Post by ♥ Nathan ♥ on Jun 10, 2012 1:11:45 GMT -5
Logan. said:
It’s 1am on a Sunday morning when he gets the call.
The shrill ring of his cell phone resounds once, twice, three times before he’s bothered enough to leave the comfort of the bed covers. Logan rolls over and grapples for the screaming device where it rests on a nightstand. He flips the phone open, winces at the flare of glowing buttons and white-bright screen. Written in bold, black script is a number he is not familiar with and more telling is what reads below; Unknown Caller. A frown creases his sleep-weary features and a thumb haphazardly hits the accept call button. The conversation happens as follows.
”Hello?” His voice, gravel-rough and coarse from sleep.
”Logan?” A responding, delicate voice, familiar yet difficult to place.
”Who is this?” The familiarity coaxes him into a more alert state. He tosses the covers aside, feet settle on the carpeted floor as he sits up.
”Anna.” In his mind’s eye --a flash of brown hair, doe-brown eyes and a freckled face. Young, childish, careless.
”Little Anna?” His niece, his brother’s eldest child. It feels like it’s been forever and that’s because it has.
”I’m not so little anymore.” Rueful, sweet, with an edge of humor. He feels a pang of affection (regret, uncertainty) pull at his heart.
Logan falls silent, awkward and reeling, incapable of navigating the static that falls between them. Anna takes mercy and does not hesitate, does not bother with small talk. Always business, those Duvalls. She explains that she called her father, Benjamin, for advice and he gave her Logan’s number. Baneberry, Tennessee was hit by a group of hunters. Anna goes on to elaborate; werewolves needlessly killed and slaughtered, and now the survivors have launched a reprisal. Maulings, murders of innocent locals. She needs help to play clean up and damage control for another family’s mistake.
”Was it the Corbins?” Logan asks and the grogginess is gone from is voice. He stands by the window and bends down one of the blinds. The hunter peers outside into a sleeping Blackwater, face stern, thoughtful. Light from streetlamps filter in, cut a horizontal stripe into the hollow of his motel room.
”I don’t think so. From what I’ve been able to gather, it’s a patchwork group of young men from different families. Nothing more than a pack of rabid, wandering, stray dogs.” A first hint of weariness enters into her tone and Logan feels for her. ”Please, Uncle Logan, I could really use your help.”
A car rumbles down the road and Logan follows it with his eyes, lips pulled into a tight line. Blackwater has its own problems. The Corbin presence has yet to dissipate and he can’t keep an eye on them if he leaves. More worryingly, he can’t keep an eye on Nate. The silence stretches between them. He thinks of a young tomboy of a girl running wild, happy and reckless down the rocky Seward shoreline. The apple of her father’s eye, the unapologetic favorite of her wayward vagabond of an Uncle. He thinks of blue eyes and hippy hair, of easy smiles and days spent in comfort and security. Either decision will leave him feeling selfish, like he’s broken a promise.
”Alright. Don’t make any moves until I get there. “ Nathan will understand and it won’t be more than a few days.
”Thank you.” The sheer, unadulterated relief in Anna’s voice settles his disquieted heart, if only a little.
The conversation ends, he flips his phone shut. Logan starts to pack his things, to load them into the back of his truck. He does not plan to leave without a word. As soon as it is a decent time, he will head to Nathan’s house and explain the situation. The hunter prepares and all the while, he works to justify his decision.
7am is as late as he is willing to linger. The sooner he sets out, the sooner he can come back. A familiar blue pickup pulls into Nathan’s driveway and Logan takes his time in exiting the vehicle, in walking up the steps to the house. A finger settles over the doorbell, presses once, and then he waits.
Nate said:
It isn’t a weekday, but that’s never stopped Nathan from working before. Business meetings wait for no man, and when a respected associate asks you to meet him at nine on a Sunday, you don’t say no.
He is in a disheveled state of half-dress when the doorbell rings unexpectedly, the white noise of running water having drowned out any sound of approach. It’s an unwelcome sound, particularly when one is in the middle of brushing one’s teeth, and it takes Nate a moment to turn off the tap and buckle his belt – all the while shouting halfhearted reassurances at the little white dog barking with furious frustration in her crate down the hall. His tie is unknotted, draped lazily about his neck, and his white shirt is tucked into black slacks on one side, only buttoned halfway; Nate somehow doubts that he’ll care about looking a mess in front of whomever is lurking at his door.
A glance outside proves him very wrong.
The sight of Logan Duvall is a subject of mixed emotions at the early hour. Though they have a history of predawn encounters, the man has always been consistent with checking Nathan’s schedule, making sure the werewolf would be available; for him to arrive unannounced, early, is telling in and of itself. An itch of worry settles somewhere deep in his gut, and he is not entirely unable to keep it from his eyes. Contrasted sharply is the simple joy that stems from seeing the hunter at all, an honest pleasure that spreads itself warmly over his features. He greets Logan with a surprised smile, and makes a pathetic effort to finish buttoning his shirt.
”...And good morning to you.” It’s a cheerful beginning, but one that he expects to fall short – he can’t quite muster the mischievous tone he’d like, can’t quite pretend those nagging fears aren’t lurking beneath the surface. Behind him, Lark growls her disapproval from the living room, but a whiff of Logan melts the puppy into a puddle of goo, all waggling tail and stomping feet.
Nate knows the feeling.
Logan. said:
The door opens, Logan looks up, and there’s Nathan standing in disheveled business attire. The hunter is pretty sure that it borders on ridiculous how easily the sight of the younger man compels him into a stupor. The smile Nathan wears doesn’t help and for a moment, Logan stands there struck silent because that smile won’t be lasting. ”Ah, hell, sorry Nate, didn’t realize you were heading to work.” He’s already apologizing – a great start.
