Post by ♥ Nathan ♥ on Jun 5, 2012 20:46:00 GMT -5
Nate said:
A slow afternoon in Blackwater is a peaceful thing. A few degrees warmer than Nate would like, but that might be coming from the extra energy he’s exerting, the sweat beading on his brow as a result of his slow, hobbled pace and not the weather. It is a weekday, and the town is quiet, its residents largely still at work and back from lunch, the streets clear. With the town’s small population, days like this are the sort that Nathan enjoys the most, when the silence settles in and the sun rises high -- and no one else is around to bother him.
Taking the week off from work seemed like a logical decision. He has enough employees that the company can function without him for that brief period of time, and he’s networked to the point that emergencies can filter through to him via email and phone. As of yet, no one’s seen fit to bother him, and Nate accepts the small blessing without complaint. He’s never been a workaholic, but burying himself in the firm was all he could do to keep moving when he first settled in the little town, and after a year of effort and victory, the man can bask in his small triumphs with a little time off.
Even if it’s a stay-cation. Even if it’s because Logan shot him in the leg.
The local café is a new haunt of his, ever since he met Billy there a few weeks back; the teenage barista that somehow works a majority of hours there makes him a mean chai latte (though he’ll never admit to drinking the thing). It’s with this in mind that his pained steps bring him to the center of town, up to the doorway of the quaint little coffee shop that he once swore he wouldn’t be caught dead in—
-- and mid-step, the door swings open and someone steps out, knocking Nate a step back. He stumbles to catch himself, but it’s on his weak leg, and the muscles give out and collapse beneath him, sending him sprawling. He can feel something pop and split – just a stitch, hopefully, but it’s enough to send a shock of pain up his spine – and instead of scrambling back to his feet, the downed man simply clutches at his thigh for a moment, dazed.
Whoever bumped into him better at least pay for his latte.
Corbin said:
There was really something to be said about the idiocy and foolishness of young hunters, Elijah (Eli) being one of them. All they wanted to do was hunt, hunt, hunt. It got annoying, boring, watching as the newbies cut off each werewolf head. But there was a little tingle in their bodies, Lucas’s included, when a werewolf was forced to turn in front of them. Watched as what was considered ‘pure’ morphed and deformed into something disgusting, hideous - bestial. And then it was the perfect moment to end their little pathetic life. A werewolf was vulnerable while it turned and right after, almost immobile. That was the perfect time for a new hunter to make his or her first kill.
Lucas remembers his to the tee, thirty-eight years ago to this puny young wolf. His father, Brayden, explained the wolf was only seventeen, turned a few months ago and was captured while it made its route to school. Hah – school! The irony of it – an uncivilized animal going to school. But Lucas cut off its deforming head without any remorse, and even held in the contents of his stomach unlike a majority of the new hunters.
It was only about thirty-minutes after his little breakfast when he found himself in a small café, mouth curled up in a scowl of disgust as he took the cup of whatever the hell it was (Alisha called him to get it), and then he turned and walked for the door. He wanted out of this boring ass town and in less than thirty minutes he would be gone with his family sitting in the back seat.
He pushes the door open with a little too much force, and blue eyes catch the man on the ground just as he clutches his thigh. A black brow raises as blue eyes focus on the younger man. Greeattttt.
Lucas scowled again and sighed deeply. Might as well be polite; with his free hand, reached out toward the younger man. And if the stranger takes his hand, Lucas pulls up until the sunglasses-wearing-man is on his feet, using anything for leverage. And then blue eyes flicked down to the boy’s leg before his eyes trailed back to his face.
“What the hell’s wrong with your leg?” Well hello to you too.
Nate said:
There’s a whining in his ears, and a whiteness behind his left eye that takes a moment to dissipate. Nate hadn’t expected the pain to be so bad, but then again, he hasn’t been shot in quite a long time, and he isn’t as young as he used to be; he can already feel a slick wetness beading at his thigh. He’ll have to fix himself up again when he manages his way back home; probably ruined a good pair of jeans on top of everything.
Nate sighs, dropping his hands to support his weight as he leans back, and finally takes in the man who nearly ran him down. The jerk clearly isn’t from around here (yeah, Nate, like you’re one to talk), but at least he has some sense of imitating southern hospitality, stopping to observe before running off like would have happened in Vegas. The spat question Nate can do without, but he accepts the offered hand when it’s extended, and together the two of them cantilever him back into an upright position – injured leg favored considerably. Leaning up against one of the outdoor tables, Nathan presses a hand to his thigh and sweeps those blue eyes curiously over Lucas, analyzing.
”Hunting accident,” he mumbles, the pain in his voice disguised behind volume; even with humans, his wolf is wary of showing weakness. ”That Logan, y’know, always loose with his shots.” He tsks, shaking his head. It’s meant to be funny, inviting, to lighten the mood - because clearly he doesn't know, and isn't that the joke? - but it likely just comes out more bitter than anything. Lucas doesn’t seem the type for idle chatter as it is.
”Think you popped a stitch, though. Y’mind – well, you might have to help me back to my car, if you can.” Anyone else and Nate might have wheedled them into buying his coffee, but this stranger has little kindness in his face, and Nathan gets the feeling he doesn’t want to owe him any favors.
