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Hailing From Parts Unknown

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Two-bit fight club in the middle of nowhere, upstate Washington, and Logan is feeling wound-up, tense, ready for a brawl. It's been a long fucking week. The truck broke down (twice), he's been averaging about three hours of sleep with the nightmares, and last night he damn near skewered some guy who made the error of walking up behind him in a noisy bar and grabbing his shoulder. Turns out he was just a drunken idiot who wanted the bowl of peanuts sitting on the bar next to Logan's elbow. Damn stupid way to almost die.

So he's more than ready for a fight by the time the announcer finishes his spiel. Takes out the first two guys quickly, but not too quickly -- gotta give the audience a show, make sure the house gets a good take from the betting. Second guy is almost a challenge, but way too slow; obviously used to relying on his height and muscle mass to win fights, rather than his skill.

Logan is feeling frustrated, growl raising at the back of his throat, shaking his arms out and getting ready for the next unsatisfying challenger, when he catches a hint of scent in the crowd that's... different, somehow. Human, yeah, but mixed with feline somehow. Another mutant? He doesn't tend to run into other mutants a lot, and when he does, he tries to avoid them. Too much chance of them both being exposed as mutants by proximity.

The next challenger steps into the cage, and Logan knows. Knows with a certainty deep down in his bones that this is the source of that intriguing scent -- this young guy, who can't possibly be older than twenty, with a pretty face that won't last long in the world of cagefighting. A few inches shorter than Logan, built for speed rather than power, long lines of muscle under smooth, unscarred skin. The way he moves isn't entirely human. Probably a mutant, then. Logan cracks his neck, almost smiles. This could be interesting.

"Should we shake hands first?" the kid asks, smirking. Logan steps forward, holds his hand out, and barely even bothers to brace himself against the predictable attempt to throw him. The kid steps back, eyes wide. He was obviously expecting Logan to weigh about what he looks, around 200 pounds -- not what he actually weighs with the metal coating every bone in his body, which is more like 300 pounds.

"Nice try, kid." The kid just raises an eyebrow and shrugs, looking nonchalant once more.

The bell clangs and the two of them circle each other, looking for an opening. The noise of the crowd is overpowering, but Logan finds it fading to the back of his head. His focus is narrowing down to the kid's eyes, his shoulders, watching for the first faint flicker of movement that'll tell him when the kid decides to attack. When it comes, it's almost too fast for him to catch -- the kid feints left, then follows it up with a roundhouse kick that nearly lands before Logan can dodge. Martial arts training. This will be more interesting than the standard roadhouse brawl.

The kid's fast, even faster than Logan. Doesn't have the sheer power that Logan can bring to the fight, though. Obviously recognizing this, he keeps himself out of range for the most part, darting in with quick, precise attacks. There's something familiar about the way he fights, but Logan can't quite place it.

The kid can definitely take a hit, though. He takes a solid punch to the left side of his jaw and just smiles, wiping his hand over his mouth and smearing blood across his face. "That the best you can do?" he asks.

"Just gettin' started," Logan growls. He's not used to people smiling after he hits them. Clearly, it's been too long since he fought anyone other than normal humans.

"Promises, promises." If he didn't know better, he'd think the kid was flirting with him.

As the match goes on, Logan is surprised to find himself almost smiling. They're damn near perfectly matched, but much though he's enjoying the fight, he knows that he'll win it. He's got years (how many years?) of experience on the kid, and Logan's mutant metabolism means that his body is constantly repairing any damage that the kid manages to land on him. He wants to win the fight, though -- no, more than that, he wants to make the kid submit. A vivid image flashes into his head (holding the kid down, teeth on the back of his neck, waiting for the tension in the kid's body to relax into languid submission) and he almost stumbles, thrown off balance by the want suddenly thrumming through his body.

"Getting tired, old man?" the kid taunts. He's not even breathing hard yet. Logan narrows his eyes, determined to end this now. Something about the kid's scent is fucking with his concentration, getting to him at a primitive level. He's not averse to the occasional rough-and-tumble encounter with a guy -- that's not what's bothering him. But fucking guys is more a matter of convenience and not being all that choosy, not... whatever that was that he just felt, that flash of overwhelming lust mixed with desire for dominance.

