Post by ♥ Nathan ♥ on Jun 8, 2012 1:38:11 GMT -5
Logan. said:
Headlights cut down an empty street and the engine of an old ford pickup rumbles its presence. Blackwater is quiet at this time– 3:30am – and the sun won’t be rising for a few more hours. Most residents are happily asleep, and among them is a certain black-haired, blue-eyed individual.
A crooked smile spreads over mature features, a hand reaches out, turns a knob and the news grows louder. Fair weather expected for the day; temperatures in the low seventies.
Perfect.
Three days ago Logan had asked if Nathan’s Friday was free. He did not elaborate, only gave a nod and a smile when Nathan confirmed nothing was on his schedule. Today is meant to be a surprise, a spur-of-the-moment thing that has, in fact, been planned since the day of Vianne’s birthday party. Logan is not sure if Nathan has been fishing, let alone on a boat before, but he’s willing –and wanting—to teach. It’s one of his favorite pastimes, a hobby passed from father to son that he has not indulged in for months.
He also, really, really has a thing for seeing Nathan out of his element. Call it a fetish or a kink, or call Logan a sly, imp of a bastard, but there’s few things he likes more than coming off as the practiced, learned jack-of-all-trades. It’s like flexing or beating his chest, but more smooth and subtle, and less like he’s a caveman.
The pickup pulls into Nathan’s driveway and Logan slips out of the truck. Gravel and dirt crunch beneath his old boots and he throws a look to the Eastern horizon. Still dark, still no sign of the sun. It’s 4am and Nathan is about to get one hell of an early wakeup call. Logan’s smirking because he’s happy; it has nothing to do with the fact Nathan is probably going to be all piss and vinegar – nothing at all.
A thumb presses against the doorbell once, then twice. He’ll press it again if he has to. The instant the door opens, Nathan will be greeted with the sight of a bright, clean-cut and alert Logan. He tips up his baseball cap, lets mischievous gray eyes fall onto to Nate’s face and grins.
”Hi, I’m here to collect.” As cheery as a morning lark.
Nate said:
It is four in the morning when the doorbell rings, and Nathan is pretty sure he knows who it is.
He’d gone to sleep late the night before (if midnight still counts as yesterday), pleased as punch and expectant; Logan had scheduled something for the next day, and been pointedly vague about it. Coy, even. It had, as expected, driven the werewolf mad with guessing games that grew into silent, but not subdued, anticipation, knowing the man would give nothing away if he decided that was more fun.
And it is, up until the moment that a rattling pickup pulls into Nathan’s driveway at some ungodly hour of the morning, the sun still just a memory below the horizon.
Nate doesn’t bother finding appropriate clothes, instead wandering to the front door barefoot, in shorts and an old t-shirt (which he briefly contemplates removing – it’s the least he can do to plot early-morning revenge). The fact that someone is here this early at all already implicates one suspect in particular, and the rumble of the beat-up truck outside is frustratingly familiar; being that Nate is not expecting a four am booty call, he is naturally suspicious. Someone has played an artful and cruel joke on him, and a glance through the peephole reveals the expected culprit.
Logan is in the act of ringing the bell yet a third time, and Nate obligingly interrupts him by opening the door. He ushers the man in with a grunt and a wave, sleep-dark voice unable to find anything resembling the English language; indeed, any words at all. The hunter’s joke seems to fall flat – haha, very funny, – because clearly he has been entirely betrayed and mocking that fact is just cruel. But there’s no malice in the tired blue eyes that meet Logan’s, just a childish, sulking frustration that can’t quite compete with the simple pleasure he feels just at seeing the other man.
”I think you’ve intentionally misled me, Mister Duvall,” he grumbles, voice still thick with sleep, a pursed smile inching its way along his lips. Something akin to eagerness – as much as he can muster at this hour – worms its way beneath Nate’s skin, curiosity beginning to lure him into wakefulness.
Logan certainly wouldn’t be here for nothing.
Logan. said:
Logan figures he’s lucky that Nathan isn’t aware of how damned adorable he is right now, what with the bed-head and the sleepy affectionate smile he’s sporting. The younger man could use that to his advantage and the whole planned adventure might be cast aside in favor for something more home bound and lazy. There’s a cooler packed in the back of Logan’s pickup, along with a pair of fishing rods. Wouldn’t be right to let all his effort go to waste. Gray eyes wander over Nathan.
No matter how tempting.
”I am offended, Mister Hart, at the very idea.” Logan fights off a smirk but fails. It’s warmth in his expression, underlined with a subtle edge of mirth. ”I am a true and honest man, and if you were entertaining different thoughts about my collecting past dues, then sir, I must ask that you get your mind out of the gutter.” The hunter is not one to talk but he has plans for those kinds of things later. He surreptitiously drops his eyes and wonders how close to fully operational Nathan’s leg is.
So as not to be caught red-handed and engaged in an act of hypocrisy (wallowing in the gutter), Logan returns his attention onto Nathan’s face and settles his hands on the werewolf’s shoulders. It is something of a wonder he went this long without touching the younger man; every time he’s near, it’s a grade school affair of Logan trying to keep his hands to himself. A hand slides to the nape of Nathan’s neck and Logan leans forward to press a smiling kiss to his temple. He pulls away, looks at the werewolf with a warm mischievousness.
”I’m also going to have to ask you to get your ass dressed and ready.” And here comes the big reveal, ”Because we’re going fishing.” Logan grins bright and excited. ”There’s no better way for two men to bond.” There are probably a thousand better ways, again, gutter, but it’s fishing and it’s kind of in his blood.
Nathan is fairly certain it’s a sin to be so goddamn cheerful this early in the morning. He toys with the idea of distracting Logan, of stalling for their mutual benefit – it’s the sort of hour for returning to bed, not crawling out of it – but the man just seems so pleased with himself, so smug. The ghost of a kiss and roaming eyes aren’t helping his convictions, and so it’s with a hard heart that he resists temptation, manages to keep his hands from wandering, and makes a mental note to get even.
