Chapter Text
Scott Summers was not looking forward to his weekend.
Anti-mutant legislation was making headway in Congress, and there were plans for some of the X-Men to spend the weekend in D.C. They were at least going to make sure their voices were heard, even if they couldn’t put a stop to it. Scott had been teaching by day, and spending his evenings with Jean discussing their talking points and strategy. He’d also been getting up extra early to squeeze some time in within the Danger Room before he had to start his classes, as training was the only thing recently to take the edge off his headaches.
He had always had more responsibilities than the average man, the sane man, would be willing to take on. Normally, he managed them just fine. Normally, an optic blast or two every few days made the worst of the migraines fade away for a while. He didn’t understand why he was having such a hard time now. Maybe there was just more on his plate than he realized, which wasn’t a comforting thought. What had slipped through the cracks? What was straining his subconscious that he wasn’t able to see?
Or maybe he was just getting older, and it had been too long since he’d taken a break. He wasn’t a teenager anymore. He still sometimes had all the same righteous anger, but the blaze was more of an ember these days, ready to ignite with a little coaxing, but not always an inferno.
There was a knock on the open door of his classroom. He raised his head, fully expecting to find a student there. They’d had a test this morning, and Scott still wasn’t through grading them. He opened his mouth, prepared to say that whoever it was would just have to wait to get their grade in the morning like everyone else, when he saw Logan leaning in his door frame.
“Hey, Slim, gotta minute?”
He didn’t. Not really. But he sighed and nodded. Logan strolled into his classroom to lean on Scott’s desk instead. The thwack of his palm hitting the surface made Scott’s eye twitch, and had enough force that the pens by Scott’s hand bounced a little and knocked themselves out of alignment. Irritably, he poked them back into parallel and said, “What is it, Logan?”
“You and Jeanie both going to that thing in D.C.?”
Logan was not going, which Scott thought was probably for the best. Asking Logan to behave for a bunch of politicians was a little like asking a penguin to fly. If the circumstances were perfect and no one looked too closely for too long, you could maybe get away with it. You could glide the penguin through water and say it was air. You could put Wolverine in a pair of slacks and make him wear his nice boots, but there was no guarantee that you wouldn't also see his claws.
Logan was staring at Scott’s pens, like a cat contemplating a potted plant near a table’s edge.
“Don’t - “ Scott started, but it was too late.
The bastard cat in Logan’s brain pushed his hand across the desk and the pens, and Scott’s answer key, clattered-fluttered to the floor. Scott sucked in a breath, but then Logan laughed and squatted to pick the items up himself. “Sorry. Sorry - here.”
He made a real effort to put everything back where Scott had had it. Once Logan was satisfied, Scott opened his desk drawer and placed everything inside, out of Logan’s reach. Logan was smiling when Scott looked up. But it wasn’t the toothy, cocky smirk, it was the smile that was all soft around the edges. It made some of the tension in Scott’s chest unwind.
“You don’t have to go, you know,” Logan said gently.
“I do. I’m the leader of the team. I can’t just - “
“Leaders delegate,” Logan cut in. “And they can handle it. Jeanie and Chuck are both going. So’s Hank. They have it under control, Summers. It’s just talkin’ and, no offense, bub, but they’re kind of better at that than you are.”
That was true. Scott’s public speaking skills had improved a lot since he’d first donned his visor, but he still lacked finesse. There was a good chance that if he did go, he would mostly just be there to be seen. He wouldn't have much to say himself that the others couldn't say better. Scott tended to give his best speeches in the field, when he was being crushed by anger or desperate hope that was too great to let him stop and think. It was an energy that worked perfectly at the head of a protesting mob, or in situations of immediate life and death. It wasn't the right energy for Congressmen or long hours of negotiation.
"You're probably right," Scott sighed. There had been a time, a few months ago, where saying such a thing to Logan Howlett just wouldn't have been possible. It was something he would've only admitted in his own head, and he would've gone out of his way to make sure he had his own justifications for following Logan's advice. It wasn't such a big deal now.
"Can I help ya with these?" Logan asked.
Scott thought about how nice it would be to take a long shower, then lie flat on his back in his dark bedroom until it was time for dinner. He could have that a lot faster if he let Logan help.
"Okay. Thanks."
There was a chair in the corner near Scott's desk that Logan nabbed by the backrest and swung around to drop into at Scott's side. He kept it nearby in case one of the kids ever needed to have a talk. He knew he could kind of be a hardass, and the first time a kid had stood across from him and cried at Scott's calm, measured explanation, he'd decided giving them a place to sit was probably a good idea. He'd had one-too-many military types force him to stand still and receive a reprimand. He didn't want to make any of the children in his care feel like that. This was a school, and a home, not a boot camp.
