place to hang on happened to be Logan's hips, which earned a roll against his own crotch, and that led to an echoed groan.
Various plans of attack presented themselves: kiss him again, bite, and what was the best way to seduce a feral warrior?
Anything was likely better than nervously licking his lips, but it was hard to pretend that he wasn't completely out of his league.
"You gonna sit there all night Kid?" Logan demanded, still amused by Bobby's inspection.
"I do have a name," was his oh-so-cutting-retort, and then he demonstrated his maturity by letting both hands drop below zero.
Predictably, Logan objected to further chilling, and snarled, flipping them again.
This time Logan's smile was a little wider than friendly and showed some overly sharp teeth.
"Not too smart, Drake," Wolverine noted and Bobby had to agree. Sub-zero was not a mood setter. Unless the desired state was 'frostbitten.'
Still, if he was going to make his point- which would come to mind just as soon as Logan stopped sniffing him- a little discipline was in order.
As he recited the Periodic Table of Elements and willed his rampaging erection to behave itself, Bobby saw that his breath had stopped hanging in the air as though winter had come early.
For once he was thankful for his Chem class.
Logan shook himself and ice shards fell away in a tinkle like broken glass.
It was the sort of moment that reinforced Bobby's precarious and embarrassing position.
Wolverine wasn't about help Bobby along each step of the way, he was more wont to let mistakes be made, and a lesson learned.
So, lying around and examining motives was only a delaying tactic and wouldn't matter in the end.
With a dance club remix of 'Underneath Your Clothes' going at a dizzying speed in his ears, Bobby executed a successful lunge upward and dragged Logan closer.
Lots of touching was apparently the route to get Logan's attention.
That expanse of skin over Wolverine's collarbone demanded the combination of teeth and tongue and Bobby had no reason to ignore the pull.
That led to Logan resuming his inhalation of Bobby's scent.
It was as if no spot could be neglected and had to be learned.
Maybe, they were both students tonight...
And Bobby was more than happy to play teacher.
If you enjoyed this story, please send feedback to Scy and Mala
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