"If my mind was left anywhere inappropriate, it's only because that's where... you put it..." And then his wit runs out because it's four am, and he simply glowers as Logan goes on.
Fishing.
Nate has never been fishing, but Logan’s eyes are alight and he’s grinning a big, honest grin, the kind that anyone with a shred of a soul can’t say no to. The werewolf runs a hand down his face, rubbing tiredly at the corners of his eyes, and sighs in assent and finality.
”…Can you at least put on some coffee?” It’s forced, but only so much as to be playful – an obviously faked sort of sullen acceptance. Nate waves a hand towards the kitchen, trusting Logan has enough domestic know-how to figure out the percolator, and stalks off to the depths of the house to get changed. ”Though I don’t think it’s legal to get dressed this early in the morning.” It’s sour, but under his breath, the last gasp of his stifled desire to drag Logan to the bedroom demanding to be expressed.
”What do you even wear fishing?” He calls back down the hall, only half expecting an answer. Logan wears the same clothes to everything; his advice will really only get anyone so far. Nate selects the basics: boots and jeans, a white tee, plaid overshirt – because he’s pretty sure real men wear plaid. Or hunting orange, maybe. Or camo.
…Plaid will do.
Nate returns to the kitchen, hoping to find coffee brewing and Logan waiting. A little stab of worry needles at him, settling somewhere in his gut; the uncomfortable certainty that this day will probably be ridiculously embarrassing, and there's not a thing he can do about it. He likes feeling confident, feeling in control, and fishing doesn't seem to fall under the category of "awesome things I can impress Logan with." Nate steels himself in what must be an exceptional act of bravery: sacrifices must be made in the name of those you care about. Serious sacrifices like going fishing.
Logan. said:
”Clothes,” Logan returns helpfully and then adds, ”But if you’re worried about the legality of it all, you’re more than welcome to come naked.” The hunter certainly wouldn’t find room to complain. He grins his crooked grin and heads towards the kitchen. After a few seconds of searching, he finds what he needs to get a pot of coffee going. Logan’s leaning on the counter and staring thoughtfully at the brewing drip when Nathan finally joins him.
He gives the werewolf an exaggerated once over and whistles low. ”Looking mighty fine there, Nathan.” Plaid shirt, hippy hair that has become kind of a thing for Logan. Truthfully the younger man could dress in a tie-dye sweat suit and Logan would still find him attractive. Probably. ”Should bring a jacket, too. It can get cold out there on the water, at least when the boat’s moving.” He pulls out a thermos from the cupboard, sets it on the counter and steps aside to allow Nathan to prepare his coffee as he will. ”Actually, I got a spare you can use. Don’t want to get your nice things all…fishy.” The smell of fish lingers and sticks unwanted – worse than an in-law.
”The lake’s a couple hours away. Figure we’ll leave here soon, pull in for some drive-through breakfast, and hit the road.” Logan’s arm snakes around Nathan’s shoulders and he kisses his cheek, beard grazing across smooth skin. ”Sound good?” It sure as hell sounds good to Logan. Clear skies, gentle water. Fresh air and peace and quiet. A boat full of bait and a lake full of fish. And, most importantly of all, Nathan there to join him.
The makings of a perfect day.
As soon as Nathan gives the go ahead, Logan ushers him out to the pickup. The back is full of all the essentials – food, water (beer for Nate), sunscreen, bug spray, fishing poles and all the accouterments. Logan has everything squared away. They’ll stop for breakfast as indicated and Logan will end up dropping his sausage biscuit into his lap, where it will roll onto the floor, but that’s alright because it won’t have tasted that great anyway. He’ll laugh it off and make a comment along the lines of ‘meant to do that’ and take to drinking the rest of his coffee instead.
Nickjack lake is around a two hour drive away and as they pull onto the interstate, the sun bleeds the sky pink and blue. There’s hardly a cloud in the sky, just these gentle white, delicate wisps. Logan thinks it’s kind of beautiful but keeps those decidedly unmanly thoughts to himself, turns to Nathan and asks,
”You ever been on a boat before, Nate?” There’s the worry the werewolf might suffer from a little sea-sickness (on a lake) but Logan’s bought meds and ginger candies just in case.
He really wants this to be a good experience.
Nate said:
”…I don’t mind my clothes getting fishy,” Nate insists, but he makes no move to go find a jacket of his own. There’s something cozy about the idea of using Logan’s that makes him not protest too hard – and something else entirely about the idea of smelling like fish that makes him wish he’d put on less expensive pants.
Nate bottles up the coffee, excessively sweetened, and purposefully avoids any stares directed at his drink preparation. Real men like their coffee light and sweet, and that’s that. Fingers find Logan’s shirt and just hold him there following the brief kiss, keep him there and keep him still, close enough for Logan’s beard to hover against his cheek; he turns his head to catch the man’s lips with his own, smiling into the contact. They part, and Nate finishes gathering his things, ghost of a smirk still lingering on his face.
”Sounds great.”
And it does.
He has no idea what half the shit in the back of the truck is, and is of no mind to ask. Fishing is one of those hobbies that fathers do with sons and as such is nothing Nathan has any experience with, beyond the obvious. Football and fixing cars are on that list, too – his childhood consisted more of the television and inner city drama than anything resembling the outdoors or family. It’s a fact that is generally all right by Nathan, but he feels a pang of regret as they load up and head out. Not for experiences missed, but because he’d really rather have some idea of what he’s gotten himself into.
Breakfast is made better through company, and Nate is ravenous despite the hour – the combination somehow makes fast food sausage taste delicious. He’s settled in for the ride just as the sun starts to grow above the horizon, and is just about ready to doze off when Logan’s voice slides smoothly into his thoughts. A fumbling hand finds what’s left of his coffee in the rattling cupholder, swigging the dregs down.
”No,” he admits in response, crawling back into an upright position using his elbows. ”I’ve never been fishing before, either.” As if Logan hadn’t caught on to that. He decides it’s probably best if he doesn’t ask if Logan went digging for nightcrawlers, or whatever it is you do to catch worms. For fish.