He sees an opening in the kid's guard and takes it, knocking him out with a sharp uppercut to the side of his jaw that Logan had hit earlier. The kid goes down like a bag of wet cement and gets dragged off by a couple of the ringside assistants. For no reason he can figure, Logan watches them like a hawk as they drag the kid to a bench and dump his limp body on it.

Logan shakes his head, telling himself to focus. The night is young, and he's probably got another four matches to go. Can't afford to let himself get distracted like this.

The rest of the fights are pretty average: idiots step up, Logan knocks them down. At the end of the night, he collects his cut from the owner and goes to the bar to get himself a beer. He's sitting there, not thinking about anything in particular (snow falling through pine branches on thin, ragged men in grimy khaki uniforms) when that troubling, cat-like scent wafts through the air toward him. He turns, outwardly casual, and sees the kid standing about twenty feet away, smiling smugly at him, like he just won something. Logan sneers at him and turns away.

Sure enough, the kid plops down on the barstool next to him, still radiating a hell of a lot of smugness for someone who got knocked on his ass earlier that evening. "Whiskey," he says when the barkeep asks him what he'd like. Slides a bill over the bar and picks up the glass, sipping thoughtfully. This isn't the kind of place where anyone's likely to ask for ID, but Logan wouldn't be surprised if he gets carded a lot, with that baby face. Now that he's in better lighting, Logan can tell that his original assessment of the kid as 'pretty' was actually an understatement -- big green eyes and sandy-colored hair, freckles across his nose and pouty lips. Damn, the kid had better be a fighter, walking into a bar like this, looking like that, with such a goddamned cocky attitude.

"Ah, the perfect blend of dirty socks and urine," the kid says, not especially quietly. The bartender gives him a dirty look, but he's got other customers to serve. Logan shakes his head, wondering if he'd ever been that arrogant and stupid. He figures it's something that probably comes naturally with being that age. Of course, since he can't actually remember...

"Nice moves," the kid says, turning the glass around and around on the bar top. Not nervously, more like he's the kind of person who always needs to be in motion. Apparently, that includes his mouth. Logan signals for another beer and hopes the kid will take the hint and go away. He's still uncomfortably aware of his scent, his nearness, the way that his fingers trace around the rim of his glass.

"Does the term 'X-5' mean anything to you?" The kid is leaning closer to Logan, speaking in an undertone. His scent intensifies with nearness, sending conflicting messages to Logan's hindbrain. Logan shakes his head, trying to clear his mind, but inadvertently answering the kid's question at the same time. The kid hums thoughtfully and takes another sip. "Interesting. My name is Alec, by the way." There's an interesting inflection to how he says the name. Not like how someone who's using a false name will say it; more like it means more to him than just a name.

"Logan." He's not sure why he uses his real name. Hell, he's not even quite sure why he's talking to the kid. Not that he actually has to say much, as the kid appears to be perfectly capable of carrying on a conversation by himself, going on and on about the moves Logan used during the fight, and whether he'd have chosen the same kind of move, and blah blah blah. Logan tries to tune him out, but it's difficult with that scent still fucking with his mind.

"You wanna get out of here?" the kid asks out of nowhere. Logan stares at him, surprised. The kid licks his lips, not nervously -- more like he's making sure Logan is looking at them, and adds, "I haven't been imagining the way you've been looking at me all night, have I? Because what I'd really like to do is get out of this shithole bar so I can suck your brains out through your dick. Hopefully in a car or something, because it's fucking cold outside."

Jesus Christ. Logan darts a quick glance around, but no one's paying any attention to them. Good. He's not really in the mood for a bar fight at this point. What he is in the mood for... well, hell, it's been a while, and the kid, while annoying and motor-mouthed, is still the best offer he's gotten in quite a while. Plus, there's that scent...

Logan drains his glass and sets it on the bar. Says, almost too quietly to carry over the background noise of the bar, "Follow me in five. Blue pickup with a camper shell on the southeast end of the lot." The kid nods, and Logan grabs his jacket and heads for the back door of the bar.

The cold air outside clears his head a little. Logan takes a deep breath, smelling diesel fuel, grease, unwashed humans, and underlying it all, the wet, clean smell of fresh snow. There's about two inches of fresh powder on the ground, temporarily covering up the dinginess of the bar and its crowded parking lot.