Usually the kids sat across from him, not at his side, but he didn't ask Logan to move. He took the answer key and two pens - either black or blue, not red; it was too hard for Scott to see - back out of the drawer. He gave Logan the key and put the stack of ungraded papers between them.
"There's eighteen questions, so each one is worth - "
"I can do basic math, Summers," Logan grunted. There was a pause. Logan tapped his pen against the desktop as he thought. Then, he asked, "...about five?"
Scott smiled, "Five and a half."
Logan wrote the number in his small scrawl at the top of the answer key. He'd referred to his own writing as 'chicken scratch' before, but it wasn't actually messy. He tended to write kind of small, using precise, short strokes that had a bit of a natural slant to them. It was oddly reminiscent of the growl in his voice. They graded in silence for a while. Logan was wholly focused on his task. He held the pen in his hand crookedly, dragging the tip down the page as he read. When he found an error, he’d adjust his grip and scratch through or circle the mistake. He wrote down any corrections in the margins, his pen making short, pleasant little scratches against the paper. Then, he let his wrist relax again, the pen continuing its journey down the page.
When Logan started to remember the answers, and began referencing Scott's answer key less, there was evidently enough brainpower spared for him to speak. "So, I was thinkin', you and I have some personal business we need to attend to, in private. And with you wound tighter than a gnat's asshole - "
Scott made a miserable noise and tried to interject, " I'm fi - "
"You're not fine, bub. You reek of stress so bad it's hard to be in the same room with you without the claws also being out. That ain't healthy. You need a break."
He had thought the same thing himself not ten minutes prior, but it was still kind of annoying that Logan had also noticed. This time, he didn't let himself agree aloud with the other man, but it seemed to be what Logan was waiting on. Instead, Scott prompted, "So?"
"So," Logan repeated, "I say we take the bikes out and skip town for the weekend. I know a place." Before Scott could open his mouth to object, Logan added, "It ain't far. The crew in D.C. shouldn't need our help, and there'll be enough of us left at the manor to watch the kids. Cell reception sucks, but there's a satellite phone for emergencies. Jeanie and Ororo have the number. We can be back here in less than an hour if someone calls."
The average person would find that hard to object to. The average person did not have Scott Summers' brain. "When you say you 'know a place'..."
Logan grinned. He'd clearly already prepared his argument for this, too, and was - what? Pleased he needed to use it? Pleased he apparently had Scott's reaction all figured out? "Running water, limited electricity. Toilet, shower, one bed - " He raised his eyes from his grading to fix Scott with a smirk. "Not exactly a grocery store nearby, but I know you can and have lived off of cereal and soup, and it’s just a couple days. We can leave Friday after dinner, so you can see Jeanie and the others off. Come back Sunday. Unless you're just havin' a real bad time."
"I'll be fine," Scott muttered.
"Just lettin' you know you've got an out, Slim,” Logan said easily, “This a four or a nine?"
Logan tilted a little in his seat to make room for Scott to lean over. Scott sighed, "He writes them that way on purpose and hopes I'll give him the benefit of the doubt, I think. But it doesn't matter, it's supposed to be a three."
Logan smiled as he marked the answer wrong, “Sounds like Bobby.” Alongside the four or nine or whatever it was, he wrote Fix the handwriting, bub.
“Logan,” Scott sighed. “That’s not professional.”
“What? He’ll know it was me.” Logan’s thick, blunt finger rested pointedly on the tiny, scrawled ‘bub’. “And they’re kids, Cyke. They ain’t gonna give you a bad performance review.”
Yes, a small, ratlike little voice in Scott’s head chimed, but they’re going to know you helped me grade their tests. And why the fuck did it even matter? People knew Logan could be nice. People knew Scott had a lot on his plate. There was nothing objectively suspicious or wrong about Logan’s handwriting on his assignments. But - well, maybe his and Logan’s ‘personal business’ was causing Scott some stress, too.
Jean and Scott had welcomed Logan into their marriage about a month previously, and things were going better than any of them could have expected. It had improved things in the field. Logan was more likely to actually listen to Scott these days, or at least consider what he had to say before he ran off and put himself in harm’s way. And Scott could admit that he had a whole lot less to prove. It was hard to argue that Logan didn’t respect him when Scott was beginning to lose count of the number of times Logan’s had gotten to his knees for Scott’s personal pleasure. And Logan seemed more eager to please him, both in the bedroom and out of it. Maybe Logan had felt that way all along but, like Scott, had been too stubborn to admit it. So, the two of them had spent years butting heads and pretending they didn’t value each other’s praise more than gold.