”…Do you throw them back?” Nate has always been, and is still, a city kid. The idea of catching and butchering his own food is disturbingly foreign. ”How big’s the boat?” Like he’s maybe starting to think that climbing into some tiny dinghy for hours on end might not be the best idea, but Nate tries not to let that slip through. His attention is peeled away, focused on the upcoming sun, face inclined close to the cold window.
”I can’t remember the last time I saw the sunrise.”
Logan. said:
Logan gives a distracted nod, cranes his neck to see if the oncoming lane of traffic is clear. A foot presses down onto the gas pedal and he crosses the dotted line, pulls past and ahead of the trailer that was impeding their progress. He merges back into the appropriate lane and keeps a steady five miles above the speed limit – the fabled magic number.
”It’d sure be hard to eat them if we threw them back.” There is fond coyness to his tone, a smile on his face that suggests he thinks Nate’s concerns are, for lack of a less-insulting word, cute. Logan grew up hunting and fishing. He has learned the quickest, most efficient way to rid a fish of its entrails and he has been elbow-deep inside of animal carcasses, shoveling out their guts -- pleasant, father-son bonding experiences.
It is a messy affair but with fish its mostly the smell, that unmistakable stench that grows tenfold after you cut into the flesh. Logan will spare Nathan that aspect of their adventure and handle it himself; he’s a gentleman like that. ”Fresh caught fish make for good eating.” Much more flavor than the farm-raised, store-bought fare. ”And I happen to be something of a cook. You’ll like it, I promise.” He follows the statement with an encouraging smile.
”It’s a small sport fishing boat. Not the canoe or bass boat you’re likely expecting.” Logan figured he’d soften the blow by renting something with more room. ”Plenty of space to walk around in, and enough that you’ll have to try awfully hard to lose your balance and fall overboard.” He’s trying to guess the werewolf’s concerns and head them off before he frets too much.
Gray eyes settle on Nathan and Logan feels that intimate high he’s come to associate with the younger man spread through his chest -- like coming home after months spent out at sea. Grounding – that’s the word Logan would choose for it, if he had to, and even then, the description would fall short. ”It’s the small things,” he comments as if he’s agreeing to something unsaid. Small things like meeting a stranger on the interstate and partaking in a short-lived adventure, part one to a play that would be on hiatus for year, before the curtains parted once again. Small things have habit of growing on a man in unexpected ways and while Logan’s not one to wax poetic about things like fate and destiny, sometimes he wonders.
But maybe that’s the sunrise talking, like a spell.
Nathan has never been on a boat. He’s never been fishing and seems to be worried about the welfare of the animals. It begs the question –”Where did you grow up?” Logan thinks he may have asked something similar a year ago but all he remembers is Vegas. There is more trust between them now, a comfort and security that did not exist back then, in the desert. Prying doesn’t feel like prying anymore, and just like honest, well-meaning curiosity.
Nate said:
Nathan recognizes the tone in Logan’s voice – not antagonizing, but on the borderline of teasing – and shoots the man a hard look, jaw set crooked. There is something about Logan that constantly makes Nate feel inexperienced and ten years younger, but so long as the hunter seems to like it, well, Nate isn’t one to complain – but this doesn’t stop him from giving the man a stern reminder that he is a Very Manly Werewolf, goddamnit.
”You sure you want to get my expectations up that high?” He challenges, expression sly. Nathan has no doubts as to Logan’s honestly, and believing the man’s a good cook is certainly not farfetched, but he can’t help taking advantage of the opportunity to rib him a little. ”I want a five star dining experience, here. Candles, the works.” Nate gestures with his hands to further his point, tapping the pad of his finger earnestly down on the dashboard in emphasis. ”Fancy classical music.”
Logan’s explanation of the boat satisfies Nate’s curiosity enough for now. Having next to no expectations helps, too; falling overboard doesn’t seem like much of a concern aside from being entirely embarrassing, and his brain can’t even process the thought of seasickness. Being able to move and walk around is a novel enough concept that he warms to the idea – because most of Nate’s preconceptions regarding boats fall into the categories of “small metal death-trap” and “large fancy cruise ship.”
”Chicago. Suburbs, for a while, but we moved into the city when I was pretty young.” His was a dirty, rotten little life back then, and while it’s not something he enjoys discussing – and more so, risk lowering Logan’s opinion of him – he’s not disinclined to simple talk. ”I know – water. But fishing isn’t really a city thing.” Nor are boats, apparently; Nate feels like he has to make the point clear that living near water doesn’t somehow equal access, or even interest.
”Left when I was… sixteen? Seventeen?” Maybe older. It’s a long time ago. ”It never felt much like home.” And Nate’s never felt a need to go back. He leans back in his seat, stretching stiff legs and resting with palms behind his head; Logan is comfortable and familiar, the conversation easy, and the werewolf thinks that there is no place else he’d rather be at five in the morning.
”What about you?” He asks, blue eyes lit up with the corners of a crooked smile, turning to face the hunter. ”What’s Alaska like?”
Aside from the part where it's clearly filled with snow and moose.
Logan. said:
Logan chuckles and spares Nathan a sportive glance. ”If you want romance – I can do romance.” His tone is light but Logan wonders if there’s any actual desire for candles and what’s the word for it – atmosphere. Something to file away for later consideration, to add to his bag of tricks and maybe surprise Nate. Keep things interesting, keep the younger man from getting bored. Logan is all calmness and rough charm, but he worries sometimes about those kinds of things. About being boring--boring enough for people to move on.
”No shame in that.” He supposes it’s the lucky majority that can comfortably call the place they grew up home. Seventeen is awfully young to set out alone – or at least Logan suspects Nathan left Chicago solo. There’s more questions that circulate but Logan think twice before divulging them. Leaving at seventeen suggests a less-than ideal home life and the last thing Logan wants to do, is sour the mood.
He waits a beat, smiles a reactionary smile. ”We took dogsleds to school and lived in an igloo.” Tongue-in-cheek, accented with a smirk. ”Also had a pet penguin.” The sad thing is he’s met people that actually believed that kind of drivel. Logan knows Nathan isn’t among the ignorant but can’t help but poke. It’s all in good fun.