Corbin said:
Blue eyes sweep over the man again, notice the stain of blood now slowly appearing through his jeans on his thigh. Well, heh, that’s something. A little bump seemed to cause the guy to bleed – what a poor, poor baby. ”Hunting accident,” A hunting accident. Really? Was he the hunter or the prey – clearly the prey. It almost peeked an interest, but hunting deer seemed to be common here. Across Lucas’s face was one of the grumpiest faces he could manage, a cold stone gaze on the younger man. Yeah, okay, you’re fine now – he’ll just go- ”That Logan, y’know, always loose with his shots.” Wait-
Lucas blinked, his expression slowly changing to one of slight confusion. Head tilted to the side lightly, black hair – slicked back on his head – not moving except for the soft and warm breeze. “Logan? Logan who?” Why did the name Logan seem familiar – was there a hunter Logan that Lucas had heard about once? If so, was this guy, his ‘partner’? Pitiful partner if it was. But wait, no, Lucas didn’t know a Logan – his ties were far and wide with hundreds of different connections, from hunters, to scientists, to scouts.
”Think you popped a stitch, though. Y’mind – well, you might have to help me back to my car, if you can.” A glance was cast down at the blood in the man’s jeans again before finding his face again. Help him to the car? No, he could do better.
He gestured out his hand, the one with the coffee cup in it towards the boy, for him to take, “Here, it’s some weird chai lot-i shit thing,” he wasn’t sure if the boy liked it, and Lucas sure as hell didn’t. If Alisha wanted a coffee, well she should get it herself, not expect her father to. “I actually might have some pain meds and extra gauze in my truck,” he said, gesturing with his head towards the large black Ram in the parking lot. And then, he raises his hand and points with a finger toward the seat of the bench Nate was holding himself on. “Sit, I’ll be right back.”
Whether he does or not, Lucas walks to his truck. He didn’t want to lead the boy there because he had a gun sitting on his passenger seat, and the different ‘equipment’ in his car might as well read serial killer. He fishes out one of his first aid kits, grabs a small bottle of meds, shakes it and finds that about four remained, and a roll of gauze, before closing his truck and beginning back to the boy.
Tosses both in his hands with an emotionless expression. “The pain meds are very strong, but it will numb the pain if you feel it.” He explained. “Don’t take them until you’re done driving for the day.” It was a clear warning. And then a blink of calculating blue eyes. “Now, what were you and your friend Logan hunting?”
Nate said:
“I actually might have some pain meds and extra gauze in my truck. Sit, I’ll be right back.”
His wolf is cowed and hurting, and though it’s desperate to show off as strong and virile it can’t but help submit to Lucas’ smooth control, and so Nathan follows in turn; he settles with a sigh to the bench, leg stretched out in front of him. As he grows used to the return of the pain, the reopening of the wound only half healed, the tightness in his face relaxes, though he leaves his hand desperately clamped to his blood-dampened thigh. Drink having been accepted with his free arm, a tentative sip finds that the drink is, indeed, his favored chai latte; he smirks into the rim of the cup and shoots a curious glance at Lucas’ retreating form.
Drinking it out of desperation, if anyone dared ask.
When the other man returns the drink is half-gone, and Nathan seems a little more at ease. The idea that caffeine makes his heart pump faster, and thereby increases the amount of blood flowing out that popped stitch in his leg… well, Nathan’s never been one for denying himself. It had been his plan anyway. He places the drink down to open his hands for the items shoved into them, brow knit briefly in confusion.
”I couldn’t,” he murmurs, staring down at the pills. Oh, he so could. Nate remembers exactly what the oblivious, blissful cloud of opiates feels like, and something inside him craves it – wants to use his need for delirium, for forgetting, as an excuse. That it’s some other man’s prescription is the least of his worries; knocking himself out for a day or two to give his leg the better time to heal sounds like a remarkably good idea.
“The pain meds are very strong, but it will numb the pain if you feel it. Don’t take them until you’re done driving for the day. Now, what were you and your friend Logan hunting?”
Nate replies without thinking; another little white lie. ”…Boar.” That’s manly, right? And he knows those damn things are definitely out in the wilderness. ”I’ll still need some help getting back, though, if I can’t take this until I get home.”
He narrows his eyes up at Lucas, accusing. If he wants to chat about hunting, he can lend Nate more of a hand than letting him bleed out on his painful walk back to his car; he figures are chances are slim that he'll be able to hitch a ride, and pop these pills now. A pity.
Corbin said:
“…Boar.” A black brow cocked at the word as he continued to stare down at the face of the man. He said it quick, and the boy was almost distracted. A ‘boar’ hunter, would act more proud that he was hunting his sport, and especially if he got a trophy. The look on the boy’s face was clearly not that. Lucas was holding a suspicion, and actually Lucas has had his fair share of boar run-ins while out hunting for wolves. He always made sure he looked up on the native wildlife before he stepped into the forest.
“I’ll still need some help getting back, though, if I can’t take this until I get home.” Lucas nodded his head and crossed his hands against his chest. A scowl crossed his face. He did like helping others – he did not like helping strangers he was suspicious about. But, the boy should be more afraid of Lucas than Lucas should be of the boy.
The hunter pointed to the bottle of pills. “Take two of those now. It’ll kick in pretty quick,” he said. Yeah, that medicine was Oxycotin, a very, very strong pain reliever similar to morphine that, if taken too much, can blur the senses and get the other individual to say things he shouldn’t be. And one of the rules of Oxycotin – never ever give it to any other person besides the prescribed individual. Whoops.
Once he watches the man swallow the two pills, Lucas nodded his head almost encouragingly. “I’ll get the car. Just… sit and stay,” and as the hunter turned, a small smirk crossed his face. The boy should have only taken one, but Lucas wanted to make sure the boy did not see what was laying around in his truck. Once he got into his truck, he pushed the gun into a small compartment underneath his seat, and quickly shuffled everything else under a blanket in the back.
Finally, he drove over, got out and pulled open the passenger’s door. Gestured and helped up Nate before helping him into the seat. “Seatbelt,” said with a creepy smile.