It’s only a few days, he reminds himself. It’s not really that big of a deal but Logan is so used to goodbyes and for them to be final. Call it a phobia.
There is no point in skirting the subject and Logan has never been one to beat around the bush. ”I got a call from one of my relatives.” The nature of his family and their business give weight to his words, makes the connection that much easier to surmise. ”They need help over in Baneberry.” And Logan is going to be that help. ”I didn’t want to leave without telling you. Just didn’t seem right.” It’s then that Logan breaks eye contact, demure, because relationships have never been his thing and he’s not sure if he’s overstepping.
”I was also hoping that I could store a few of my things here. Renting out a motel room for just some of my clothes seems like a bit of a waste.” Gray eyes rise to meet Nathan’s and Logan hopes his intent is obvious. He’ll be coming back.
A hand slips into his jacket pocket and worries something inside of it. He is nervous over what Nathan might say and he can’t be sure why, but if he’s nervous, it’s indicative of the importance he places on the werewolf.
Nate said:
Nathan’s face falters; his heart catches, stutters.
Nate knows, has always known, that the day would come when Logan needed to move on. He is not a rooted thing, not a creature to be tamed to bridle, but Nathan has fooled himself into thinking he might be the exception. That Logan would not wake up one morning and know it was time to be going, and they could continue to play their game in an endlessly paused stretch of time outside of reality. The news isn’t quite so bad, but it is an unfortunate exercise in grounding Nate back in reality - in the idea that what they have is fragile, temporary.
”Yes—“ it’s a rushed sound of relief, an outlet of emotion spoken without analysis. ”Yeah. Leave your stuff here. There’s space,” and an entire guest room, in fact, which he hasn’t quite been able to muster up the courage to offer; it seems so forward. The reminder that Logan has been paying for his stay in Blackwater’s local motel is a guilty one.
”How long?” Thinking that the hunter will be gone, even if he’s planning on returning, is uncomfortable enough – but the knowledge that Logan’s going off on family business sits even less happily in his head. He doesn’t want to come across as overprotective, doesn’t want to seem the worried housewife left behind, but Nathan knows, first-hand, just how dangerous what the other man is doing can be. That he has been doing it successfully for twenty years doesn’t change that fact.
When their eyes catch, Nate wavers uncertainly, before he reaches out and snakes his arms about Logan and draws him close. There’s a vague effort to keep the touch unemotional – affectionate, but platonic – and he’s pretty sure he fails. Nate doesn’t expect Logan wants someone fawning all over him like a lost dog – not here, not now. His face presses briefly into the taller man’s shoulder, before he angles his head upwards and lets his lips lurk by Logan’s ear.
”I’m trusting you to be careful.” It isn’t what he wants to say. He’s trusting Logan with a hell of a lot more.
Logan. said:
Nathan’s arms wrap around him and Logan responds instantly. He embraces the werewolf, pulls him close and Logan doesn’t believe in a romance movie approach to life, but Nathan feels solid and warm, and kind of perfect. Logan has it bad for the younger man and he knows it, and that’s why he’s here, and that’s why he’s coming back.
”Four days at the most.” With Anna using her connections to call in more backup, Logan is hopeful, certain that the job will be cleaned up and accomplished with relative ease. ”I’ll be fine.” Don’t worry, hangs between them unsaid. Logan turns his head and catches Nathan in a kiss, lingering but chaste. A thumb runs smooth over Nathan’s cheek and Logan pulls away with a small smile.
”I’ll…just get my things.” For a while, he does not move. He stands there with his arms wrapped around Nathan like letting go has become the most foreign and difficult concept. Logan realizes he’s biding time and ducks his head, sheepish. Yeah, he has it bad.
He pulls a large hard-shell suitcase from the back of his truck and totes it inside. There’s more than clothing inside, that much is obvious by the apparent weight of it. Logan negotiates his way to the guest room, careful not to trip on Lark’s wagging, squirming body and sets the case down on the floor of the closet. He’s kneeling when he turns to finally give the pup the attention its after. White paws settle on his knee and Logan reaches out to cup the dog’s head, fingers scratching behind her ears.
”You keep your dad out of trouble, alright? It’s a very important job, one that you best take seriously.” It’s one of the ridiculous laws of the universe –according to Logan – that saying the things he wants to say is easier when telling them to an animal. He looks up and meets Nathan’s eyes, then stands.
A foot or so between them and Logan reaches out to rest his hands on the werewolf’s shoulders. ”We’ve been over this but – no going wolf. Not if you can help it. If any of the Corbin’s talk to you, keep it light, get out of there as soon as possible. Don’t stay out too late. Don’t stay out alone. Make sure your doors are locked – especially at night.” Maybe he’s being patronizing but he can’t help it. Logan is, once again, second-guessing his decision to leave. Gray eyes wander over Nathan’s features and Logan’s expression falls stern. ”You have to stay safe.”
Nate said:
Knotting his tie slowly, distractedly, Nathan watches Logan retrieve his things from the expanse of his front porch. He wills himself to relax, wrapped up in the scent of this man who has somehow consumed him so wholly, committing moments to memory – like with enough thought, he can keep all of this forever. Logan knows what he’s doing, and Nate trusts him; he wants that to be enough.
It isn’t.
Logan returns and Nate leads him inside, quiet and brooding and full of worry. Lark tumbles about his feet, barking and whining and demanding attention, and when Logan obliges her Nate can’t help but smile at his gentle affection, his soft-spoken words; he recognizes the truth in them, the guarded honesty. When their eyes meet, he can’t find the right words to reply, and they stick in his throat and choke him into silence. He lets Logan lecture him instead, face turned away.