”It’s…wild. They don’t call it the last frontier for nothing.” Logan passes another slow moving vehicle and settles in for a more thorough explanation.”I mean we had roads and proper houses and civilization, but there were more trees than people. Mountains. The ocean.” The nostalgia sets in and he seems to mellow as he recalls the state. ”Glaciers, too. The Northern lights in the winter. Mostly green but I saw them red a couple of times. They move, it’s pretty crazy.” It’s the kind of beauty a man can take for granted, where he’ll later sit and wonder why he didn’t spend more time enjoying the lights while they lasted.
”I’ve been all over the states but nothing really beats it, Alaska, I mean.” He’s biased but he’s also honest. ”I worked for my father for a while before heading to Dutch Harbor. Wheedled my way onto a boat. Spent a season as a greenhorn and the next few years as a deckhand.” Logan shrugs; there’s a wealth of information he isn’t disclosing but again, keeping the mood light. ”Left when I was twenty-three to, uh, pursue… the family business.” Werewolf hunting.
”…Which brought me to Blackwater,” And Nate, ”So I’m not about to complain.” Logan gives one of those boy-next-door smiles of his and returns his attention back onto the road with earnest. He thinks back to their short-lived road trip, to a comment about paying to see a Vegas boy try and make it in the South. ”Why Blackwater?” Really, why. Logan wonders if it’s a werewolf thing, one of those birds of a feather must flock together deals.
There's actually a list of werewolf-related things Logan wants to ask but some of the items are embarrassing and, well, some things are better left to the imagination.
Nate said:
Nathan wants whatever Logan can give him. He might not be the most traditionally romantic man – but then again, they are not the most traditional pair – but the thought of spending a quiet evening alone, or out on some sort of cliché date is enough to make his chest feel warm, to bring a relaxed happiness to his expression. Listing to the hunter harp on his old home makes him wistful; makes him wish he’d ever had something like that to feel nostalgic towards.
”I’d like to go.” His eyes pick up. ”To Alaska, I mean. Or anywhere. Aside from getting out to Blackwater, I’ve never really traveled.” The list of places he’s ever visited is astoundingly small, and most of it is dotted all over the Southwest, towns and cities and tourist traps that took him the better part of four months to get through. He can’t so much as imagine the scope of a glacier; the aurora outside of pictures, at that seems like a shame.
Or maybe he’s just getting older, more sentimental, more transient.
“I’m a gregarious creature, Logan,” he replies with a joking tone, smiling. ”Or at least, my wolf is.” Discussing the whole werewolf thing is a surprisingly easy topic for Nathan, despite their differences; Logan makes him want to be anything but private, and he craves some sort of understanding. He pauses, cautious of phrasing, before continuing on. ”What you hunt,” and there, he’s said it – brought it all to light, ”it’s probably loners. They don’t want packs, or packs don’t want them, and either way something’s off. Wolves are like people, we want to be around our own kind, and when we’re not…” He trails off, makes a “crazy” gesture at his temple. ”I think it makes you lose a little bit of your humanity.” His wolf shifts in agitation, remembering those long months ostracized, the days spent on the road and lonely. It knows.
”There’s always exceptions, but a pack is grounding. There’s structure, leadership, someone to keep a handle on things. It’s why twenty wolves can live together in a small town and you’ll never hear a thing.” It’s how Blackwater functions, pinned under the ball of Billy’s thumb.
”When I hit Tennessee, it was right place, right time. That pack sense… it’s not something I can deny. And it turned out not to be such a bad place to end up.”
The reflection on his journey gives him pause; how far he managed to fall and rise in a year and a half, how lucky he’s somehow been. The truck jostles over a pothole and Nate’s hand grabs for the door handle reflexively, but his fingers remain long after the turbulence is gone, as if seeking for some permanence, some small shred of reality, to keep with him.
Logan. said:
”Who knows, maybe one day I’ll take you.” Logan has his reasons for avoiding his home state, but he aims to return. Ben knows more about his older brother than Logan might think and his mother, bless her heart, would just be glad he’s found someone again. It’s an interesting thought, really, to subject Nathan to the Duvall clan. They’re a traditional family, nothing too embarrassing except for Ben, who, as far as Logan is concerned, is weird as all get out.
No one needs to wear rainbow suspenders, no one.
Nathan explains Blackwater and werewolves, and Logan nods his assent. Rogue werewolves, the ones he hunts, are nothing more than criminals with the ability to change into an animal. They are the outliers, the Ted Bundy’s of the supernatural world. ”Loneliness can warp the mind.” There are demonstrations every day. Men who turn into murderers. Men who blame society for not accepting them. He gets it.
”Blackwater is a good place with good people. You could’ve done much worse.” Logan is not sure how many people he’s met in town are werewolves, but they’ve all been accommodating – mostly. There was the incident on the bridge but every town has its weirdos.
The truck rolls on and the signs start to read “Nickjack Lake.” Logan pulls into the lot near the pier and slips out. He gathers the tackle box and fishing poles from the back of the truck and hold them out to Nathan. ”Help a man out and carry these. I have to get the cooler.” Ice and foodstuffs shift inside the box when he lifts it out of the truck bed. Logan grins and motions with a jerk of his head. ”This way, Vegas, your maritime adventure awaits.”
He leads Nathan onto the dock and tells the man to sit tight and pretty while he talks to the Dockmaster and gets things squared away. Five minutes later, Logan returns. He bends down and picks up the cooler and the pair continue down the dock until Logan finds the number the Dockmaster indicated.
”There she is.” He declares. It’s a sizeable sport boat with plenty of room. ”Admit it, you’re impressed by the heft and size of my boat.” Logan flashes a grin as he steps inside. He places the cooler in the back, secure, before moving closer to the dock. He gestures to Nathan to hand him the poles and tackle box, and sets those into the boat as well. Then he steps up, one foot on the side of the boat, the other on the wood of the marina.