When the duo made it back to Nate’s house, Lucas helped out the younger man, and into the house, setting him down on the foot of his mattress. And then pulled a chair over and sat down, facing Nate. “Now tell me, what is the last name of your friend Logan? And what kind of boar were you hunting – Russian or Razorback?” he began, cold blue eyes scanning Nate. “I heard boars are very nasty – aggressive, wild animals. Hard to shoot one of ‘em. Did it charge you? What did it look like?” Questions, delicious questions. Lucas’s favorite kind.
And this was one of Lucas’s favorite past-times – drugging up thirty-year-old men for answers to his questions.
Nate said:
Nate’s probably been hanging around Blackwater too long; southern hospitality has spoiled him, and despite Lucas’ strange, intimidating nature – or maybe because of it – Nathan can’t help but oblige him. He wants to feel better, after all, and he has no reason to think that a stranger has any motive to do him direct harm. He shakes the pills in his hand once, twice… and then downs them with a swig of the remainder of his latte, smiling innocuously up at Lucas.
He never would have done this in Vegas.
It’s a good few minutes that Lucas is away – enough that Nate thinks, just maybe, the guy’s bailed on him. It’s not until the other man returns, pulling up in his monstrous black truck, that Nathan realizes anything is amiss; the reaction time for lifting his head is slow, brain processes skewed and slurring, and the throbbing in his leg has all but disappeared. Lucas helps him up, walks him to the pickup, and before he can realize it they’re driving away.
”Fuck,” he spits woozily, world shifting around him as the car accelerates; anything resembling a social filter seems to have flitted right out of his head. It’s a number of tries before he can even fasten the seatbelt, and even then he leaves one hand on the dashboard for balance, leaning into every stop and turn. His directions home are slow, but still accurate, and it’s only a few moments later that he’s been escorted, carefully – not that he can feel the jostling of his bad leg anyway – to the foot of his own, unmade bed.
Nate doesn’t even have the presence of mind to be embarrassed.
“Now tell me, what is the last name of your friend Logan? And what kind of boar were you hunting – Russian or Razorback? I heard boars are very nasty – aggressive, wild animals. Hard to shoot one of ‘em. Did it charge you? What did it look like?”
God, boars? Why are they talking about boars…? Oh – oh; he’d lied. About something. None of this feels right and Nate leans back, confused and distraught, trying to focus on why, exactly, this guy is in his house. He’s nauseous and uncomfortable, the world askew, but one thing stands out clear: lie through his teeth.
”We’d… what? No, no. I dunno what it was,” he stammers, vision blurred. ”I’d… I've never been hunting – I’m from Vegas! Logan took me. He had the guns. You should ask him.” Nate shivers, sunken eyes seeking out Lucas’. ”Logan? Logan Duvall?” Where is Logan? Why isn't he here...?
For what isn’t the first time in his life, Nate swears that if he makes it out of this alive, he’ll never ingest a mind-altering substance again.
Corbin said:
Lucas pays careful attention to the boy’s demeanor, watching with calculating blue eyes as the boy leans back while the Oxycotin took its affect. Eyes swept over Nate’s face, Lucas’s expression remaining even and emotionless. He was the predator that just backed its prey into a corner, and yes, he always – always – considered himself a predator. The boy was uncomfortable, upset, and fumbling with words. Lucas wanted to grin. It wasn’t everyday you got to drug up a hippie southern boy with a bad leg.
“We’d… what? No, no. I dunno what it was,” Head tilts to the sight as if Lucas was admiring many paintings done by the patient of a mental ward with multiple personality disorder. “I’d… I've never been hunting – I’m from Vegas! Logan took me. He had the guns. You should ask him.” A Vegas boy, huh? Lucas tilted his head slightly up towards the ceiling, blue eyes still locked on the ‘roofied’ boy. So, this boy – either lied – or this Logan fellow was the hunter – damn bad shot if he hit his partner in the leg.
“Logan? Logan Duvall?” At that, head tilted down and eyes scanned the distraught boy’s face. Duvall? The gears in Lucas’s head were spinning and working as he tried to pull forward his memorized list of hunter families starting with D. DeAngello, Donatello, Durgen, Du-Duvall – there it was. A slight grin crossed Lucas’s face. So, the hunting and the last name was no coincidence. The Duvall family may be part of the lower chain but they were still hunters. Which meant-
“Thanks boy,” Lucas says, getting to his feet, a smirk across his face, almost stretching as wide as a cheshire grin. “You should really rest your head.” And then he’s turning toward the door, opens it, and closes it. A Duvall hunter in town ‘hunting’. The Duvalls may be in the lower chains, but they were still hunters. So if one was in town and was ‘hunting’, it would be wise for Lucas to take a look around. Stands on the porch for a minute before he fishes his phone out of his pocket and dials a number.
Lifts it to his ear. “Alisha, looks like we might have some game in town. We’re not leaving. Tell Rebekah, Boyd, and Jada to start scouting.” And then he lowers the phone, laughing to himself. “Man, this is gonna be fun.” And down he goes, opens the door of his Ram and drives off.
Smiling his cheshire grin the entire way.
[and this is Lucas’s leave.]
Nate said:
There’s something ominous about Lucas that lurks in Nathan’s brain, driving his wolf up a tree and forcing him to back away on the bed. His heart feels all funny – palpitations out of time, out of synch – and he can’t wrap his head around any of this, mind running minutes behind. It’s only when the man leans away with a frightening smile that Nate can breathe a sigh of relief, expression relaxing with his reclamation of personal space.