”And I promise not to have any wild parties while you’re gone – I think I got it.” It’s brusque, but still some sort of attempt at levity. ”I work in security, Logan. I think I can lock my doors.” Nate keeps his responses from sounding irritated – a testament to his feelings for the hunter – but the implication is there. Logan’s words make him feel chastised, certainly, and self-conscious of past mistakes, but the fiercely protective edge with which they are spoken is cowing; even his wolf curls up, sedate. The monster won’t defend him – he knows just as well that Nate deserves it.
”And I’m not the one you need to be worried about. I’ve got Lark, right?” The dog pulls on Logan’s pant leg for added support – a total vicious monster. Nate brushes past those restraining hands and once again pulls Logan in close, meeting him with another curt goodbye kiss. It's less than he'd like to give, less than he feels obligated to take, but circumstances stand in the way.
”Just… come back in one piece.”
Logan. said:
”I know, I know.” Logan’s hands have settled at either side of Nathan’s face and he holds his forehead against the younger man’s. Nathan is capable. He has the pack, he has his background in security. He’ll be fine. ”And I will.” Logan has his niece, the backup she’s garnered, and his decades of experience. He’ll be fine.
They’ll be fine.
He pulls away and his hand slips into his coat pocket. Logan eyes Nathan, unsure, nearly coy. ”Listen, I’m not one for superstitions, “ Except he completely is –it’s a sailor thing, ” But I’d like you to hold onto this for me.” He outstretches his hand and reveals an ornate gold, disk-like object. The shell is decorated with intricate, winding designs, and a “D” is emblazed on top in Old English lettering. With a thumb, he pops the object open and inside is the crystal-protected face of a nautical compass – reminiscent of the one tattooed onto Logan’s chest.
”It was my grandfather’s. He gave it to me as something to keep me safe when I went out to sea. You know, a good luck charm.” Gray eyes move from the compass onto Nathan’s face and he holds it out until the younger man accepts it. There is a deeper meaning to the compass, to the design painted into Logan’s skin, and it is one that the hunter is reluctant to share. It feels like it could come off as asinine or foolish, but to Logan the symbolism is important – important enough to share. ”Nautical stars," he begins, ” Sailors get them because they ensure a safe return… they always point the way home.”
His larger hand coaxes Nathan’s fingers into curling around the compass. ”Keep it with you.”
After a last exchange with Nathan, Logan will head outside. He’ll open the door to his truck and jump inside. The engine will rumble to life and the vehicle will back out of the driveway. He’ll give one last wave if Nathan is out there to see him off and then he’ll start down the road. Gray eyes will watch the rearview mirror until the distance and winding roads cause Nathan’s house to vanish.
Logan sets out for Baneberry.
Four days.
Nate said:
There is significance in this, and it tugs at Nate’s heartstrings in ways he hadn’t thought possible. His hand reaches out slowly, carefully, accepting the antique object with all the care of handling an eggshell; despite its likely stability, he is wary of any motion that might shatter the thing, and simultaneously shatter the secret, the emotion with which he has been entrusted. It weighs heavy in his hand.
”You shouldn’t—“ but he knows, he understands, and Nate cuts himself short. ”I’ll take care of it.”
He wonders, belatedly, if he should have offered to go with him, but knows with a dreadful certainty that Logan would never have allowed it, and that he isn’t so certain he’d ever want to be there. Perhaps it’s the fact that Logan is leaving town to kill a man - that in four days, in some little backwater town somewhere, a human being will be dead by Logan’s hand. Nate isn’t sure he’d ever have been able to do the same, but it’s not his fight, and he understands. He thumbs the case of the compass thoughtfully, tracing the patterns delicately etched there, before following the hunter outside.
The truck starts; Nathan lingers by the front door, wary of the goodbye.
”Call me,” he adds, finally, voice carrying above the engine’s steady rumble – and then the man his gone.
There is a delayed moment of awful recognition, of fear: he doesn’t want this, he doesn’t need it, this luck his not his to have and Logan is the one who’ll need to find his way home – but by the time he moves to descend the steps, Logan is halfway down the road, unobtainable. The compass presses tight into the palm of his clenched hand, and he relaxes before the hidden strength in those fingers makes any regrettable mistakes, slipping the disc into his pocket.
He waits, five minutes, ten, palms down on the porch railing and fingers taut with unspoken tension, before finally making his way inside. He has meetings to attend, work to do, the dog to feed; the same litany of everyday chores that somehow seem hollow, less relevant.
Life carries on.
Logan. said:
Day One.
Logan arrives in Baneberry and meets his niece at a local diner. They make an awkward attempt at catching up; Logan is quiet, hopeful that Anna will fill the silence. She moves to business soon enough and it puts Logan at ease. They talk strategy and he muses over how much she has grown, how she’s morphed from this gangly little thing into a beautiful woman. She looks like her mother but has her father’s smile.
He can still make her smile.
Day Two.
Backup arrives in the form of the Murphy brothers, a pair of thirty-something year-old twins that while rowdy and loud, demonstrate enough knowledge and practicality for Logan to deem them an asset. The quartet of hunters set out at sunset to patrol the area and set up traps. Anna has confirmed three rogue wolves causing trouble. The night wears on uneventful until the thunder-shock of shotguns echo into the forest. Anna and Logan find the brothers safe and unscathed, high-fiving one another over two werewolf corpses.
The third remains.
Day Three.
The third day for the third wolf. Logan calls Nathan’s house, leaves a message on the machine apologizing for taking so long to check in. Been busy with all the planning – with catching up with Anna. Things are going well, should be headed home tomorrow if luck holds out.