All three of them had had sex in a variety of configurations and combinations. Scott had been alone with Logan in the bedroom before, but Scott hadn’t yet allowed Logan to top. Logan hadn’t really asked, not in so many words, but Scott wasn’t exactly hiding the fact that the prospect worried him. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to, it was that he knew the first time was going to be a hurdle. He’d thoroughly convinced himself that it was at least going to be painfully awkward, and there was a good chance it would also be actually painful. He assumed it would get better - Logan certainly seemed to enjoy it - but that didn’t change the fact that there would, by definition, need to be a first time.
Doing this outside of the manor was a good idea. If there was any chance at all of Scott being able to relax, the best locale was somewhere where there was no risk -actually no risk, not just a low-likelihood - of someone overhearing or seeing something they shouldn’t. Doing it without Jean present was also going to help. Scott didn’t think she would judge him, but he was starting to understand that any time it was all three of them, Scott wanted to put his own pleasure last. The leader of the X-Men wasn’t actually good at being the center of attention, not in such a vulnerable position as sexual intercourse with Jean Grey and Logan Howlett. And the telepathic connection they shared could be muted, but it tended to be hard to totally silence during sex. There were too many hormones saturating their minds, too much desire to be as close as possible.
But Scott didn’t want Jean in his head for this. It was going to be a bit of a personal struggle, and he was fucking embarrassed that it was going to be a struggle. He didn’t need any more spectators than was necessary. And at least Logan wouldn’t be able to read his mind.
And at least it was only Tuesday.
He had the rest of the week to mull it over.
Friday after dinner, most of them gathered in the garage. Jean, Charles, Hank, and a small handful of young X-Men-in-training had gotten permission from an air force base to land the Blackbird. The base had even agreed to provide shuttling services to Congress, but Scott had been relieved when Jean reassured him they had gotten a rental van instead. The hospitality from the military seemed like a good sign, but it was probably just the president trying to save face. Scott felt a lot better knowing they had their own wheels, with the Blackbird nearby in case a speedy retreat was required. It was, like Logan had said, just supposed to be talking, but Scott was always expecting the worst.
The bulk of them that were staying behind to hold the fort were also in the garage. Everyone exchanged well-wishes, some handshakes, and much more plentiful hugs. People began to disperse as the garage peeled itself open for the Blackbird’s ascent. Scott waited for the jet to disappear into the sky and for everyone else to file their way back into the manor proper, then he turned to face Logan.
Their motorcycles were parked side-by-side. Both Harleys - Scott’s silver, with subtle X-Men branding, Logan’s black and nondescript - had full tanks of gas and leather jackets waiting on their seats. Logan slid into his - the seat and the jacket, and smiled to himself when the engine roared to life. Scott felt a little flicker of nerves and...something else, as he swung a leg over his own bike and admired Logan.
"We're taking the 287 across the Hudson, then north to Harriman, alright?"
He had to raise his voice a little over the sound of the engines in the echoey garage. Scott nodded. Eyes closed, he removed his glasses, tucked them carefully into the inner pocket of his coat, and donned his helmet. It had two visors; the first was clear plastic and covered most of Scott's face, keeping out bugs, wind, and dirt. The second was made of ruby-quartz, lower profile, and kept his optic beams in. He could raise the outer visor alone or both visors together with a click to a button at his temple. The whole thing was kind of an unnecessary indulgence. Scott could just as easily wear his normal glasses under a helmet without a visor, but he didn't indulge in much, so he was happy to let himself have this. Besides, they'd gone through a lot of glasses and visor prototypes over the years. It was better to repurpose them than to let them sit in a box somewhere in Hank's already-crowded lab.
Logan, of course, didn't wear a helmet. Scott knew he carried one in his saddlebags, for when he didn't want to risk getting hassled for not following the helmet laws. He could usually explain that he had an adamantium skull and show off his claws to prove it, but he didn't always want the attention. And most cops didn't take kindly to a guy pulling six knives on them, regardless of the fact that Logan couldn’t actually put the knives down.
Scott felt the tension in his chest ease the moment they passed through the manor gates. By the time they were turning off the winding Greymalkin Lane and able to pick up real speed, Scott felt light. His burdened shoulders lifted and he was almost smiling. He could find Harriman State Park on his own, and wouldn’t need Logan’s directions until then. So, for the next thirty miles or so, leadership ebbed, with Logan being out front sometimes and Scott others. Once, when the road was straight and they had good distance between themselves and the nearest drivers, they let the bikes go. Logan shot off ahead of Scott first (of course), but Scott lurched along after him with only the briefest hesitation.