And then it’s all he can do to keep from falling back into his bed, drugged out of his mind and exhausted. The next few minutes are a washed-out blur; Lucas is speaking, thanking him, telling him to rest… and his wolf agrees, urging him back into the warmth of his own bed, into the blackness of his own mind. The ceiling descends to meet him and he’s out, lost and alone and subdued inside his head.
It’s not a restful sleep.
It’s more than an hour later when Nate regains something akin to lucidity. He’s nauseous and cold, wrapped up in a tangle of sheets and blankets and still coated in a sheen of sweat. There’s a slick wetness of blood that glues his leg to the inside of his pants, and it painfully reminds him of the mistake he’s made every time he moves. His head is full of cotton and his mouth his endlessly dry; a shiver runs through him that he finds difficult to stop.
Fuck. He probably can’t handle this.
Searching hands find his cell phone where he left it on the nightstand, abandoned before he’d even gone outside; his tired brain manages to find the right name, and his arm shakes as he holds the device to his ear, falling back to the bed in a slump. A man picks up.
”Logan? he asks, voice small and so unlike him.
”…I think someone drugged me.”
Logan. said:
His mark is dead. He has no business hanging around in Blackwater. He should set sail and let the wind take him where it will because that’s how Logan lives his life – boat analogies and all. There are a million reasons he can come up with to support the idea of leaving – never setting down roots, getting too involved with the locals, with a particular local. Logan doesn’t do attachment because he’s done it before, and attachment opens up a world of betrayal and hurt that he dare not tread again.
And yet his belongings remain unpacked, his ranger remains parked in the lot of a local motel, and Logan simply remains.
The television flickers with the news; there’s a latest and greatest scare involving Chinese manufactured goods, the stock market is doing poorly, and pizza is apparently a vegetable. None of it registers because Logan’s thoughts are elsewhere as he sits there, alone, at the edge of the motel bed.
Nate is a werewolf. He shot Nate. Nate’s in pain and Logan wants to be there for him but can’t, because invisible lines and unwritten rules about not getting attached. Lucas Corbin is still in town and he’s the worst kind of hunter, and the worst kind of human being. If Logan leaves, and he certainly will leave, it will have to be after Lucas vacates the area. Logan can’t have Nate alone with a Corbin on the loose.
He’ll just have to play damage control from afar, like some sort of well-meaning guardian angel that manages to double as both a coward and a dirty old man. Logan rubs at his neck and sighs, and that’s when his cell rings.
It’s Nate on the other end and there’s something wrong about his voice that instantly has Logan alarmed. Then he says it, says someone’s drugged him.
”Where are you?” His voice is deceptively calm. Once Nate establishes he’s at home, Logan continues with a stern as steel – ”Stay there and don’t move.”
Five, ten miles over the speed limit, more. By the grace of god he does not catch the attention of the local law enforcement and slides into Nate’s driveway, parks a little crooked, doesn’t care, jumps out of his Ranger and is up the stairs to Nate’s front door in two seconds flat.
The door is unlocked and Logan takes that as both a bad sign and a blessing. ”Nate?” He calls loudly as he navigates through the house. It does not take long to find Nate laying in his bed. Logan is immediately relieved to see him clothed, but that relief is brief and shallow.
His mind runs through a litany of possible scenarios as he quickly approaches the bed. Logan reaches out and cups the side of the younger man’s face, gives him a good jostle.”Come on, Vegas, wake up.” Strands of black hair are glued to pallid, sweaty skin and Nate does not look good. Logan is hit with a surge of severe concern, sticks his hands under Nate’s arms and forces him to sit up and sit back until he’s leaning against the wall.
One unrelenting hand stays gripped onto Nate’s shoulder, anchoring him against the wall. The other taps at the younger man’s chin. Logan’s hawk-point stare searches for Nate’s, tries to negotiate if anyone is home behind those bleary blue eyes.
”What the hell happened.” Logan is all good-natured, homegrown, kindness –except for when he isn’t. Except for when he’s brutally cold and straight to the point, so no-nonsense that he seems inhuman. ”Nate.” It’s a demand, a single word barked rough behind grit teeth. ” Wake the hell up.” Logan needs to establish that Nate is in no immediate danger before he presses for answers. He’ll feel bad about not being gentle later.
Nate said:
There are voices down the hall.
They are distant and foggy, half-formed and lost between layers of dream and sleep, but they are there. Nathan struggles against a sudden pressure, shifting and groaning, eyes fighting the wakefulness that threatens to drag them open – something is pulling him out of his reverie and he isn’t sure if he wants to go. The noise solidifies, strengthening into one familiar sound that he can’t help but crawl to.
Logan. He’d called him. He’d came. Those open blue eyes focus, finally, pinprick pupils finding their mark upon the man leaning over him, shaking him, calloused fingers pressed tight into the skin of his cheek. He grunts quietly, just nodding, blinking, signaling he’s home, empty fingers searching for a scrap of blanket or sheet to drag back up and around himself. Anything to cover up this horrible vulnerability, this disgusting weakness of soul that’s so much more naked than any cloth can disguise.
His fingertips instead find a hold on Logan’s shirt, wrapping about the fabric and clutching there.
"Shh, shh – I’m up," but the reassurance is lacking any conviction. He clings to the other man, desperate, shivering, fingers tangling and tightening. "…I cant remember—“ the thoughts are jumbled, missing and ghosting away, the pieces out of place. He doesn’t want to remember; just lay back down and drag Logan with him, get warm again and never get up. But Logan is insistent, and it presses him on, brow furrowed.