The sun sets, the four head out. This time it’s Logan and Anna that come across the third. The animal is in the process of chewing its own leg off. It’s stuck, caught in the vicious teeth of a bear trap. Logan is the one to put it out of its misery. They head back for a well deserved rest.
Day Four.
The Murphy brothers bid them farewell. Logan decides to give the town one last sweep through. He parks his blue pickup on the side of a country road and heads into the area Anna confirmed previous activity. Out in a field, Logan finds an abandoned barn shed. Some of the wood is eaten clear through and he thinks if he was a trouble making hunter – or wolf—that’s where he’d set up shop. He investigates, finds a pair of rusty iron-barred cages. There’s a layer of dried something on the bottom of one and he figures it's blood.
In the other cage, alive and shivering, is a scraggily, small gray animal. The size of it makes Logan wonder over its age, makes him wonder if it’s a teenager. Wide brown eyes dart back and forth, unsettled. It plasters itself to the back of the cage when Logan draws closer. Logan comes to the conclusion that it’s a survivor, maybe the last, of the needless massacre. His or her family is dead and while Logan came to Baneberry to put some wolves down, he understands it, understands why they chose to kill. The grief of losing a family can bring out the animal in anyone –human and werewolf alike.
In an ill-advised action born from compassion, from Logan’s determination to be the good guy, he opens the cage. The wolf, unsure at first, eventually slinks outside, tail tucked between its legs. The animal crawls further away until the concept of freedom finally hits and then it runs, disappears into the woodwork.
Logan is packing his gun into his truck, still parked on the country road. He leans into the cab, carefully cleans his shotgun, unloads it. He doesn’t even hear it. A white-hot series of what feel like knives collide against his side and he is tackled to the ground. It is a flurry of growls and adrenaline. He reaches for the revolver harnessed to his chest but is stopped short when jaws enclose over his forearm and tear. A flash of gray fur, a flash of wide, crazed brown eyes.
It’s the same damned wolf.
In his mind, his brother’s voice – That bleeding heart of yours is going to be the death of you.
Logan thinks, Oh, hell.
The sound of a shotgun sends birds scattering into the sky. The ripping stops, a weight settles dead on his chest. The last thing Logan sees before he blacks out is the worried, terrified face of his Niece.
Day four passes into five. Five passes into six. Logan is in and out of consciousness.
Two weeks go by and he slowly recovers, slowly regains his mind from a drug-induced stupor. He is well enough for discharge; Anna holes him up into a fancy –as fancy as Baneberry can get—hotel room. They talk, well, Anna talks. Logan remains silent, refuses to so much as look at her. It is clear he is lost in his own thoughts, dealing with his own demons. When he finally says something, he says only this,
”Don’t tell Ben.”
Anna agrees and he believes her.
On Monday night of the third week, Logan falls asleep and doesn’t wake up. Anna returns to the hotel room to check in and all she finds is a disheveled bed and broken glass. The window has been busted clear through. Telltale strands of silver fur and droplets of drying blood tell her everything she needs to know.
The wolf takes to the forest, compelled by a drive it does not understand to keep moving, to keep heading in this direction. It does not stop to eat, drinks only when it is convenient. The beast does not, cannot, find rest. The drive is that strong, the instinct that acute. Salmon swimming upstream, migratory birds following the season. Blind, unfathomable devotion somehow intrinsic to their nature. To his nature. A devotion that points the way home.
Days later, early on a dark Thursday morning , the wolf arrives in Blackwater. The haggard, dehydrated, unrelenting thing drags heavy paws up an oddly familiar porch. A door bars the way, keeps the animal from its goal. It presses its head flat against the human barrier. Long black claws scratch plaintively over the wooden surface.
A stray asking to be let in.
Back home.
Nate said:
It is the second worst month of Nathan’s life.
Three days pass, long and lonely but uneventful; work keeps him occupied, and Nate is vaguely thankful that Logan left at the beginning of the week. He misses the hunter’s call and regrets it for the rest of the day, but manages to leave only one brief message in reply. He will not be overbearing; he will not be needy. Nate promised himself he’d try to believe in this little thing called “trust.”
The fourth day drags by, and a promise is broken. It is easy enough, in these early instants, to pass Logan’s tardiness off as simple delay. Nate is independent enough to play himself off as a patient man, and trusting enough to appear tolerant, but each passing hour weighs heavy upon him, and no moment passes unobserved. Subsequent sunrises turn into a week, more, and it is all the werewolf can do to keep himself from becoming unhinged.
The first claws of true panic hook themselves into his brain in the middle of the second week. It is not something he wants to feel – Nathan can’t stand having a piece of himself out of his own control – but getting a grip on this tangled web of emotion is not something he can remotely handle. He descends into familiar patterns, shattering pieces held together only though repetition and rote, little conscious effort applied to chore or task; he crumbles, takes the next week off of work. He crawls to the bar. Beneath Nate’s skin, his wolf fights tooth and nail for escape, for release – to hunt and fight and bring home its mate – but the man bottles this, too, and drowns the beast in alcohol.
In moments of lucidity, he calls Logan’s cell phone; he browses news articles on the internet, in the paper. But the number is dead and the news is silent, and the cruel, heart wrenching familiarity that haunts him dredges his soul for every unwanted memory, every half-forgotten trauma. Nate’s mind cannot wrap itself around either of the likely outcomes: that Logan has played him for a fool, or something worse has delayed him; and so it overcompensates by shutting down, tuning out.
History has taught him to always fear the worst.