He laughed as he gained on, then passed, the smaller but heavier man. Logan whooped behind him, then the distance between the other vehicles closed and they had to slow back down. Still, Scott’s smile remained until they were well into the state park.
It faded when Logan raised his hand and flapped at the air to signal ‘slow down’. The paved road gave way to dirt and they were forced to stop at a gate with a sign reading SERVICE ROAD - NO ACCESS. Scott frowned as Logan left his bike idling and went to open the gate for the bikes to pass through. It wasn’t locked, so at least Logan didn’t snikt his way through any locks or chains.
“Relax, Slim, the sign don’t apply to me.”
“I don’t see ‘except Logan’ written on there.”
“I got permission.” When Scott made no move to pull his bike forward, Logan rolled his eyes and said, “Seriously, Boyscout. This is all above-board. We’re allowed to do this. I’ll shut the gate behind us once we pass through. Come on.”
Scott didn’t really suppose he had much choice. He didn’t want to drive back to the mansion, and he didn’t think Logan would take kindly to being asked to get a hotel instead. He’d clearly put some thought into this little outing.
“Fine.”
Scott pulled his bike through and waited for Logan to do the same and shut the gate. They eased along the dirt and gravel for perhaps another mile, with nothing but trees on either side of them. When they turned, Scott was sure he would’ve missed the path were it not for Logan leading the way. A recent set of tire tracks - Logan’s jeep? - had squashed down the overgrowth. Logan and Scott rode side-by-side, following the pair of treads, until the forest ahead of them opened and a cabin appeared.
Scott supposed it was the only logical conclusion to their endeavor. Of course the ‘place’ Logan knew was a cabin in the woods. But it was still surprising that anything was out here. From the front, there wasn’t much to look at. The forest encroached on the little structure so that there wasn’t much in way of a yard, but he could see a tin-roofed awning to one side of the cabin with cords of firewood stacked underneath. Nearby, an axe waited against a stump.
There was a screen door, and the door beyond it had been left open. Logan held the screen door with his fingertips until Scott could slip in behind him, then stepped aside for Scott to take everything in.
‘Everything’ was sort of a stretch. The cabin was a single room, maybe twelve feet square. To Scott’s right there was a small kitchen sink and a counter, with two cabinets both beneath and hanging on the wall above. A bar stool was waiting at the counter’s end, so it obviously also doubled as the ‘dining room’. There wasn’t a fridge, but there was a cooler by the front door. Following the right-hand wall beyond the ‘kitchen’, there was a bookshelf, loaded with worn paperbacks, and a scuffed, cushioned rocking chair. The headboard of a full sized bed was against the rear wall, and the cabin had a single window above the bed. The window had also been left open, allowing for a cross-breeze through the screen door. A tiny bedside table was crammed into the corner between the bed and the left-hand wall, and a fireplace jutted out a foot or so from the bed’s end.
Logan slung his rucksack into the fireplace and popped open the cooler to remove a pair of beers. He popped the tops with his claw and passed one to Scott, then noticed the look on his face. Logan glanced at the fireplace and said, “Oh, I never use it. And it keeps shit out of the floor.” Logan gestured to the lack of space, “Easy to trip in here.”
Scott set his own pack down - on the rocking chair, not inside the fireplace - and took another, closer look around. His first assumption had been that this was some sort of hunter’s cabin, that Logan knew who owned it and had permission to be here for the weekend. But now that he looked beyond the furniture and the crowded space, he started to see signs of Logan all over the little room. Scott recognized some of the book titles on the shelf. Logan usually kept a mass-market paperback or two in his room and brought them along on missions that required long drives or periods of sitting and waiting. The books on the shelf looked a little worse for wear, and Scott wasn’t surprised. He’d seen Logan with a book crammed in the back pocket of his jeans on multiple occasions. He’d also seen the way Logan had a tendency to sling or drop things once he was done with them.
On the windowsill was a small teddy bear, about four inches tall, wearing a stitched-on Wolverine costume. Scott remembered it. They’d taken the kids to a carnival last fall and the bear had been one of the prizes on offer at the rifle shooting game. Logan didn’t often have a reason to use a gun, but he wasn’t a bad shot. He’d paid to take a turn, figured out how far off the gun was sighted, and then paid a second time for Rogue to play. The little bear had been Logan’s prize, Rogue, with his aid, had hit more targets and taken home a bigger version. Logan had carried his little bear in the front pocket of his jeans, its head poking out, for the rest of the evening. Scott had assumed it was the sort of thing Logan wouldn’t care to keep.