”I fell. This man, I – I cut my leg.” He emphasizes for effect. One hand loosens its deathgrip to seek out his thigh, feeling like a blind man along the folds of his jeans, probing for where it hurts without rhyme or reason. It all hurts. ”He gave me something for it. Got me home, but I think I passed out—” Nate stumbles on his words. ”I don’t think it was legal.” Why does Logan always have to be there for his idiot mistakes? Admitting his faults to the man seems like the most difficult thing in the world – he just wants Logan to like him, to think highly of him, not deal with all his shit. The hunter deserves better than cleaning up after him.
Maybe it’s just the drugs, making him paranoid. He’d honest expected something a step up from aspirin – he’s had codeine, dabbled around – but the way this hit him is too hard to be a medical dose of anything he knows. He certainly shouldn't have gotten anything like high. It’s easy, now that Lucas is gone, to pretend it’s just his brain exaggerating, placing layers of fear between his consciousness and his memories to pound the mistake home. He took some aspirin and lost a lot of blood; he wandered home like an idiot and bled out in his bed.
But Nathan remembers Lucas’ smile, and that glint in his eye, and the werewolf isn’t so sure after all.
Logan. said:
Gray eyes narrow and while worry gnaws at Logan’s gut, it’s mostly anger, slow burning and smoldering like heated coals, that directs his actions. A strong hand grips at Nate’s wrist when fingers twist at the fabric of his shirt. Words, mismatched and drug-groggy, spill from the younger man and Logan is struck with white-hot frustration. Nate is nothing like Logan remembers. He’s needy and hurt, confused and unabashedly seeking comfort.
”This man – did he have a name?” Business, practicality. A cool, calculative demeanor that disguises a roiling anger. Logan follows Nate’s hand as it disappears under the covers and immediately tugs the blankets and sheets away. The fabric is darker around the wound – a clear indication that he reopened it. ”Goddamn it, Nate.” A hawk-point glare flicks up to Nate’s face briefly and Logan is all authority. ”Come on.”
The aches in his back and knee are silent when Logan picks Nate up like he’s nothing more than a child, and right now, it’s a disturbingly accurate analogy. Logan is running on an injection of adrenaline, an influx of testosterone that has his pulse and heart rate thrumming with energy. And yet he wears a completely cold and stoic exterior, like he has everything under control.
He kicks the lid of the toilet down and sets Nate on it, kneels and tugs at a belt buckle. Logan’s displeasure shows not on his face, but through his less-than-gentle actions. He’s unbuttoned the pants and pulled them down just before the wound, just before the fabric glues tight against Nate’s skin with coagulated blood. ”This is going to hurt.” It’s the only warning Nate gets before Logan tugs the jeans off the rest of the way and tosses them aside. Blood is caked against and around the wound, robbing Logan of an accurate assessment. His mouth forms a tight line and he pushes up, leans into the shower and spins the faucets on.
”You can bitch at me about this later.” He says while he pulls the shirt over Nate’s head. The garment joins the bloodied jeans on the floor. Logan discards his own over shirt and works to quickly undo the buckles of his chest harness. The leather straps, the holster, and the gun are placed carefully aside, before Logan strips off his t-shirt. He kneels down again, hesitates only briefly, and he removes Nate’s underwear then helps him to his feet.
Logan helps Nate negotiate his way into the shower and follows after him – still wearing his jeans and boots. He has the young man’s back to the tile wall for support. One of Logan’s hand presses flat against the wall near Nate’s head, the other has a firm grip on his shoulder. Business, he thinks. Practicality, he thinks.
”You think you can stand on your own? I need to get to down there and check the damage, and the last thing I need is you keeling over and cracking your skull open.” The words are quietly incensed, muted and heavy with the backdrop of running water and steam. It’s not just anger in his tone, but frustration, and it is a frustration that has less to do with Nate’s accident, and more to do with a promise Logan made himself some time ago, in a motel room in Grants, New Mexico.
Nate said:
The world spins and the bed falls away from him – or Nate falls away from the bed. He can’t exactly be sure. He is not a small man, but Logan lifts him without hesitation or thought; Nathan clings for support, hissing in pain at the clumsy manhandling. There is little to no resistance as the hunter places him back down in the bathroom and fumbles about with his belt, his brain all caught up in the challenges of staying upright, staying conscious, not throwing up all over Logan’s chest – important things.
That is, until the man speaks something only half heard, and suddenly peels the jeans from Nate’s thigh in a rush of white-hot agony. He spits a vibrant string of curses; the haze of pain is enough to occupy his mind while Logan removes his clothes, unimpeded by the werewolf’s attempts to double up on himself or protect his searing skin. It is long, torturous moments before he is standing in the shower, dampened blood running in rivulets down his leg; Logan’s hand pins him like unrepentant steel, solid and grounding. Nathan exhales, slowly, and forces his eyes to focus.
”…He didn’t say his name,” he whispers, voice clearer now despite the volume.
The water helps. Some lucidity returns, some amount of controlled consciousness, his thoughts less on the edge of spiraling out of control. A shaking, knuckled hand moves to cover himself up with only mildly remembered embarrassment; the other rests taut against the shower’s wall, a mainstay of support for weakened legs. With a nod, he allows Logan to release his grip, wobbling under the uncertain weight of his own body – but holding. Those blue eyes are drawn to the ceiling, chin up, attention diverted away from the idea and actuality of Logan Duvall looming in close upon him.
His breath catches, heart quick.
”H-he had black hair. A suit.” Just keep talking, even if it’s only to describe half the men in the world – a description that even fits Nathan himself. The irony is not lost on him.