It is the third week before he stops sleeping, unconsciousness grabbed in dribs and drabs and influenced by beer and sedatives more than the sun and stars. Nate is pretty sure he should call his therapist, but avoids his phone like the plague; a telling descent into a traditional problem-avoidance mechanism. Each night, awake in bed, his fingers trace worn patterns along the face of an antique compass, and he wonders where he went so wrong.
And so it is that Nathan is conscious, despite the hour, when the prodigal son returns home.
The scratching at the door rouses him from the stupor in which he stands, making an endless pot of coffee in the kitchen, bloodshot eyes watching it slowly percolate. It is dismissed offhand as a half-heard sound, the wind or trees outside, but when the noise repeats itself and Lark (already so much larger – where did the time go?) begins her raucous barking, the werewolf winds his way to the entrance and cracks the door, expecting to shoo a stray dog away.
It is not a stray.
Scents and sounds and memories wash over him, a drowning riptide of conflicting emotion, and it is a test of his strength of will not succumb to the change on the spot. Mental control turns into physical exertion, and Nate’s heart pumps blood fast and thick with adrenaline, sweat beading on his brow within moments. His nose is not as keen as his feral counterpart’s, but he knows, the beast knows, and it is tearing at his skin in a fury to comfort, console, attack, dominate – anything and everything to escape its confines.
Nathan stumbles backwards and holds up a hand between them, as though the small, flimsy gesture would stop what might possibly be an aggressive animal lurking in his doorway, as if distance would clear his head and let his tired mind process these sluggish thoughts.
Logan is a werewolf.
He can come to no other conclusion, and the finality of it is terrifying and – guiltily – exhilarating all at once, both emotions tempered by the concept that Logan is home. Careful analysis of both situation and feeling, however, has to be saved for less urgent times – the proverbial wolf at his door is, after all, a dangerous creature. Shifting would take time – time he doesn’t have – and would leave him just as vulnerable as staying firmly human should the other wolf lose himself. Instinctively, Nathan straightens, standing tall, and lets his wolf take hold of his body language.
”Logan?” It’s more of a command than a question. He has to get control – has to get the animal, the man, off his porch and the only way to do that is to figure out if Logan is stable, is hurt, is listening, and buy himself enough time to shift without repercussion.
”Logan. Look at me – are you in there?”
Logan. said:
There is a presence, the end of the vagabond’s journey, his reward, just beyond this door, this damnable human barrier that refuses to disperse. A hollow fury, hollow because his is so very tired, burns inside of his chest. So close and yet so far. The scratching grows more insistent, claws carve narrow grooves down the wooden face. There is the mechanical sound of tumbling locks, then the creak of hinges. A rush of air brings with it the strong scent of Nathan. The beast chuffs, tasting the air.
The wolf mellows; its paws settle onto the porch.
Gray eyes, familiar, swivel upward. They meet blue, hold them in that same unrelenting way. Human words mean nothing to the animal but the tone speaks to a buried part of him, coaxes and gentles. He knows that voice and he knows this man and for all that he lacks in human understanding, the wolf realizes that this man is ’home.’
Nathan stands with authority; he speaks with command. The gray beast is young, fledgling, as this is its first foray into the physical world, but instincts are innate, hardwired and it has a driving need to please this man. Ears tuck back and the large bear-like canine lowers itself onto the porch, lays there quiet and attentive.
He will not enter into the man’s home unless given permission. What he will do is lower his head onto two massive paws, look up with doleful eyes and whine.
Nate said:
This leap of emotional states is too much to handle at this time of night. Nate’s words stick in his throat, thick and muddled, and he finds himself unable to do anything more than stare down at the creature huddled pathetically at his doorstep. His fear of Logan losing control abates, washed away in a flood of concern and affection; Nate crouches, slow and deliberate, and invites the wolf into his home with a beckoning hand.
It’s not the homecoming he wanted, but it’ll do. Anything will do.
Hands reach out cautiously, carefully, drawing the beast towards him, and will find a gentle hold around the animal’s neck, fingers entangling in thick fur. Heedless of any danger, he leans in close and breathes deep, holding tight – because Nathan needs this, now, more than anything; because he can’t quite get a grasp on reality any other way. He has to know this isn’t a twisted fever dream, a delusion caused by lack of sleep and too many xanax.
”I thought you were dead,” Nate whispers, though he knows the wolf can’t understand. It doesn’t matter; it’s not the point. That shifting itch beneath his skin is stronger now, bordering on painful, and with a sigh the man gives up, gives in.
The change is swift in comparison to some, but made all the more brutal for the speed. He trusts without thinking that they grey wolf will remain, will be there when the black beast rises, breathing heavy, and seeks him out.
Logan. said:
It takes effort to rise off of the porch. Muscles protest; they are heavy with fatigue, aching from nonstop travel. Nathan is too compelling a concept to refuse and so the gray wolf hefts his respectable weight onto its four paws and slinks inside. Breaching the door frame feels like exchanging a cold and lonely world for something warm, safe, secure. Nathan draws the wolf close and the beast feels something slide into place. His gray, monotone universe sparks into color and he knows, down to an instinctual level, that this is right.
This is what he was searching for.
A muzzle presses against the man’s face, a foreleg rests heavily on a human thigh. It is as close to an embrace as an animal might get and the wolf is too weary to protest – and would likely find himself unwilling, even if he had the energy. Nathan succumbs to the call of his other half and the gray wolf, perturbed by the sound of breaking bones and morphing flesh, gives him his space.
When the black wolf rises to the physical world, he will find the gray animal toting one of Nathan’s shirts, pilfered from the laundry into the living room. He likes the smell, decides anything that has that scent belongs to him. Silver eyes meet blue, the shirt falls from opened jowls and the animal cautiously moves forward.