And the blanket on the bed was familiar, too. It had been a secret-Santa gift from Kurt. As the X-Men’s Christmas party had wound its way from excited chatter and gift exchange to hot chocolate and black-and-white films, Logan had fallen asleep on the couch with the blanket draped over his lap. Scott had never seen it again, despite having now been in Logan’s bedroom at the mansion quite a few times.
He’d always assumed that Logan wasn’t sentimental. The guy hit the road every few months for days on end with nothing but a single bag to keep his life in. Sometimes he left without saying goodbye and it was rare that anyone knew when exactly he’d be back. There were times, too, where Logan just vanished for the weekend. Scott had always assumed he was bar crawling and staying in cheap motels or sleeping cowboy-style under the stars. He never would’ve guessed that Logan had a house, even one as small as this. He never would’ve thought that a place Logan had cultivated strictly for his own use would hold so many reminders of his life at the mansion.
“You bought this,” Scott said. It was part question, part realization.
“Technically,” Logan replied with a smile, “I inherited it. My great-great grandfather, James Howlett, bought it about a hundred years ago. Awful lucky to find the deed to the place.”
Scott rolled his eyes, “You’d rather forge documents than just buy it?” Scott knew Charles would’ve dropped the money for Logan in a heartbeat. It can’t have been that much.
“Wasn’t for sale, and it’s on state land. You can get grandfathered in, but once you’re out, they want you to stay out. Chuck got Vange Whedon to get it sorted, and I’ve got an easement to use the service roads. I told you it was above-board.”
Scott smiled, “Forgive me for assuming you wouldn’t follow the rules.”
“So, uh, everything you need should be pretty easy to find,” Logan said. He opened the two cabinets above the sink. One contained mostly mismatched plates and bowls, along with mugs and pint glasses that Scott recognized as even more hidden-away gifts from the students and fellow X-Men. The other held shelf-stable pantry items. “Silverware,” Logan grunted with a point at a drawer, “outhouse in the back, hard to miss. And there’s a shower outside - do you need a shower?”
“Uh - not tonight,” Scott replied, suddenly very thankful that he had decided to shower before they’d left. “You made it sound as though the shower and toilet were inside.”
Logan smiled sheepishly, “Was worried if I told you the truth, you wouldn’t come. It’s really not so bad. You’ll see.” He glanced around the room again, then added, “You’ll have to let me know if there’s anything else you need. I don’t exactly get a lot of guests.”
“Have you had any guests?”
“No,” Logan replied.
And it hit Scott, suddenly, what the full weight of being here meant. This was the place where Logan came to be alone. It was his refuge from the bustle and noise of the mansion and his private little escape for when he needed some quiet but didn’t need to go live with a pack of wolves in Canada, or whatever the hell it was he got up to. This cabin was his place for a soft reset. It wasn’t where he came to forget, or to lose himself. Scott supposed a man like Logan probably tried to remember as much of the good in his life as he could, and the cabin was stuffed with it. He could have his quiet, he could have his little reconnect with nature, but he could do it while sipping instant coffee from a mug straight out of the mansion’s staff room, and looking at stuffed bear he’d won for a girl with a crush.
Scott also understood that Logan was nervous. He was watching Scott take things in. Scott was the first person to ever visit here, one of few people to even know this place existed. They were going to be here together, all weekend, and Scott was notoriously picky and methodical and resistant to change. Logan had every reason to believe Scott would hate it here. Scott suddenly found himself determined not to.
“Yeah,” he said, searching for something to reassure Logan, “it’s fine. This isn’t - it’s not exactly my taste, but it seems perfect for you. I - I appreciate you letting me stay.”
For letting me in, Scott thought.
“Sure, Cyke,” Logan replied. He set his beer on the counter and then toed out of his boots. “Did you bring a book or something?”
Scott had brought three, actually, in case he finished one or found one not to his taste. “Yeah.”
“We can - it’s no rush, yeah? Let’s just relax.”
“Okay,” Scott replied. The anticipation tightening his chest did not accept this, however, and only got worse as Logan began to remove his jeans. Scott was equal parts relieved and disappointed to find that Logan was wearing black boxer-briefs. “Now you decide to wear underwear? Now, when you’ve brought me out to your cabin in the woods to fuck me?”
Logan laughed. He tossed his head back and kicked his jeans up against the cabinets, his stupid belt buckle clanging. “I can lose ‘em if you want. I didn’t figure you’d wanna spoon a guy in jeans, but I don’t usually wear pajamas. I was trying to be decent for you.”