”Now, since this is your first time, we’re going to do things right.” Such a grave, serious voice. ”You gotta ask a man for permission before you board his vessel.” Never mind the fact that the boat is a rental – that doesn’t matter. Logan’s stern expression falters under a crooked smile. ”And I’d like for you to call me ‘Captain,’ when you do your asking.”
Nate said:
Nathan hadn’t meant to so overtly imply that he’d like to take the trip together, though his heart flutters at the possibility and thought of it all – and so he is left with an enduring smile at Logan’s response, however non-committal. It is a suggestion towards something longer-term, towards the remote possibility, and that hint of fidelity is all Nate needs.
He can only nod in agreement as the conversation ebbs on, trickles to a slow drop. Blackwater was something he never expected to find, a sheer testament to the powers of random chance that he chose to stop there, of all places, and turn his life around. Maybe another town would have done the same, but Nate isn’t so certain. Blackwater, after all, through whatever influence it holds, had brought Logan back to him.
The miles rush by, the road signs change. Nate has no idea what a “Nickjack” is, or why you’d name a lake after it, but it sounds as likely a destination as any – and his suspicions are confirmed as Logan exists the lonely highway, truck lumbering down back roads towards the pier. They exit the cab and Nate accepts the offered load of fishing equiptment, balanced awkwardly in arms that have no idea how to hold any of it – he sorts it out with a warning look to Logan, just daring the man to help him. He has so totally got this.
The werewolf waits impatiently on the dock while the hunter does his manly… fisherman things. He expects they’re talking in a foreign language, and doesn’t think he’s missing out on much; business concluded, they march the rest of the way down the dock, where Logan hops aboard the boat like he was born on it.
”I do have to admit,” he replies smoothly, passing the requested items along, ”I did not expect a man of your stature to possess a boat of such proportions.”
Eyes take a cautious, devious glance back the way they came – as though the Dockmaster might have remained, lurking, overhearing their exchange. As if he can even pretend the presence of another human would have changed any of the things he’ll say, has said.
”I always ask permission the first time, don’t you worry,” he pauses, ”Captain.” The corners of his mouth twitch up in a smirk, and he watches the other man from beneath a heavy brow. ”Permission to come aboard?” That’s how they say it on TV, right?
Presuming his asking follows accepted maritime protocol, he’ll reach out for Logan’s hand (because one should never be too proud to demand assistance) and steps up beside him with all the grace and trepidation of a man who’s never so much as seen the ocean – a man who believes, warily and with certainty, that the boat might capsize if he so much as looks at it wrong. That the flooring seems miraculously solid underneath his feet is something of a relief, and he moves to the opposite side of the craft (vainly attempting to seem totally comfortable and absolutely normal) to take in the sight of the broad lake spread out before them.
It’s a slew of scents and sounds he has very little experience with, and Nate glances back over his shoulder with a smile, eyes grazing slowly over Logan’s form.
”I guess I can see why you’d like this.”
Logan. said:
”I’m just full of big surprises.” It is frat-boy grade innuendo but Logan can’t bring himself to care. Nathan seems to be more than willing to play along, what with his smooth replies and devious looks… and his bedroom eyes. Logan swallows, feels a flush beneath his collar, and reaches out for Nathan’s hand, distracts himself by helping the werewolf into the boat.
”Permission granted, Mister Hart.” An accidental discovery – hooded blue eyes coupled with ’Captain’ in that voice apparently does something for Logan. He files the new knowledge under a mental list labeled This Can’t Be Normal, and watches with interest as Nathan gets himself settled.
Logan moves behind the wheel, takes stock of the controls, and looks up in time to catch Nathan’s wandering eyes. His response starts with a slow smirk and he shakes his head. ”It’s bad form to imagine your Captain naked.” He deftly unties the rope securing the boat to the dock and then revs up the motors. The boat sputters and growls to life, and Logan fixes an artful gaze onto Nathan. ”And stop trying to distract me.”
The boat pulls away from the marina, slow and gentle, and Logan points it towards a set of buoys marking speed and wake zones. It is then he realizes he forgot to bring his extra jacket. Logan unzips the one he’s wearing, shrugs it off and holds it out to Nathan. ”Put this on. Believe me, you’ll need it.” His grin borders on suspicious. The vessel passes between wide set red buoys and then the motors give a ferocious roar. The boat lurches and they’re speeding forward. They cut over wakes left in the trail of other crafts, speed-generated wind whips past. It’s a rush of clean air, an exhilarating race over the water. The atmosphere runs cool, chilled by the molecules of lake water drifting in the air. Logan is grinning his satisfaction because he’s missed this, and he’s only just realized how much.
The vessel slows, the wind settles, he pulls smoothly in closer to a wood-lined shore. The depth meter reads adequately, the shade and debris in the water provide a promising fishing ground. They are far away enough that the only boats in sight are distant dots on the horizon. He cuts out the motor and presses the button to lower the anchor. ”I hope you find my vessel-handling skills adequate.” There’s that knowing smirk, that sly look, and then he’s moving to where the tackle box is stored. He sets it on a bench, pops it open and looks over the various jigs and bait.
”Hmm. What’s your favorite color? “ Because this is relevant and important, really. Logan looks to Nathan, raises an expectant brow.
Nate said:
Nate turns from the view and drags his gaze back up to Logan’s eyes, shameless and grinning. The sudden motion of the boat stops him from responding – but he’s been on a subway before, okay, he’s got this, it’s cool – and Nate shuffles to sit himself down on one of the benches with as much dignity as he can muster. He can’t help but think the hunter did it intentionally.
When it’s offered, Nathan accepts the light jacket and slips it on, sitting big and untailored about his smaller shoulders; he’s never thought of himself as much smaller than Logan, but the sleeves nearly reach his fingers. Either way, it’s wrapped up in his smell and it permeates the heady scent of the lake around them, reassuring and new all at once. The wind picks up; they speed off. Nate slips off his sunglasses from where they’re clipped on his shirt and slides them over his eyes; he watches Logan, so happy and at ease, comfortable with everything around him.