More disturbingly, Nate can feel an almost frightening absence where is wolf should lurk. It is supposed to protect him; it is supposed to keep this alarm from happening, but it is gone, suppressed and hidden away and bathed in just as much panic and confusion as the rest of him, so there is no line between one and the other. A cognizant piece of him recognizes this as a good thing, for fear of what his other half might do had this not been the case; Nate shivers, despite the shower’s heat. His hand upon the wall flexes, muscles tensing in anticipation of oncoming pain.
"...Just make it quick."
For more reasons than one.
Logan. said:
”So, you just accepted a ride home and a couple of pills from a stranger.” Anger is good here. Anger keeps him simultaneously distracted and on point. ”That’s great, Nathan. Real smart.” Logan’s throat is tight, his mouth contorted into a sneer, but his tone is that same icy-calm. He breaks off a disapproving glare as he kneels down, mindful of exactly where he is.
Rough fingers work to clear away dried blood and Logan focuses on the wound. His brows knit and he concentrates on the way the blood breaks apart and runs pink with the shower water. He concentrates on the extent of the gnarled flesh, on how the stitches have broken apart and refused to hold. Logan concentrates so his thoughts don’t wander. Practical. Practical. It’s so damned difficult.
The area is cleaned as much as water and soap might allow; they’ll have to disinfect it, patch it up right. Then Logan can ask more questions. Then Logan can proceed to establish just how monumentally stupid Nate was to accept candy from strangers. The familiar bite of frustration is back and Logan grits his teeth to quell it. The water has soaked straight through his jeans. His boots are going to be soggy and everything about this is uncomfortable. But Logan’s the good guy, always the friend and nothing more, and he’s reluctantly committed to the role. ”You’re going to need more stitches, but this time –“ Logan makes the mistake of looking up, catches sight of Nate with his head tilted back and staring towards the ceiling like some sort of forlorn goddamned angel.
The sight is not so much breathtaking as it is a punch to the chest and gut. Words die somewhere lost and forgotten in his throat.
He’s standing up before he realizes, moving slow until he’s at his full height. The white noise of running water fills his ears and his lungs inhale the steam-humid air. Logan’s eyes are on Nate’s face, fixated and unable to break away. There is a distant alarm sounding at the back of his mind but for once, Logan isn’t keen on listening. Strong forearms settle on the tile at either side of Nathan’s head, blocking him in. Water drips down Logan’s back, down the side of his face and off his bearded chin, but he remains unblinking, he remains standing there like he’s frozen.
The alarm grows louder. He doesn’t care. He’s only human.
Don’t you do it, Logan Duvall, he thinks.
We can’t all be saints, he remembers.
In a shower, with one of them bleeding and drugged, with the other wearing soaked pants and soggy boots, Logan kisses Nathan. It's far from perfect, but the moment is his. He may regret it later, but it’s his and for once, Logan crosses the line.
Nate said:
Logan is angry – sarcastic, bitter – and it makes Nate feel sick. He can’t blame the hunter for reacting this way; he is a good man, but everyone has his limits. Nate can’t bear to look him in the eye and accept any further responsibility, chew on any more of that guilt; it’s already gnawing at him enough. Judgmental and disappointed expressions are just icing on the cake and more than he needs. Still, he can’t manage to even feel sorry for himself – just stupid. Used. At least the fear is subsiding.
Nate’s thankful when Logan gets to work, assessing the damage with calloused hands and trained eyes, eliciting little tremors of unconscious reaction and sharp exhalations at every turn. It is more blood than damage, the worst of appearances washing away in the water and steam; a few hours building up and coagulating made for a messy clean up, but the wounds beneath haven’t worsened, simply reopened. As has happened many times in his life, Nathan is grateful for small favors – sometimes, they’re all that can keep you going.
There is a shifting; Logan rises, mid-sentence. Those piercing grey eyes peer into his own, unfathomable and impossible to tear away from, pinning him just as effectively as the hands to either side of his head. A brief flicker of uncertainty, questioning, flashes across Nathan’s face before he understands, before this all feels like an unspoken set of reactions and rules he hasn’t practiced in years but still feels intimately familiar with. Lust and flirtation are like riding a bike; just one of those things you never forget.
The smell of Logan drifts close, heavy on the steam, and their lips meet.
It isn’t magic. Nathan is woozy and weak-kneed before it even begins, and Logan’s soaked through and frustrated, half clothed in a shower. But Nate has regretted every choice he’s made in the last few weeks, tumbling headlong into a fate he can’t control – finding Logan in the woods, losing so much of himself, making so many mistakes – and he finds he’d do it all again, if it meant things turned out the same. If it meant he ended up here, now.
Nothing in Nathan’s life has ever been perfect; why should this?
His free hand – the one not supporting him against the wall – moves upwards, and there is no hesitance as he cups Logan’s face and draws him in, deepening the gesture. Nate won’t let the other man question his actions; won’t let him feel like this was a mistake or worry that the werewolf didn’t want it just as badly. Whatever the feelings later on, he is returning this and enjoying this and inviting this – and hell if he’ll let Logan walk away.
Nate’s hand slides from Logan’s chin to his chest to his belt loops, tugging firmly. His wolf is suddenly there, running through his blood and crashing into his mind, surging confidence and interest drawing it out from the shadows; if there is one thing his beast knows and has waited for, it is this, and it is eager to stake its claim and drive all doubt away.
He gasps a quick breath, eyes seeking, searching; pleading, accusing.
Don’t make this wrong.
Logan. said:
A hand settles against Logan’s face, pulls him in closer, and he willingly obliges. The fluidity, the thoughtfulness behind the way Logan kisses Nate betrays the need, honest and real, that is left in the wake of a conflagration— a fire that burns away all the doubts and needless boundaries he’s been harboring for months. Still, there is a tenseness to his body, a rigidity in his shoulders and it appears that Logan cannot simply let go.