“How gallant,” Scott replied. He removed his own jacket and shoes as Logan approached the bed.
“You want to have a nightstand, and run the risk of barkin’ your shin on the fireplace, or you want no nightstand, more room? How much do you get up to pee at night?”
At least twice. “No nightstand,” Scott replied.
“I usually have the bed against the wall but shifted things around a bit. You can put your sleep visor on the windowsill.” He moved to sit down on the side of the bed closest to the wall, book in hand, beer held between his thighs.
Scott had brought pajamas, but it was kind of warm inside the cabin. There was a reason Logan had left the window and main door open. The bed was also small for two grown men, and Scott knew Logan put off heat like a furnace. So, he removed his pants and polo shirt, draped them over the back of the rocking chair, and donned only a well-worn Weezer t-shirt. He joined Logan on the bed and did not miss the other man’s gaze lift from his book to look shamelessly over Scott’s legs. It was kind of hard to ignore, actually, and then Logan was shifting closer, and putting one of his hands on Scott’s thigh.
Scott looked at him and raised an eyebrow over the ridge of his glasses. Logan said, as though it were the most honest thing to ever cross his mind, “Sorry, I just forget how pretty you are, sometimes. D’you mind?”
Pretty. No one had ever called him pretty except Logan. “Mind what?”
Logan shrugged, “If I touch you? The, ah, main event can wait until tomorrow. Just, y’know - the usual.”
“Yeah, sure,” Scott huffed a laugh. Logan didn’t usually ask like this, but they’d never really been in this situation before. When he and Logan were going to fool around, just the two of them, it was usually after a battle or a sparring session. One of them would crowd the other in the shower or they’d follow each other back to one of their rooms. Sometimes, if Jean was away for whatever reason, one of them would just go into the other’s room during the night. There wasn’t all this preamble or downtime to just be in each other’s company without a distraction to keep their attention.
Logan set his book and his beer on the nightstand, trading them for a bottle of lube from the drawer. He squished himself against Scott’s side to rest his cheek on his shoulder, “Book new?”
“I’ve read the first chapter.”
“Mind starting fresh?”
“Not at all.” He flipped back to let Logan see the cover - it was red, with a white stylized image of a motorcycle racer and, in white font: Stealing Speed. He thumbed to the first page and began to read. Logan’s hand was still on his thigh, touching him lazily, and he gave Scott’s leg a tap when he was ready for the page to be turned. And it was nice.
Logan was warm against him, but it wasn't so hot in the cabin that it was uncomfortable. A breeze was blowing through the open window and screen door, and, as the day slipped into evening, the sound of birdsong was replaced with insects and frogs. Even the build of his own arousal was slow and gradual. Scott wasn't consciously aware of how relaxed he was becoming (and perhaps that was why he was able to relax), but by the time Logan clicked open the bottle of lube, his body felt loose and hazy in a way that he usually only associated with sleep.
He was only about half-hard and was surprised when the hand that slid into his underwear was slick and warm. He glanced over to see Logan stowing the little bottle back under his own thigh, where he had evidently been warming it with his body heat.
"How considerate," Scott sighed. He shifted to hold the book momentarily in his left hand only, so he could push his briefs down with his right. Logan guided him out, touching him with slow strokes and gentle pressure.
"Only the best for you, Cyke," he drawled. It was still a little strange to Scott that Logan's hands, all of Logan's skin, actually, was smooth and un-calloused. He just seemed like the sort of guy that should have rough palms and ragged cuticles. But the healing factor prevented it, and Logan's touch could be remarkably gentle and careful when he wanted it to be. "Okay," he said.
"Huh?" Scott replied.
"The page, Scott.”
"Oh." He flipped the page for Logan, even though he hadn't finished it himself. He was much less interested in the book than in watching the movement of Logan's hand in the space beneath the pages.
"If I blow you," Logan began. He sat up straighter to kiss Scott's neck, "will you read to me?"
"I'm not reading aloud a book about the Cold War while you suck my dick."
"It's about espionage and motorcycles. It's sexy." Scott closed the book and reached above his head to rest it on the windowsill. Logan sighed, "Fine. I guess you get my undivided attention, then."
"Isn't that the whole point of this weekend?"
Logan didn't respond, just grinned and slipped off the bed. He gave Scott's leg a friendly smack as he moved to kneel beside him. "Bed ain't as big as what you and Jeanie have. You're gonna have to turn this way."
"You're 5'3, you'd fit."
Logan arched an eyebrow and grabbed the waistband of Scott's briefs at his hip, and used his grip to pivot the other man towards him. "This is more comfortable."