He thinks he’d be happy, living on the water.
They slow, pull off to some quiet spot near shore and Nate leans back, relaxing, arms propped up on the back of the bench. The motor sputters into silence and, for a moment, they are left with only the sound of lapping water and a vast expanse of emptiness.
”I think I will need further sampling of your skills to make an accurate assessment,” he comments in reply to Logan’s statement, stony-faced – and then breaks into a mischievous grin. Rising, Nate moves to lean over the hunter’s shoulder and stares at the box of doodads and whirligigs, wrapping his arms about Logan’s waist. He resists the urge to pick the shiniest one.
”Blue," Nate replies, offhand and mostly truthful - though the romantic thought sweeps through his brain that he's wrong, that it's the type of blue that the lake reflects in Logan's storm-grey eyes - but that's not the sort of thing he'd ever admit aloud. ”...What’re you gonna catch?” His nose and lips press into the back of Logan's shoulder, smiling there, and he tries his damndest to pay attention.
Because this is important.
Logan. said:
Nathan settles against his back and Logan turns his head, tries to catch the werewolf’s eyes.
”Well, we’re about to see if it’s your lucky color, too.” He plucks out a hook, two lead weights and a bright blue jig fashioned to look like some sort of worm. ”Bass. Largemouth and smallmouth. They got a population of crappies here, too.” Logan turns, ducks his head to catch a quick kiss against Nathan’s mouth and sets out to prepare the fishing rod. ”And no, I don’t know why they’re called ‘crappies.’ They make for good eating, if you ignore the bones.”
He makes deft work of the collection of odds and ends. Within minutes, he’s putting the finishing touches on an expert fishing knot. ”Would you believe that I was an Eagle Scout? Learned how to tie all sorts of different kinds of knots.” He uses his teeth to remove excess line and turns a decidedly devious look onto Nathan. ”Of course it wasn’t until later in life that I learned how fun they can be.”
The hunter gives his handiwork a look over, gives a satisfied nod. ”Now, casting is easy, nothing complicated about it -- here, I’ll show you.” He hands Nathan his pole and goes about fixing his own. Logan ties a green jig to his fishing rod, prepares it just as quick and easy as the first. ” You see this button?” He holds his thumb over the fishing reel to indicate what he’s talking about. ”Press it down, draw the rod back like so, “ Logan demonstrates, holding the rod behind him, over his shoulder, ” Give a flick of your wrist and let the button go.” The reel gives a whine as the fishing line whips out; the green jig sails smoothly and lands with a gentle plop into the water a distance away.
Logan places the fishing rod in the holders located against the railing – for the lazy fisherman—and turns his attention onto Nathan. He thinks about letting the werewolf give it a go on his own, but is blessed with a better idea. He settles behind the younger man , wraps his arm around him. Logan’s larger hand settles over his, negotiates the fishing pole into the correct position, and he makes a show of guiding Nate into mirroring his earlier demonstration. Smiling lips press against a jaw when the blue jig is sent flying. It lands in the water and Logan’s hands fall away – only for his arms to encircle Nathan’s waist.
”And now we wait.” One of the best parts of fishing, in Logan’s humble opinion, is the relaxing. ”Ain’t it grand?” There’s humor to his voice, like he understands how this whole thing can seem completely ridiculous and boring. That Nathan even agreed to this adventure is something of a wonder, and Logan will not take it for granted.
Nate said:
Logan anticipates Nate’s questions, and cuts him off with a kiss and an explanation that isn’t entirely satisfying. Who the hell would name any sort of eating-animals crappies. It just doesn’t make sense. He also only has a vague idea of what any sort of bass looks like (“stereotypical fish-type thing”), regardless of … mouth size.
Really. Who names these things. Fish are weird.
”I’m not sure the Scouts would appreciate your non-standard use of their most holy knot teachings,” but Nate probably would, and the impish smirk he returns makes that clear. He steps back, arms folded, and watch Logan prepare the lures with a face that makes it clear he’s not going to even attempt to understand that, but accepts the fishing pole when it’s held out to him. The werewolf holds it with an untrusting glance before looking back to Logan’s demonstration – because there is a clear possibility it’s out to get him. It’s got a goddamn hook on it, after all.
With a flick of his wrist, Logan makes this whole “fishing” thing seem so simple, so easy, and Nathan knows it is a lie. You don’t just make something fly like that without, you know, dirty sailor magic – but maybe some of it will rub off on him. Nate decides that excessive touching is probably the correct way to test that hypothesis.
”…You’re gonna have to go over that again.” And Logan does, obliges him and then some, in what Nate believes is the only way anyone should ever learn how to fish. Somehow in all that he manages to repeat what Logan has shown him, and he can’t help but grin with surprised satisfaction at his success. The werewolf places the rod into its little holder and leans back into Logan’s chest, sliding his hands over the hunter’s. A gentle breeze picks up; their little corner of the lake is quiet, unoccupied, and Nate enjoys the relative privacy. He turns slowly in Logan’s arms before nestling a smile up against the taller man’s neck.
”No offense to your sport,” he murmurs softly against skin, ”but I think I like the waiting best.”
Behind him, unnoticed, one of the lines twitches to tentative life.
Logan. said:
”Ah-huh,” Logan agrees lightly, playful. His hands settle on Nathan’s hips and he takes a surreptitious look around. No one near for miles. ”Wonder what we could do to fill the time.” He’s pretty damned good at pretending to be contemplative. ”Charades? Nah. Never was any good at that.” Fingers tap thoughtfully against Nathan’s sides. ”Ah, I know.” And then Logan kisses him and it is not a polite, chaste gesture. Not at all.
They are out in the open, on a boat, and maybe there aren’t any people around now but there’s no telling when and if someone might show up. It’s pretty damned thrilling to Logan. He’s boy-next-door smiles but he’s also someone that uses his Eagle Scout knowledge for unintended purposes. A light level of exhibitionism can’t be all too surprising. Logan does crazy things to remind himself he’s still alive – like biting into Arizonan peppers and groping attractive younger men out on the water.
It’s a way of life.
