Post by Logan on Jun 10, 2012 2:58:24 GMT -5
Devising an acceptable concept for his tattoo was a dedicated process and though it was difficult at times, Logan had his memory to fall back on. There is a section of his mind where the images of a dark, proud animal lurk. Fragmented memories born from his own beast and the clear recollection of his human brain come together to form a solid vision . Repeating the process for Nathan proved to be a feat if only because Logan had no idea what his wolf looked like. With the werewolf’s guiding input, they managed to come up with something suitable, something that reflected the design destined to be etched into the hunter’s skin.
Logan has always been a methodical man-- the trained hunter and survivalist who plans and calculates, who runs worst and best case scenarios through his mind again and again. He is thorough but he could never be declared as obsessive, that is, until he met Nathan. Since Blackwater, maybe even before on that dusty desert interstate, the nature of Logan’s existence has unequivocally changed. He has fallen into Nathan’s gravity and his world now revolves around the werewolf and the small yellow house they call home. No matter the task, no matter the errand, his thoughts naturally drift back to the one thing that really matters.
Black hair and blue eyes, a rogue’s smile and a clever voice; elements of the man that holds Logan’s heart and is, in return, faithfully held within it. The werewolf’s skin is a canvas lovingly mapped nearly every night; Logan knows the scars, the texture, knows the smell and taste. It is an addiction he sees no reason to fight and even if he did, Logan would not have the strength to do so. The thought of marking Nathan with a permanent image of his wolf, an image that claims and physically demonstrates their bond pleases Logan on a strangely innate level. He has taken to touching a specific part of the werewolf’s abdomen after sex, during it, in anticipation for what will eventually be there.
This is a commitment, an important one, and one that Logan will only defer to trusted hands. He has done his research, called in a few favors, and has managed to set up a meeting in Knoxville with the same artist that scrawled the ram on his back, and the compass over his heart. The process will take hours for each man and so Logan has arranged a two day endeavor – one for Nathan, one for himself. It is up to his werewolf partner who takes which slot; Logan, for Nathan (and in every meaning of the word), remains flexible. The days wind by with Logan increasingly insistent in the bedroom, like a man gorging on his favorite vice before reluctantly giving it up for lent. He expects a week’s worth of healing and a week’s worth of abstaining from certain activities. Logan thinks it will be worth it, hopes Nathan feels the same.
Friday morning arrives and the two men make the trip up to Knoxville. The cabin of Logan’s old Ford is filled with the warmth of relaxed, domestic chat. They talk more about Christmas and Logan proposes that sometime next week, they need to get a tree. Time moves quickly under the easy exchange of words and somewhere during, Logan reaches over and settles his hand over Nathan’s, threads their fingers together and lets them rest in the werewolf’s lap. It is a gesture followed with a grin, the flash of affectionate grey eyes.
Logan has it bad for this man, and he knows it, and he doesn’t care who else might know it, too.
The car rolls up into a lot, parks, and Logan slips out. He is sure to double-check that the doors are locked, because Logan does not trust city folk, before leading Nathan into a building aptly named Knoxville Tattoos. Inside, a man as tall as Logan and perhaps just as old, immediately approaches the pair. He’s all disarming grin, bright eyes and cheer. His arms are covered in Navajo-inspired tattoos with an eagle as a consistent theme, his dark hair cropped short, his ears pierced with understated metal. He certainly looks the part of a tattoo artist.
”Logan Duvall. Been a while --you’re looking old.” The man speaks with old familiarity, with a cheeky, youthful exuberance.
”Chris,” Logan greets, ”You’re one to talk.” There is a shared look, shared humored grins. ”This is Nate.” The hunter’s arm snakes around the werewolf’s shoulders and he stands there like he’s proud, and that’s because he is.
Chris looks between the pair and does not hesitate, he extends his arm to shake Nathan’s hand. ”Nice to meet you.” His politeness is honest, his smile sincere. There is a knowing look in his gaze and it is like he is fighting a grin. The moment dispels, he steps back and looks between the werewolves. ”So, show me this magic that only my hands can perform.” His ego is also honest and it earns a smirk from Logan, a shake of his head. The hunter passes the artist a folder with the tattoo renderings carefully tucked inside. Chris flips it open, looks over the concepts with an analytical eye. ”Child’s play.” He declares and motions the pair further inside. ”Best get started, it’s going to be a long day.” Chris throws a look over his shoulder. ”I’ll get these traced, you guys sit tight.”
Logan lingers near the tattoo chair, takes a moment to look at the art covering the walls. His eyes fall onto Nathan and he gives a lopsided smirk, a smooth raise of his brow. ”You ready to get repeatedly stabbed with a needle?” It is meant in jest but his eyes drop briefly, a thoughtful moment. ”I should probably go first. You can watch, get an idea of the process.” Logan figures Nathan isn’t scared but this is new and the werewolf, if anything, has a practical mind. Whatever makes him comfortable, that is Logan’s goal. He gives a roll of his shoulders. ”You can hold my hand so I don’t cry,” he says with a burgeoning grin that does not do his excitement credit.