The southeast end of the lot is on higher ground, slightly isolated from the rest of the vehicles, near a rutted dirt road leading into the surrounding woods. Choosing a defensible, easily escaped from position was pure instinct on his part. Or was it training? He can't be sure either way. Can't remember a damn thing before the day he woke up deep in the Canadian wilderness fourteen years ago, stark naked except for a set of dog tags stamped with the word "Wolverine," whatever the hell that's supposed to mean. All he knows for sure is that he's got metal coating every bone in his body, foot-long retractable claws on both hands, and the instincts of a soldier -- or a mercenary.

The truck door squeaks, protesting the cold, as he opens it. He knocks the snow off his boots as he climbs into the cab of the truck. Turns the engine on to get some heat going and sits there for a few minutes, wondering if he shouldn't just put the truck in gear and head out of here. All of his instincts are telling him that the kid is trouble.

Well, not all of his instincts. Just the smarter ones.

There's a light knock on the passenger door of the truck. He slides over and unlocks it, letting the kid in along with a gust of biting wind. Too late to change his mind now, and no point in worrying about it. Besides, he can smell that intriguing scent again, even stronger in the confined space of the truck cab.

"Halfway thought you might be gone by now," the kid -- Alec, Logan reminds himself -- says.

"I was halfway thinking about it."

"Glad you decided not to." The habitual smirk is back, but there's a darker glint in his eyes that calls to something inside of Logan.

Alec kneels on the bench seat and crawls toward him, catlike, to straddle Logan's thigh. Logan pulls him closer, turning Alec's head slightly to the side so that he can get access to his neck. He opens his mouth and takes a deep breath, smelling/tasting the intoxicating scent right from the source, as Alec shivers and gasps. Somewhat unsteadily, Alec says, "You're not... entirely human."

Logan laughs against the side of Alec's neck. "Neither are you."

"Fair enou -- ahhhh," Alec hisses as Logan bites the side of his neck, keeping the pressure light, far less than what he wants, because what his instincts want will hurt a normal human. Alec shifts restlessly, tension thrumming through his body, as if what Logan is doing is not quite right.

Logan starts to pull away, the familiar frustration of always needing to hold back curling in the pit of his belly, but Alec grabs the back of his head and urges him back. "Harder." There's a hint of a mocking smile in his voice as he adds, "I'm a transgenic. Unless you bite actual chunks off, trust me -- you really can't hurt me."

Alec swings his other leg over so that he's straddling Logan's lap. It's a bit of a tight fit with the steering wheel in the way, but the kid is really goddamned flexible and manages to make it work. Logan plants one hand on Alec's ass and the other one in his hair, tilting his head to the side so that he can bite up and down the length of his neck.

He's a little tentative at first, testing the waters with progressively harder bites, but Alec's response is nothing but encouraging. Moans and gasps of "Fuck, yeah, harder, do it," go a long way toward reassuring him that Alec wasn't bullshitting him about the biting. And not only that Alec can take it, but that he likes it.

Alec is writhing in his lap, a slow, dirty grind that's going to make Logan's jeans damned uncomfortable soon. One-handed, he scrabbles the button and zipper of his jeans open with a sigh of relief. Logan can be a generous man, when the spirit takes him, so he takes pity on Alec and fumbles his jeans open as well. And once he's there anyway, it'd just be foolish of him not take the opportunity to slide his hand between the waistband of his boxers and the hot skin of Alec's belly. Logan peels Alec's boxers down to reveal what feels like a nice-sized dick, already slippery at the head.

Rubbing his thumb across the slit at the same time as he bites down on Alec's neck nets him a loud, encouraging-sounding string of swear words. Logan grins against Alec's skin as he slides his hand lightly, teasingly down Alec's dick, tightening his hand at the base and bringing it up slowly, giving it a slight corkscrew twist at the end.