His fingers are down the back of Nathan’s pants when Logan finally notices the twitching end of the fishing pole. ”Damn.” He probably doesn’t sound as excited as he should. Actually, he sounds downright annoyed. The rod continues to tremble and he knows that there’s a fish down there testing the bait.
Logan doesn’t budge, keeps his hands right where they are. ”How keen are you on catching your first fish?” The hunter stares at the fishing pole and wills it to stop moving. Goddamned fish doing annoying things like taking the bait during a fishing trip. Couldn’t the damn thing have waited until Logan was done being a degenerate.
Nate said:
Nate decides he likes fishing.
He waits with feigned impatience as Logan teases, bottom lip stuck out. Then that mouth his closing around his and his heart is beating fast and it’s all he can do to keep from smirking at the same time, thoroughly enjoying himself. An exhilarating buzz settles in, entirely unclean and absolutely hungry.
Wandering fingers are toying idly with the buckle on Logan’s belt when the other man freezes, cursing, and Nate cranes his neck to glance back over his shoulder at the unwelcome interruption. They remain as they are, lingering, and Nathan finds himself pleasantly surprised at Logan’s lack of desire to return to the trip’s intended purpose. It means he’s doing something right.
”Not enough,” he admits in response, but doesn’t turn back. ”Uh, I mean – …there’ll be more, right?” Because this is particularly distracting and clearly the better part of the whole hobby anyway – but it is also a fishing trip. And Nate can’t help but be a little excited over the fact that there is a fish on the line, and he will do some manly things to catch it and eat it and be rugged and impressive.
An idea clicks, and the werewolf tosses the hunter a devious smirk.
”Here – come help me.” He tugs Logan with him as he turns towards the rods, using one hand to grab Logan’s wrist and slide his groping palm back to his hip, holding him there as they walk. He settles the man’s opposite hand on the front of his belt, and releases them to do as they please. ”Just stay there. I got this.” With Logan now comfortably collected against his back, arms around him, Nate tentatively collects his fishing pole and sets his jaw, determined.
”…And, uh, just tell me what to do.” Thinking on it, he probably should have reversed this situation, because he’s really not sure he can land his first fish and ignore Logan all at the same time – but it doesn’t hurt to try.
Logan. said:
Nathan pulls him towards the poles and Logan obliges—as much as the degenerate in him wants to refuse. He laughs against Nathan’s neck, thinks this hippy of his is all kinds of crazy, but also all kinds of wonderful. Both hands settle on his hips, hold him tight. A tongue runs over Nathan’s neck, followed by Logan’s mouth, by the brush of his beard. ”Wait for the fish to give a good tug, then yank back – not too hard.” Some fish have delicate mouths; a man can rip a hook right through if he’s not careful.
Once it’s clear the fish is hooked, Logan pulls away from where he’s been worrying Nathan’s neck. ”Keep the tension, start to reel in the line.” He rests his chin on a shoulder and resigns himself to using this trip as intended because the fish is holding fast and so is Nathan. ”That’s it, keep it up.” The fish – a large mouthed bass – breaks the surface. ”There’s the bastard.” It’s big, big enough to require a net and as he silently declares the bass as his mortal enemy, Logan disengages himself from Nathan.
”Try to get him closer to the boat.” Logan leans over the edge with the net, submerges it beneath the fish and pulls up. The bass gives a hopeless struggle. He brings the net – and the fish—into the boat and grabs the thing behind its gills. He uses his free hand to grab a pair of pliers from the tackle box and sticks it down the bass’ throat. Logan leans closer as he tries to dislodge the hook and jig from the fish. The moment he meets with success is the moment the bass gives one last heave of a struggle – and slaps its slimy end straight against Logan’s face.
It’s a comically loud wet smack.
Logan’s mouth is a tight line as he silently deposits the cock-blocking fish from hell into the live well. He closes the lid, the bass can be heard splashing about. He rubs the back of his hand over his cheek and mouth and tastes the unmistakable flavor of fish and algae. Gray eyes turn onto Nathan.
”I am going to gut and filet it alive. Then I’ll cook the bastard and you’re going to enjoy every bite.” Logan isn’t sulking because men don’t sulk. Stupid goddamned bass.
Nate said:
This might have been a better idea when Nate didn’t have any expectations of being successful – and it doesn’t help that the hunter’s directions sound markedly dirty. But he finds himself following Logan’s instructions carefully, and despite the diversion of temptation nibbling at his neck, the fish is suddenly visible and thrashing on the surface and Nate can’t help but beam in surprise. He only chances a glance away from his prize when Logan moves from him, following his motions as he grabs a net and hauls the struggling bass into the boat.
Nate feels a flash of heat as he recognizes Logan’s frustration – and he knows it’s not from the fish. He resolves that he likes making the man wait.
The remnants of a rogue smirk play on his face as he places the pole back in its handy little holder for safe keeping, and then joins Logan in … okay, well, Nate mostly just crouches down and stares curiously while Logan does all the work. He figures more hands will probably just get in the way, right? But all of Logan’s experience doesn’t stop him from taking a wet smack to the face, causing Nate to wince in sympathy – and laugh in reaction not a moment later.
”You’re not fucking kissing me with that mouth,” he adds as Logan’s expression reveals his distaste, looking too pleased for his own good. The hunter takes his frustration out on the poor helpless bass, and Nate rises back to his feet as Logan threatens his catch – their dinner.
”That’s my fish and you respect him,” he says, pointing in the general direction of where the fish is now hidden in its magic little box. There will be no living-bass-filleting on his watch. He pauses only a moment before breaking into an open-mouthed grin, and spreads his hands wide, palms facing each other. ”He was like, this fucking big.”
Nathan resists the urge to go look at it again, and instead reaches a hand out towards Logan, looking to tug him close.
”Was that fishing, or was that fishing.”