The scent is the same, the scent is right. There is a primal joy that strikes the wolf and a surge of energy calls him forward. A black nose presses into the side of the dark beast’s face. The gray breathes loudly, the rough huffs of a grizzly bear. He inhales and steps forward, resting his head on the standing wolf’s back. The extent of his weight bares against the side, the back of the other and the surge of energy lifts away. He has not rested for days.
Muscles give way and he collapses against the black wolf, into a drained but content lump of fur. Not the most elegant or powerful display, but there is time for that later. He pulls in as close as he might manage, determined to meld their forms together, to bask in that scent that speaks of security, acceptance, and home.
Nate said:
Somewhere in the transformation Nate loses his mind to the pain, and lets the profound otherness of his wolf’s thoughts roam free. Bones crack and warp as muscles repurpose themselves around them, skin and sinew stretching alike. There is an instant, near the end, when the black beast raises his head and finds an awful emptiness before him where he knows something should be, and that feral heart pounds as eyes search for what is his. The object of lingering memories and what instincts scream at him to find.
Clicking nails and shifting scents draw the wolf’s attention, and there is a gentle huff of recognition as blue eyes descend upon the grey’s form, and he scrambles to his feet. He allows the other male to approach, head high and tail lifted, but even his arrogance cannot stand in the face of animalistic joy; he tilts his great head to bump affectionately against the other. When that tired weight settles into his back, against his side, the beast turns to place his snout high atop the grey wolf’s shoulders, as far as he can turn to reach, and a low, content rumble sounds from deep within his chest. That bottlebrush tail shifts now and then in the silence, and together the two descend to the floor.
The beast feels no need to assert his dominance, to turn this display of feral tenderness into one of posturing; they meet as equals, or as near to it as he will allow. He rumbles and wuffs at the tired animal by his side, and the gentle pad of his nose pushes and prods, seeking out his every hurt and plying them with broad sweeps of his tongue. When he finishes, the black wolf leans his head over the grey, a paw placed softly upon his shoulder to keep him there; blue eyes seek out the door, shut but yet unlocked, and he begins his protective vigil.
They lie, tightly coiled and sharing warmth, content in their nest of shredded clothing and discarded couch pillows. To the dark wolf – who has never known this experience, who has never felt such possession – nothing has ever felt more correct.
Logan. said:
Bones splinter and break, flesh twists and tears. Wolf turns to man. The black of sleep is inescapable despite the pain. He is blanketed in an atmosphere of security, content in pursuing every last minute of rest possible. Thursday afternoon creeps in uninvited and Logan finally begins to stir.
He first becomes aware of his body, how it feels like he’s just finished running a marathon. Logan shifts in the last vestiges of sleep and groans because it is apparent that somewhere along the marathon, he must’ve been hit by a bus.
A warmth sprawled over his back keeps him pressed against the floor and he carefully turns. Sleep-bleary eyes settle onto Nathan’s sleeping face and confusion clouds Logan’s mind. In his stupor, he thinks that maybe the whole Baneberry trip was nothing more than a nightmare. He never left. No, that’s not right. Maybe he’s dead. He didn’t survive the attack and this is his own version of the afterlife. Logan swallows; his throat is sore, his body aching. No, not dead.
With an effort, he lifts onto his elbows and looks around. Nathan at one side, Lark at the other. A bed of clothing and torn pillows. The scene is too obtuse for his travel, slumber weary mind to handle. Gray eyes drop to his arm, to his side. The scars are there, reminders, evidence.
He fell asleep in Baneberry. He woke up in Blackwater.
What the hell.
Logan turns to Nathan because he is the only thing that makes sense in all of this. He reaches out, threads his fingers through the younger man’s hair. He feels like he’s missed this, this simple connection, in ways he’ll never quite understand. The dread, residual anger, and embarrassment of what happened bleed cold and hollow into his gut. His mind collects, renders sharp under the lift of fog.
He needs to say something, he feels, but Logan is reeling, uncertain. Guarded eyes wander over Nathan’s face and he manages a smile.
”Hey.” The hunter winces. It feels like he swallowed a handful of gravel and nails, his throat is that dry.”…Looks like I made it back.” There’s as much a question as a statement in his tone. The answer should be obvious but Logan is new to this and perhaps reluctant to accept the truth.
Nate said:
The wolf doesn’t want to sleep, but it has no choice; that decision has been ripped from it by his human half’s recent lifestyle and lulled into submission by the sedate form at his side. When the sun rises, he slumbers; as the morning wanes, he changes.
It is the gentle, familiar feel of Logan’s fingers against his scalp and twined through his hair that wakes Nathan at last. His back aches from its stint on the hardwood floor, joints popping with an age he isn’t used to feeling as he shifts to find the hunter’s gaze. It is, sadly, the most restful night he’s had in weeks, but Nate can still feel the drain of it all in his bones, the desperate need his body has to get back to some sort of normalcy. He sits up with a grunt, leaning forward, and rubs a palm over his face to clear his head.
The house is littered with signs of a life half lived. Now, in hindsight, Nate almost feels remarkably foolish for letting himself get carried away – for losing faith – but the light of day can do that to a proud man. He breaks their eye contact to assess the damage; the bottles that remain atop kitchen counters and windowsills, the dishes still stacked in the sink, the cigarette butts crushed in an ashtray by the window. It is a doorway into his depression and shame that he has no desire to let Logan see, a weakness that frightens him.
Fingers wrap against the back of Logan’s head, hold fast in his hair, and Nate presses a long, lingering kiss to the other man’s forehead. He rests his head against the hunter’s, just keeping him close, just remembering the sight and feel and smell of him and allows it to erase the fear of all the long weeks he’s been away. There will be more pain and confusion before all this is done, and Nate is reluctant to let the last tendrils of sleep slip away into stark consciousness.
