Scott and Logan are arguing. Not like the quiet-but-frighteningly-intense arguments that Scott used to have with Jean, or the quiet-and-melancholy ones that Logan has with Marie. Scott and Logan are engaging in an all-out no-goddamned-holds-barred argument wherein they pace around each like a pair of panthers on the verge of pouncing, hurtling insults as easily as they'd like to be throwing punches.
"You touch her again and you'll regret it," Scott promises, and if it were sixth months ago, he'd be surprised at the raw edges in his voice. But he's used to spilling out all over the place since—well. Since.
"Her? You got a name for the bike, too?" Logan's fists are flexing with his every word, like he's just waiting for the one that will provide him with an excuse to unsheathe.
"That," Scott punctuates the statement with a step forward, "is none of your fucking business."
"The little kitten has some claws, after all." Logan crowds him right back; his physical presence, always difficult to ignore, is now flooding every one of Scott's adrenaline-heightened senses.
"Go ahead and call me whatever you want." Scott smirks, flicking his index finger on Logan's knuckle. "At least I don't have to hide behind my claws."
Logan's on him lightning quick, barricading him against the wall with every one of his dense pounds, an inscrutable expression on his face.
The side of one adamantium blade brushes down Scott's face.
"Got nothin' to hide from you." Logan's denial feels heavy and warm on his ear.
"Only one way to find out," Scott says, turning his neck dangerously close to the sharp edge so Logan can see his face, bearing his teeth in a grin that holds no amusement. "Prove it."
Logan snakes his other hand up to grip Scott's neck.
"Kitten has teeth," he murmurs appreciatively before their mouths slam together. "I like teeth."