A sharp intake of breath, a muffled grunt when Nathan tugs at his beltline. Logan’s fingers encircle Nathan’s wrist, grip tight; he does not push the hand away but simply holds it there, barring it from further action. Blue eyes may be searching for gray but they won’t find them; Logan’s head hangs, downcast, features locked into furrowed concentration. A state of prayer or meditation, maybe, and an indication that he’s second guessing himself so soon, a worrying suggestion that Logan is ready to end this before it goes too far.
The hand around Nathan’s wrist falls away, Logan looks up, gray meets blue. The corner of his mouth twitches a ghost of a smile and his arms snake around Nathan’s waist. Logan kisses Nathan for the second time, and this time with more fervor, less thought. He keeps their lips locked as he moves, bringing Nate with him, until his tattooed back presses firmly against the cold tile of the shower wall.
They slide down slowly together until Logan’s sitting in the tub with Nathan perched and cradled in his lap. There is no romantic preamble to this, no luxurious bed and lit candles. Nathan’s thigh is likely aching its protest and Logan’s back will be soon to follow suit, but under the heated spray of the shower and with his blood running hot, Logan can’t find room for practicality.
As it is often with Logan and Nathan, things just happen as they happen. No method to the madness. Logan can’t complain, won’t.
AND THEN RAINBOWS HAPPENED
Logan. said:
His boots squelch when he steps outside of the tub and Logan adds getting into a shower half clothed onto his list of ‘things that probably aren’t such a good idea.’ He toes off his shoes and socks while Nate takes to leaning against the counter. Peeling off his soaked jeans takes some effort and he manages to lose his balance once or twice in the process. He’s managed to find the towels by then and wraps one around his waist, grabs a second and then catches sight of Nathan’s ogling. Logan’s responding smirk is slow and crooked.
”For shame, Vegas, for shame.” He chides lightly and tosses the towel over Nathan’s head. Sliding into their old camaraderie is easier than expected on Logan’s part, and he’s not one to defile small blessings by questioning them. The hunter leans down and searches the sink cabinets as indicated. ”Sorry, sweetheart, but I’m not going to let a doped-up man stitch up his own leg.” There is an underlying sarcasm to his tone that suggests Logan is still bothered by Nate’s failure in judgment. ”Just somehow doesn’t seem like a good idea.” Nathan can protest all he wants but Logan will play a game of keep the med kit out of Nathan’s reach until the younger man relents, if he has to.
Logan takes to kneeling, for the third time, near Nathan’s leg. ”Just lie back and think of England.” The older man jokes while adopting a clinical approach to the werewolf’s injury. He has Nate disinfected and stitched neatly within minutes. Gray eyes take stock of his handiwork and Logan appears satisfied when he packs up the medical kit and replaces it under the sink. ”Come on.” He gestures with a jerk of his head and wraps an arm around Nathan’s waist, then helps him out into the bedroom.
He carefully lowers the werewolf onto the mattress. ”I’m going to toss my things into the wash. You, uh, don’t go anywhere.” He leaves to do just that because he only has one set of clothing and Logan’s relatively certain he’d bust the seams on anything Nathan might offer. It also gives him a chance to clear his mind without be subjected to a mostly naked Nathan. Back to business, as much as he might lament it.
The hunter returns with a glass of water in hand. He holds it out to Nate, figures the guy must be dehydrated and waits expectantly. ”Drink it –slow.” Logan lets his eyes wander but it’s mostly concern there, now, an analytical gaze searching for invisible clues. ”How lucid are you?” There are questions he would prefer to have answered immediately but that all depends on Nathan’s state of mind.
Nate said:
Nate’s smirk turns into a full-fledged grin, and he ducks as Logan tosses the towel over his eyes, breaking off his lewd stare. He tastefully drapes the cloth over himself before reclining lazily backwards, and waves hand in the air to set Logan to work. If the hunter wants to play the Responsible Adult game, well, Nate’s happy to take advantage.
”I think we’re a bit past that, Duvall,” he retorts, those easy expressions of simple enjoyment endlessly plastered to his face. ”…And I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He is totally, 100% fine. Look at him – sitting up in a position that is somewhere in the neighborhood of straight, words spoken without slurring… what’s there to dislike? Nate might not be able to make it down the hall, sure, and little tremors run down his arms when he raises them, and sure, okay, there is some lingering unwanted sedation, but he is totally fine. Honest.
…He decides it’s best to not protest.
Once finished, the werewolf inspects Logan’s work with an eye trained through experience and finds himself pleasantly surprised; it’s a neater job than he could have managed, certainly, and took a heck of a lot less time. He begrudges the man any sort of thanks or compliment, however, and instead offers him only a chin-jutting little sulk of an expression; eyes directed pointedly upwards, arms folded across his chest. A quick glance out of the corner of his eye breaks the image – it can’t hold, Nate can’t keep it up, and he accepts the assistance up and out of the room with a laugh.
The bed, though… the bed is uncomfortable and inviting all at once. He wishes it had been made up, instead of strewn with sheets from his earlier thrashing, painful reminders of the day’s unfolding. But he is tired, and it’s still just his goddamn bed, and that overwhelms anything; Nate puffs up the pillows and relaxes against the headboard, and suddenly it’s his again. He’s stubborn like that.
”Yeah, ‘cause I’m really gonna get up and jump out the window,” he calls after the hunter as he exists the room, leaving him alone. There is only silence while Logan is gone, and long minutes stretching into nothing.
Nate tries not to look as relieved as he feels when Logan comes back.