"You're more comfortable on your knees, in the floor?"
"Between your legs? Yeah, Slim." He knocked Scott's legs apart with a rap of his knuckles to Scott's knees. Before Scott could think of something suitably snarky to say in response, Logan had lowered his head and engulfed him in the wet heat of his mouth.
Three or four months ago, Scott would not have wanted to know how good Logan was at oral sex. It would've been bad enough to want him - even if he kept that want buried deep within himself - without knowing that Logan gave head like he needed it to live. Scott had assumed that Logan usually only showed such enthusiasm for sticking his claws in things. But, now he laid himself over Scott's lap like it was an oasis in the middle of a desert and Logan hadn't seen water for days. The sight of him had Scott fully erect in record time and, yeah, there was no chance he'd be able to focus on a book, when this was between his legs.
Logan had told him early on not to tug his hair whenever he had anything important in his mouth, like a tongue, or fingers, or Scott's dick, and Scott had not wanted to test this little rule. He could touch Logan's hair though. Petting was fine, as was holding him in place. The latter was typically what happened after sparing sessions or a difficult mission. Scott would hold Logan still and fuck into his mouth, amazed at how well Logan took it. Often, Logan simultaneously took care of his own arousal with his fist. There was something strangely empowering about it - Logan allowing Scott to use him in such a way, Logan deriving pleasure from it, and asking for nothing in return. He'd leave Scott boneless, with all the tension from the fight evaporated, offer a snarky comment, and disappear cheerfully from the room.
Now, though, Scott ran his fingers gently through the ridiculous cowlicks. This, too, had been something of a surprise. Scott had seen Logan's shower. Scott knew Logan was the sort of man that believed in a one-product-fits-all approach to the washing of his body. His shower was almost depressingly bare, but still his hair managed to be so fucking soft.
Logan pulled off him with an exaggerated pop. Scott's hands left the top of his head so that he had more room for Logan to see his frown. "Anything you'd like to share with the class?"
"What?" Scott replied.
"I can hear you thinking. Shut up."
"I'm not - " Scott began. Logan arched an eyebrow and kept it raised even as he lowered his head and licked a stripe up Scott's length, his eyes boring through Scott's lenses.
Fine. Scott could focus on the here-and-now.
It was beginning to get dark inside the cabin as the sun disappeared below the horizon outside. The little room washed out in blobs of maroon shadow and he couldn't actually see Logan all that well anymore. So, he sighed, put one hand back in Logan's hair, and leaned his weight back on his other elbow. He closed his eyes and tried to allow himself to sink into the sensations of Logan's mouth, of the feel of his wide, warm hands pushing under Scott's shirt and spreading his thighs.
This was proceeding at a much slower pace than usual. With Jean, with all three of them, things tended to last longer. Their attentions and efforts were more divided and prone to distraction. When it was just Scott and Logan, it was usually a rush of touch and movement. Often, they didn't make it to full nudity and things only slowed down after the fact. Even then, sometimes they only lingered in the afterglow for mere moments, hidden away in the showers or alone in the Danger Room. Only in either Logan's bedroom or Scott and Jean's did it last any longer than that. And Logan still never spent the night with either of them. He always left with a mumbled excuse about wanting a smoke, or politely kicked Scott out with a few parting kisses.
Scott and Jean had talked about it. They hadn't actually described it as comparing notes on their individual trysts with Logan, but that's more or less what it had been. Jean described a Logan who acted towards her alone the same way he did when it was the three of them - he was doting, and patient, and achingly fond. He had the same enthusiasm for her as he did Scott, but he seemed slower, more thorough, and he never parted ways as quickly.
And Scott wasn't jealous. He refused to be jealous, because that was fucking ridiculous, and this whole thing wouldn't work and couldn't continue if he started letting stupid emotions like jealousy back into the mix. But he still couldn't help but wonder -
Logan's hand slid beneath Scott's leg. His fingers grazed his perineum on their way to squeeze his ass. Scott's hips jerked into Logan's mouth and he looked down at him again in alarm. Hadn't Logan said that part could wait - ?
"Just getting your attention," Logan said smugly. "Stay with me, Slim."
Scott huffed and tried again to reset his brain. Why did he have to think about every other time, rather than focusing on this moment? Why was his brain comparing notes when he should be focused on what Logan was doing to him now?