”You’re a little late.” It’s spoken with a sad, tired smile, a weariness born of long days, sleepless nights and emotional strain. The half-grown puppy, now awake, wriggles and worms her way between them, licking chins and necks in unadulterated joy as though nothing could ever have been wrong. Nathan scratches softly behind her ears and thinks of all the things he could say, all he should say – or that he should just get up and go make a pot of coffee and resoundingly drop the topic of what the hell happened until a better point in time.
But Nathan is not that man – is trying not to be that man. Logan doesn’t deserve him running away from his problems. The questioning hesitance in the hunter’s voice, an almost foreign tone, makes up his mind for him.
”…Your wolf brought you home.” Soft, gentle. Logan likely knows, on some level, but the memories of last night – of however long he spent as his other half – are likely as distant as dreams, and Nate worries about the overt confrontation. There are a thousand and one things he wants to ask, needs to know, but it’s not the time.
Better to get it over with.
Logan. said:
His eyes slide shut and he allows himself a moment to pretend like the anxiety churning in his gut doesn’t exist. Fingers in his hair, holding, a kiss against his forehead. Logan, despite his grogginess, is that much more aware of Nathan, of his presence, of his scent. Something inside of Logan compels him to let go, to allow this comfort, this familiarity –this rightness. For a while, the human complies.
But it doesn’t last.
Lark proves to be a needed distraction, an excuse to avoid Nathan’s eyes. Logan’s hands settle on her neck, fingers scratch behind her ears, and he succumbs to a fond, if weak, smile. She looks so much bigger and there is a pang of regret there, a response to a visual indication of how long he has been gone.
Quiet words confirm a lurking suspicion and Logan doesn’t know what to do with it, this feeling. He does not know how to describe it, does not know what to name it. It sits there, in his chest, stagnant. He is lethargic, bordering on apathetic – a defense mechanism. Logan presses his mind, tries to recount anything from the time he’s been under with his wolf guiding him home. There is nothing save for a lingering bite of conviction –the determination that brought him to Nathan’s doorstep—and a mute triumph because the wolf succeeded.
His hands still on the wiggling dog, fall away. Logan is not ready for this, not now. His mind is a traitor and spits out one concern after the other. What about Anna, she’s worried sick. What about his truck, his gear, his wallet left in Baneberry. What about this, what about that. What is he going to do, when is he going to do it. A litany of possibilities, of tasks, of obligations. He refocuses, derails his thoughts from himself and targets them onto Nathan.
Logan takes a more assessing look around. There are empty bottles everywhere. The acrid smell of smoke is biting, more present than he recalls. It paints a dreary, lonely picture. A man only runs to his vices that hard, and refuses to clean the evidence of them away, when he’s hurting.
Palms press against his eyes and Logan sighs. ”Ah hell, Nate.” He could have called those days spent in the hospital, in the hotel room. He could have told Anna to call. He should have done something. He turns his head, settles rueful eyes onto the younger man. ”You probably thought I was…” Dead. A runaway with no true intention of coming back. ”I’m sorry.” He looks away, down, thoughtful.
”I should’ve called you, but with what happened--” Teeth grit. He doesn’t want to talk about it. Later. He’ll be ready later. ”I had every intention of coming back.” Spoken with conviction. Logan looks straight at Nate because Logan may be a fool, but he’s no liar. Especially when it comes to this.
”And I’m sorry if you ever doubted that.”
Nate said:
They sit, silent and hurting, words unspoken on their lips. When Logan finally musters the strength to speak again – to look about the unkempt room and change the subject – Nate can’t meet his eyes, and is thankful when the other man hangs his head. He is torn with the want to make Logan understand, to share everything with him, and the knowledge that acceptance is a slow process. That if he makes the wrong move, all of this, everything he has, could fall apart.
”I believe you – and I believed you’d come back,” but the conviction isn’t there and his voice is hushed. It’s mostly true, at least in the sense that here and now, he trusts wholly in Logan’s intent to return. His wolf proved that much. Lingering behind the statement is the confession of the ultimate truth, the one he admitted so desperately to an unhearing wolf the night before, but finds so difficult to put to words in the light of day. That Logan was dead.
His hands tense and he exhales slowly, because Logan knows, Logan should have known, should have realized just how much his disappearance would have resonated with Nate – how it was a cruel repeat of everything he’d once tried to run away from. Anger flares up in his chest, hot and quick, but he bites it down; it is selfish, irrational, and not what either of them needs.
”And you're here, aren't you?” That's what really matters. He silences further protests with another chaste kiss.
But action seems more apropeaux than sulking, and Nathan hauls himself to unsteady feet before offering Logan a hand.
”C’mon, get up. I’ll make you some breakfast.” Or lunch – whatever time of day it is. After he does the dishes…. after he finds some clothes. ”Your stuff’s where you left it – do you have any clothes in there?” Nate picks a shirt up off the floor – the one Logan discarded there the previous night – and shrugs it on, shuffling towards the kitchen. ”We can go pick up your things after we eat.” His tone is conversational, but strangely matter of fact, giving Logan little room for wiggling out of the commitments Nathan’s making for him.
Taking command comes easily, and he hopes it’s what Logan needs. The majority of wolves he’s ever met have run away in desperation following their change, and Nate doesn’t think he can survive that happening – he’ll keep him moving, keep him focused, and get him through the worst of this. He has to.
”You like bacon?” he calls back over his shoulder, tripping as he steps into a dirty pair of pants. Because who doesn’t like bacon, and that and eggs are some of the last fresh things still sitting in his fridge. He runs the tap and starts the dishes, hoping the hunter will accept, will join him.