A few repetitions of that move, varying the speed and pressure, and Alec is swearing a blue streak, leaning back against the wheel and thrusting his dick up into Logan's hand. Alec's neck is out of reach for the moment, so Logan shoves his black tee-shirt up with his free hand and starts biting his way across the unexplored territory of Alec's chest. His chest is pale and unscarred, soft skin with only a light dusting of hair. Logan pauses a moment, wondering exactly how old the kid is, but then Alec swears, tugging on his hair and pushing a flat nipple toward his mouth, and lust overrides the twinges of Logan's conscience.

And it's a damn good thing that the horn on his truck gave out a few years back, because otherwise Alec would have set it off by now with all the bucking and thrashing he's doing. Logan presses his free hand into Alec's sternum, trying to hold him steady. It's a little like trying to hold on to a mountain lion, all sleek, tense muscle and coiled movement. Logan has a brief, intense image of trying this again with Alec tied to something, like a bed. The thought shocks him a little, but not enough to make the mental picture any less intriguing.

"Oh, oh fuck," Alec hisses, as his thrusts go ragged, his dick swelling in Logan's grasp. Logan bites down hard on Alec's pectoral muscle, tasting the sweat on his skin, stroking him hard, harder, until finally Alec makes a choked noise and comes all over Logan's hand.

Logan's senses are full of Alec, his musky, catlike scent, the sound of his ragged breathing as it slows down, the sight of him sprawled over his steering wheel, red cheeks and blown pupils. Logan brings his sticky hand up to his mouth for a taste, forgetting that civilized people aren't supposed to do stuff like that. Alec doesn't seem to mind, if the hitch in his breathing and the way his mouth drops open slightly is any indication.

Alec grins and says, "So, you want me to -- "

They both freeze at the same moment, muscles tensing at the sound of military-grade engines laboring up the snowy slope of the bar's winding driveway. Logan can hear three heavy engines, probably troop transports, as well as a couple of lighter vehicles, maybe jeeps. Alec slides off his lap and onto the other side of the bench seat, zipping and tucking with hands remarkably steady for a guy who just had a spine-melting orgasm about two minutes ago. Logan curses under his breath, wrestling his uncooperative hard-on back into his jeans.

"Bad timing, huh?" Alec smiles at him with the cheerful goodwill of the newly laid. Logan growls. "Don't worry, I'll blow you later. Soon as we get away from Man -- uh, whoever is out there."

"From who?" Logan throws the truck into drive but doesn't ease his foot off the brake yet. Glaring at Alec like he can induce a confession by pure force of will, he demands, "Those assholes something you brought with you? 'Cause if so, I've got no problem with tossing you out in the snow to fend for yourself. Got enough trouble of my own. I don't need to be dragged into anyone else's shit."

Alec spreads his hands. "What, and there's no chance that these guys could be hunting, oh, I dunno, say... an illegal mutant with military combat training? Listen, we can play the 'whose goons are these, anyway' game for the rest of the night -- until they catch us, that is -- or we can disappear into the forest using that conveniently placed dirt road before they're even up to the top of the driveway. Your call."

Logan snarls at him, sorely tempted to throw him out of the truck anyway.

Alec smiles at him, looking like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth, but Logan can practically hear the wheels turning in his head. "Besides, do you really want me to get picked up by whoever is hunting you when I know your license plate number, the make and model of your truck, and the direction in which you were headed last?"

"Fuck." Logan thumps his fist on the wheel, barely remembering to pull the blow in time to avoid cracking the plastic. "Fine. But I'm throwing your ass out, first city we get to." Putting his foot cautiously to the gas, Logan pulls out of his parking spot and starts down the twisty, steep dirt road. It's started snowing again, which will hide their tracks but make for treacherous driving until they get to a highway.

"Fine." Out of the corner of his eye, Logan can see Alec stretching out comfortably, making himself at home. "Hey, it's a good thing that I already tossed my stuff in the back of your camper, huh?"

"You what?"

Alec grins at him. "Well, the original plan was to pay my way with sexual favors, but this works too."

Snapping his eyes back to the road, Logan flexes his hands on the steering wheel, imagining it's Alec's neck. First city, hell, first town they get to, he's dumping the kid.

Alec yawns and stretches languidly, sending off a wave of that fascinating scent.

Well. Maybe after they have a chance to stay the night somewhere. Somewhere with a nice, sturdy wrought-iron bedframe.

...after that, though, he's gone.