He found Logan's face with his fingers. He felt the furrow of Logan's brow, followed by a throb of fondness in his own chest as Logan bumped his head into the touch like a cat. Scott's fingers traveled down to Logan's cheek, feeling his stupid sideburns and the way his cheeks were hollowed with his current efforts. He sucked harder as Scott touched him, deepening the furrows in his skin, and Scott groaned. He wedged a thumb alongside his cock, letting it rest over the ridges of Logan's molars. His fingers curled under Logan's stubbled jaw and the sounds of Logan's mouth working him over were amplified by the imperfect seal.
Logan brought him to the edge slowly, thoroughly, and with alarming knowledge of exactly what Scott liked. And then the bastard pulled away before Scott could finish. Scott made an embarrassing keening sound, his hips chasing Logan's mouth. Logan laughed and pushed him back onto the bed with two big hands on his thighs.
"Got your attention now, huh, bub?" Even with his lips red and swollen, with his hair extra mussed from Scott's touch, he still managed to look smug.
"God, you're such an asshole," Scott groaned. Logan kissed the spot where Scott's hip met his thigh, the rough whiskers at his cheek brushing the over-sensitive skin of Scott's erection.
"Lay back," Logan coaxed. He put a hand to Scott's stomach, urging him back, and continued, "Close your eyes. Shut that fucking brain of yours off and focus on me." Scott sighed loud through his nose and tried to do what Logan asked. He laid back, he closed his eyes, he tried hard to make his head go blank. It wasn't that fucking easy.
"Listen to me, Scotty." He took Scott in his mouth again, moving his head with obscene, wet slurps that were definitely exaggerated. He pulled off with a pop and a hum of satisfaction, continuing to stroke Scott with his hand. "And maybe make some noise for me, sweetheart?" Logan suggested. His tone was gentle and fond. "Ain't nobody gonna hear you but me. Ain't nothin' you have to worry about." Logan's left thumb was stroking firm little circles across his hip. He slid his right from Scott's dick to his thigh, spreading his legs wider. Logan's lips brushed the tip of his cock as he murmured, "Don't want you thinking about nothin' but me while you come down my throat. Got it?"
"Fuck, Logan," Scott whined. His hips jerked, cock sliding over Logan's lips to brush his nose.
"That's right, honey," he said smugly, and lowered his head.
It didn't take long. There was a feedback loop of Scott making any noise at all, muttering any little curse or issuing Logan's name, followed immediately by Logan humming happily around his dick, which only made Scott whimper or groan more. Logan held him down by his thighs as he came, Logan shoulders rising in triumph. His nose rested snugly against Scott's stomach as his throat worked desperately to swallow every drop. Scott had to push him off when it got too sensitive, but Logan stayed on his knees, covering every bit of skin he could reach in happy little kisses.
Scott thumped the bed at his side with an exhausted palm, "C'mere."
Logan stood and lifted Scott's legs by the ankles, wheelbarrowing them back onto the mattress. He crawled up next to him and Scott rolled onto his side, reached down between them, and finished Logan with his hand. His own dick gave a feeble twitch when, afterwards, Logan took Scott by the wrist and licked his fingers and palm clean.
They lay there in contented silence for a while, nearly dozing, until a thought occurred to him.
"Wait - is this safe?"
"It's a little late for condoms, bub," Logan muttered into his collarbone.
"No, asshole. I meant - I don't want to wake up shish-kebabbed."
Logan grunted. "They're not as bad here."
"...why?" Scott asked. It wasn't something he ever would've risked asking before. But here, in Logan's house, with Logan in his arms, it seemed okay to request a little emotional vulnerability.
"Not really sure. Less noise? Fewer smells?" He hesitated, then admitted, "I guess I can get confused about where I am, at the mansion. I get too much information too fast when I wake up. And a lot of that information comes from other people."
Scott frowned, "You realize I'm another person, right?"
"You don't count," Logan replied and, before Scott could force him to elaborate, he smacked Scott on the thigh and said, "C'mon, I ain't gonna listen to you bitch in the morning because you didn't brush your teeth."
He dug his toothbrush from his bag and joined Logan at the little kitchen sink. They elbowed and hip-checked each other, relieving whatever tensions may have arose during the brief conversation about Logan's nightmares. Then, they were under the covers, side-by-side, and Logan said, "I'm thinking of a number from one to twenty-five. Over, you're the big spoon. Under, I am."
Scott frowned. He reached to swap his glasses for his sleep mask on the windowsill, then sighed and said, "Fifteen."
Logan rolled to face away from him, then scooched back so his ass brushed Scott's hip. Scott snorted and turned to fit Logan's back to his chest. He slid his arm over the other man's waist and smiled when Logan lifted his arm and placed it over Scott's, holding Scott's hand under his own.
"What was the number?" Scott asked.
"One," Logan replied, and Scott could hear him smiling.