Logan. said:
”He started it.” Logan returns lamely. He accepts Nathan’s hand and grunts when he’s tugged up and close. ”Yeah, yeah. You got lucky, hot shot.” Blue is apparently Nathan’s lucky color, go figure. Logan’s aloof expression melts under the effects of a smirk. ”Good job.” He thinks about kissing Nathan but the distinct taste of the bass’ fury is still on his tongue, so Logan reconsiders. Nonetheless, his eyes narrow, he leans closer, his voice drops.
”When we get back, your ass is mine.” Logan brushes past and reels in his own line, then recasts. Now that Nathan has caught the first fish, the age old competition between two men begins. Logan is determined to catch something bigger, better. Quality over quantity. They settle, minutes pass into hours, the sun rises higher into the sky.
Logan calls for a lunch break where it is revealed that he has packed them a homemade meal of turkey sandwiches and vegetables (sliced cucumber, celery). There’s a bag of chips for Nathan, if he wants them. He shrugs off whatever comments his choice of food items elicit. When left to his own devices, Logan is a bit of a health nut.
They get a few more bites; Nathan catches another keeper, another bass. Logan manages to bring in one measly little fry of a fish after the other. He laughs it off, claims that the fish like Nathan more because he’s prettier. With two sizeable bass swimming around in the live well, Logan decides to call the day a success. He sets about getting things in order – the tackle box packed, the poles secured. The anchor reels in, the motor roars to life and they head back to the marina.
He asks Nathan to get the truck packed with the cooler and rods, and tackle box while he sets about cleaning the fish. Better to do it here at the station than back at home; spare the younger man the smell and sight of it. He slips the fish into a ziplock bag and stores it inside of the cooler, buried under the ice.
Logan slips into the driver’s seat, turns his eyes onto Nathan and says darkly, ”He struggled and screamed the whole way through.” The hunter turns the key in the ignition with a smirk and they set off back home.
The pair arrive in Blackwater a few hours later, pull into Nathan’s driveway. The men clean up, Logan deposits the fish into the freezer, aims to cook it for dinner later. He has other things on his mind, like making good on his threat involving Nathan’s ass and who it belongs to. While the younger man showers, Logan bides his time by relaxing on the living room sofa.
He ends up cock-blocking himself by falling asleep.
It’s official, the universe does not want him to tap that.
Nate said:
The day floats by, indolent and easy.
Further attempts at fishing manage to stay decidedly PG, barring Nate’s capacity for cursing like a sailor and Logan’s impossibly lewd comments. They stop for lunch, and Nate ribs Logan good-naturedly, affectionately about his little sandwiches, complains they’re not cut into triangles. He eats all the chips; keeps his beer intake down to a bottle. There’s no urge for him to drink in any way but socially when Logan’s there to keep him occupied, engaged, and the thought of another doesn’t even enter his mind.
Nate enjoys himself more than he expects (and somehow despite the curious lack of roaming hands), but good company helps. By the time the day’s worn out its welcome, he’s exhausted his energy supply and spends the last few casts just resting his chin on Logan’s shoulder, arms around him and eyes half shut. It’s a good enough ending to the whole experience. The suggestion to head out is not unwelcome, and Nate expects to pass out as soon as they get home – regardless of any ass-related promises.
They depart; Nate can’t help it, and naps for half the ride back. Four hours of sleep and a day in the sun will do that to a man, and he can’t feel too terrible about it when he wakes back up in Blackwater. Logan might even deserve it for torturing his poor fish.
He leaves the man to wait in the living room while he makes some attempt to clean himself up. A hot shower feels too unbelievably good to waste, and Nate lingers under the water for longer than he intends, figuring he probably should have just invited Logan along. A glance in the mirror upon exiting earns his opposite a glare; he thinks he’s probably sunburned, blames the fish. He changes, a clean collared shirt and jeans to make him feel like he wasn’t covered in sweat not an hour ago, and heads back down the hall barefoot.
Logan is, almost predictably, passed out on the sofa. The werewolf stalls for a few minutes, idly cleans the kitchen in an attempt to let the man sleep. He makes a few intentionally loud noises, which the hunter frustratingly defies by sleeping right through. Frowning, Nate gives up, and pads silently over to the couch; he slips down into Logan’s lap, straddling his hips.
”Hey,” he whispers, lips brushing against the older man’s ear before pulling away, leaning back. ”I think you promised me dinner.”
Logan. said:
There is nothing Logan Duvall would rather wake to than a lap full of Nathan. Gray eyes crack open, a slow, sleepy smile spreads over his features. He reaches out, buries his fingers into that dark head of hair and just sorts of sits there, looking at the younger man affectionately. It’s a quiet moment, warm and comfortable. Logan likes looking at Nathan, wouldn’t want to look at anything else if it was possible.
”Wouldn’t want to break a promise.” Logan’s bourbon voice is a touch deeper than usual. He turns his head and catches Nathan in a languid, easy kiss. It’s a bit of teeth, a bit of tongue, accented with a pleased hum. With an attractive man perched in his lap, Logan doesn’t feel much like moving. He deepens the kiss, turns it more active, more insistent and his hands slide down Nathan’s back. Just when he’s prepared to take it below the belt, Logan’s stomach gives a loud growl. The kiss is broken when Logan ducks his head with an open-mouthed grin. He chuckles sheepishly, says, ”I swear I was good at this once.”
Hands settle on Nathan’s hips and Logan sighs. ”So, dinner. I’ll get right on that.” Logan heads to the kitchen where he spends the next hour making good on his promise. It is not long before the house smells of a home cooked meal. He searches the cabinets for dinnerware and sets the table. It is then that an idea strikes him and he goes out to retrieve something from his truck. Back inside, he places an emergency candle in the middle of the table and lights it – a tongue-in-cheek nod to their discussion about romance and class.
”Your table is ready, Mister Hart.” He declares with a smirk and pulls out a chair for Nathan. Logan sets a plate in front of the werewolf, takes on a professional voice, ”Baked bass lightly seasoned with garlic and lemon, a side of wild rice and fresh cut green beans. Enjoy.” The hunter takes the seat opposite of Nathan and squares a quietly excited look onto the younger man. ”Go on, give it a try.”
He really, really hopes Nathan likes his cooking.