Because he can wait – as long as it takes.
Logan. said:
White lies can grow into something ugly, can fester until they’ve surreptitiously eaten away at the foundation of a good thing, and then everything falls through. Conversely, they can be used to mend, to knit together wounds until they heal by their own volition. While Logan doesn’t hear the conviction in Nathan’s words, not enough for him to believe the trust was there, lasting, he pretends like he has. A white lie for a white lie, then.
A kiss, and Logan smiles because that is what is appropriate, here. Nathan cajoles him into moving and Logan accepts the offered hand, pulls himself to his feet. The wave of vertigo is mute at worst, and Logan swallows it down. Food will help. Hydration, too. He’ll be back firing on full cylinders soon enough. The younger man rattles off a list and Logan says nothing to the contrary. Having an itinerary is helpful, it keeps him focused, his attention trained on what can be accomplished. Logan realizes full well what Nathan is trying to achieve by taking the reins and while his machismo might bristle, he’s grateful – more than the younger man might realize.
”Yeah.” A simple, breathless, single syllable and suddenly he's agreed to everything. Logan watches a half-dressed Nathan trip his way towards the kitchen, eyes lingering on his ass because Logan is still Logan. Lark follows after Nate, turns her head and looks at Logan with those damned puppy eyes that proclaim life is wonderful, wouldn’t you agree.
He thinks, I can do this.
Duvall’s aren’t quitters and he has Nathan and this cluttered little house that he suddenly views as his. Strange, that. Logan doesn’t dwell on the possessive thought and instead surrenders himself to pushing forward. He gathers clothing, a t-shirt and a pair of jeans, from the suitcase he left and heads to the shower. Hot water works miracles on aching muscles and he stays in until the shower runs lukewarm. Dressed and looking infinitely more alive, Logan joins Nathan in the kitchen. He says nothing and reaches out, hand sliding to rest on the back of Nathan’s neck and kisses him slow, lingering.
He can do this.
”Smells good in here,” he says with a crooked smile, ignoring the dirty dishes and disarray. Bacon is, thankfully, an overpowering smell.
Logan gets himself a glass of water, downs it quickly, refills it and makes himself a plate of breakfast. He doesn’t realize how hungry he is until the first bite of bacon. It has to be a world record with how fast the food on his plate disappears. He sucks away the last vestiges of bacon grease from the pad of his thumb and turns his eyes onto Nathan.
”Baneberry is a few hours away. You sure you’re up for the drive?” Moving forward, concentrating on the itinerary. He looks around, feels a sting of distaste ( and guilt) at how many beer bottles are strewn about. ”We should clean this place up after we get back --or before we leave.” No one said that he couldn’t add his own things to the itinerary. He eyes the walls and thinks they could use a new coat of paint. The cabinets could do with replacing, too. He focuses on the things he can fix, the things he can control and thinks, again, that this is doable.
Nate said:
Nathan is good at being in control. Logan makes him give it up, makes him careless and comfortable and no longer driven to keep everything in place, but practice makes slipping into his usual role fluid and easy – at least in terms of thought, of organization. He knows what must get done and how to do it, and he understands the concerns that likely plague the other man. He can make this better, if he just tries hard enough – if he can hold himself together first.
The flow of water hiccups as Logan turns the faucet on elsewhere in the house, and that simple act is enough to set loose some of the tension hidden in his neck and shoulders, to start about relaxing frozen muscles. The dishes are mostly done by the time the hunter returns, bacon sizzling and spattering in the pan; Nate turns to glance at him, and is swept up in the gentle, silent embrace of his arms. Hands settle on Logan’s hips and lean him in close, returning that kiss with closed eyes and charged emotion.
It’s a test of will to let go, but he manages, lets Logan slip away and make himself a plate. Nate begins straightening up while the other man eats, embarrassed and discomfited at the state of his own home – a place he stopped expecting the hunter to come back to. Bottles clink into the trash, cleared from cluttered surfaces with little thought, just desperate to make a dent in the mess he’d made of his life before anything has a chance to get worse.
He slips a few leftovers to Lark, who gobbles them hungrily, and leans up against the table as Logan speaks.
”I’m good for it.” It’s true, but with slow realization, he thinks it’s maybe not the best action they can take anyway. Maybe Logan’s not up for spending a few hours of dead silence in the car with him, like they have so many times before – a tradition that may now seem uncomfortable, foreign. He suddenly doesn’t want the man driving his own truck back, by himself. Alone. ”We can go tomorrow, though. Get another night’s sleep, if you don’t mind missing your stuff.” He’s pretty sure, if he can cheer Logan up enough, he won’t miss a damn thing – but the comments regarding the state of his home slip through that fragile little shell he’d been building back up, sharp like pinpricks.
”I’m sorry,” he begins, words desperate and confused, fraught with exasperation and uncertainty. ”I can’t – I don’t… handle this well,” whatever this is. Logan up and disappearing on him. Nate tosses another bottle into the trash before giving up, leaning back against the counter with downcast eyes. ”I’m on Xanax for shit like this, Logan, I –“ he cuts off, fingers pinching the bridge of his nose. ”I don’t blame you, not an inch. But up until last night, I was pretty sure you’d been killed, and I’m not… not exactly equipped to deal with that. I'm sorry.” The last thing he wants to do is drag Logan back down, to hurt him – and so even his anxious admission that he has a problem is laced with guilt. His problems are a drop in the bucket compared to Logan’s last few weeks.
Blue eyes glance upwards through disheveled locks of black hair, desperate to seek understanding in those of his partner.
”You don’t have to help me clean up… but I’d appreciate it.” In so many more ways than one. ”If you’d stay.”