”I feel alright, now.” He sips at the glass, nose wrinkling. ”Not great, but… awake. Y’know. Mostly there.” A finger taps at his temple, and Nate shrugs. He doesn’t want to talk about this and averts his eyes, but there’s a creeping suspicion that Logan’s not going to let it go.
"Come sit your ass down, will you? I don't need you looming like that." It's easy to redirect his discomfort into playful complaints, and his eyes return to Logan's to shoot him a faux disappointed look; anything to distract from the matter at hand.
Logan. said:
Logan nods, seems to say just as I expected without so many words. There is an insistent, satiated part of him that wants to do as Nathan wishes and let the matter go, but Logan can’t. A lingering suggestion of a persistent danger worries at the edges of his mind and, more shallowly, there is the question of what exactly Nathan was doing with this man.
”I don’t loom,” Logan says half-heartedly but realizes he’s been hovering over Nathan like a mother hen, father hen – father rooster. Clearly something masculine. He obliges by taking a seat near the werewolf and twists his torso to face him. Gray eyes settle somewhere on Nathan’s chest as Logan takes a moment to think, to deliberate on how exactly to proceed without offending the younger man. He doesn’t want to break the peace that has settled between them, comfortable, warm and fantastically familiar.
He looks up, tries to meet Nathan’s gaze. ”You said you didn’t know his name,” which tells Logan whoever it was, was a stranger and again, foolish move, Nathan. ”Do you remember what he looked like?” Blackwater isn’t the biggest town, the kind of place where even the faces of strangers become familiar. ”Was he a local?” A valid question, one that may be able to jog Nathan’s memory or allow him to make connections, associations.
There is a more pressing, selfish question lurking in Logan’s mind, caught in his throat and ready for escape. His hands settle in his lap, one grips the wrist of the other – a telling, defensive gesture. Logan looks away and says, ”And what were you doing with him?” His tone is guarded, flat. It’s too early to come off as the jealous boyfriend but Logan’s already shown his cards, so why the hell not throw in the entire deck.
The hunter looks back to the werewolf and Logan muses, not for the first time, that Nathan is too pretty for his own damned good.
Nate said:
Logan is so looming – but it gets Nate what he wants, and he can’t complain. He shuffles down into the pillows as the man settles in beside him, all dignified and businesslike but with little real comfort, and in protest Nathan moves close and rests his head up against Logan’s side. One arm stretches out above his head, a lazy gesture, and he blinks slowly, languidly, before giving in and meeting Logan’s eyes.
The litany of questions begins anew, gentle but persistent; Nate cannot find any excuse to deflect, to avoid answering. It is, in some way, Logan’s way of showing he cares, and perhaps that’s all the pressure he needs.
”I’ve never seen him in town. The accent didn’t seem right, either.” Blackwater is a small place, and Nate’s fairly certain he would have noticed Lucas long before now if he were a local. He had that way of commanding attention. ”Black hair, blue eyes. A suit. He drove…” the make and model escape him; he waves a hand in dismissal. ”A black pickup. Nice, too. Never seen that around here, either.”
There are few other pinpricks that stand out in the fog, little else he can make out clearly or even attempt to remember; the more ghostly the memories feel, the less he can be sure they’re even real. Lucas’ smile, for example; his eyes. He’d like to believe those are features his brain added on in a drugged haze, but they aren’t something he can put to words either way. Not easily.
Nate narrows his eyes curiously at the final, most revealing question, and turns his head to bring Logan back to the focus of his vision.
”He knocked me down, Logan.” It is matter-of-fact, explanatory. ”I was getting coffee; he opened the door into me.” There’s no need to lie, because there’s nothing to hide, and Nate stares upwards in an attempt to force Logan’s gaze. He’s more offended at the implication in that one comment alone than in the overly protective, Big Brother tone of all the others, and he needs Logan to see that.
”…It’s a good place in town – the cafe, I mean,” he adds, tempering his previous words. ”We should go.”
Logan. said:
His selfish question does not earn him the rebuff he expected and so Logan relaxes. Fingers find Nathan’s hair, thread through the dark strands, smooth over his scalp in a placating gesture. Logan is outwardly calm, quiet and thoughtful, but Nathan’s revelations have left only one logical conclusion, and it is a conclusion that makes Logan’s blood run cold.
That day in the diner, his first morning in Blackwater, Logan and Lucas had crossed paths. His thorough, curious and careful nature dictated that Logan keep tabs on the Corbin hunter. Nathan’s description – of the man, of what he wore and what he drove, coupled with the fact he was an outsider knit together and form an unmistakable image.
Nathan has no way in knowing how much danger he was in, potentially is still in.
Thought-heavy eyes fall onto Nathan’s face and Logan latches onto those lasts words, on the connotation behind them. They should go to the café, together. Together. His contemplative features break under the presence of a small, gentle smile. There has been enough talk of danger and other dark things, and Logan finds he is unwilling to entirely sacrifice the mood, comfortable and content, that exists between them.
”We’ll go,” he agrees and leans down for a lingering press of lips against Nathan’s forehead. Tomorrow he will tell Nathan about the Corbins, about hunters that lack morals, about monsters that are not so obvious as some of their werewolf counterparts. Tomorrow, because they have time. Tomorrow, because Logan will stay until Nathan’s safety is guaranteed.
Logan pulls back, meets Nathan’s eyes. ”But I’ll have to keep you on a short leash.” Dog jokes-- it has come to that. The hunter’s grin slowly fades into an affectionate smile. ”Get some sleep, Nathan.” The werewolf must be tired, groggy. And though shadows singing danger and threat lurk ominous in the recesses of his mind, Logan ignores them.
Because Logan and Nathan – they have time.