Commitment – dedicating himself to a wholehearted level of trust and vulnerability – is a thing that Nathan has never taken lightly, never idly, and certainly not without reason. The decision to align himself so permanently with Logan was, at its core, an easy one, however cautiously he did the deed: his heart had known, and his brain had simply taken its sweet time catching up. Still, when the werewolf sets himself to a promise it is with a devout and open honesty, an unconditional level of obligation; he does not make pledges he cannot keep, because Nathan knows the danger in broken promises. Making an ultimate show of his dedication – proof of which is now worn and displayed in matched silver rings – had been the only logical decision, the only conceivable step he could take to express the painful longing in his heart that so dwarfs a word like love.
And it would have been enough, save for Logan’s suggestion. That timeworn band had been a satisfying mark of possession, a recognizable claim on the man – however impermanent, however subtle – but it had quieted his wolf and his need all the same. Interrupting this safe, solid peace had come the hunter’s idea of an enduring solution, an indelible mark of their relationship – of Nathan – etched on to his very person, and it had shattered every preconceived notion he’d had of tender tradition with a selfish amount of gratification. And much like that customary exchange of rings, the werewolf had made the unexpected and sudden leap to do the same: to carry Logan with him, always, painted bold upon the canvas of his skin.
On some level, Nathan expected to regret it; to at least question his abruptness, his brash conclusion, to ask for the time he always needs to mull something so permanent over before taking that ultimate step. He finds it strange, then, that as the week wears on and Friday draws near, no worm of trepidation worries its way into his gut; he is wary of snap decisions, and yet this one holds true. Perhaps it is an anxiety soothed by Logan’s wandering hands and demanding mouth, a unrelenting distraction of the most sinful sort that guides him through each endless night; but when the alarm wakes them finally and they rise, together, the only emotion the werewolf can find is a jittery, wavering excitement. There is a nervousness, yes, but one birthed by eager anticipation and not fear. In the end, the commitment has already been made, tying and bonding them together permanently – a connection made of the heart and maintained regardless of rings or ink – and so making another leap with the hunter comes easily.
Again, the werewolf finds that when it comes to Logan, his heart already knows.
The trip is an easy one, all innocent handholding, honest smiles, and old souls; the sort of comfortable drive Nathan has come to expect from Logan. He trusts the location, the man that has been chosen for this important operation solely because Logan does, and that tends to be enough. He has faith, and Logan is an honest judge of character. Still, when they arrive, that reliance is almost swiftly blown at the tall man’s casual air with the hunter – his hunter – and the wolf inside him rises.
Nathan bristles behind his smile because no one, not even in jest and no matter the nature of their association, may comment on Logan’s age – but he soldiers through all the same, shakes hands and grins and leans into the hunter’s side with a measure of cool pride. Whether it is because Chris is an old friend or they are done with hiding, Nathan doesn’t exactly care; they are here getting obvious, matching and reflecting tattoos, and he will enjoy being shown off – will flaunt their relationship in turn. In the end, he even decides he likes the man; writes off his poor judgment call as his wolf’s irrational jealousy and instinct to defend.
”No,” he replies smoothly once Chris has gone, before Logan can say anything further – can try to convince him to wait. ”No. I’d rather go first.” Any further complaints or alternate suggestions will be silenced, because mild though the werewolf may be, regarding this he is pointedly insistent. The idea of anyone setting their hands on Logan sets off an awful shifting within him, a disturbing and feral sensation that he needs to keep at bay – and fighting off lingering pain during the hunter’s session, tomorrow, seems like an easier way to keep occupied through it. A fair trade; one he has thought over well in advance. There is also the lurking knowledge that he would rather get this over with than know what’s coming, that it gives him more room to pass off weakness as inexperience if he has no comparison, no expectation to meet. ”But you can hold my hand anyway, if it makes you feel better.” Nathan’s grin is cheeky, confident, drawn from the comfort of Logan’s presence.
Chris returns, and without further hesitation there is no reason to delay; the decision is made, and sinks in with a certain finality. Following an obligatory cleaning, the application of the stencil to the contours of Nathan’s abdomen, the werewolf finds himself reclining in the chair with a lump in his throat – shirtless, jeans slung low about his hips, and with a sudden and disconcerting feeling of vulnerability. It is the most powerless position he’s put himself in for anyone other than Logan and Nate is briefly surprised at how it chafes his wolf – how it stirs at his own very human anxiety – and it is an effort to keep the emotion from his face. He wets his lips; calms his ragged nerves with a slow breath, and shoots the hunter a grin instead.
”Hey.” He nods his head in Logan’s direction, eyes alight with some private humor. ”I’ve been through worse, right?” Because Nathan’s been shot, for God’s sake. Several times, and Logan’s own name is on that list, somewhere near to the top. Nathan is no stranger to injury, physical or otherwise; it is a known and familiar enemy, accepted willingly, and it will come to an end. ”I think I can handle a little needle.” The length of time he will be laying beneath it aside.
But Nathan settles in for the long haul with a shift and a sigh, a soft release of tension in nervous muscles and taut skin in anticipation of oncoming pain. The action has him hiding a poorly timed blush, rolling his eyes away from Logan’s in his own personal joke – even as Chris presses that needle to skin with an electric whine. Because if there is one thing Nathan is well practiced at, it is preparatory relaxation – and he really hadn’t expected it to come so in handy.
Logan has learned the language of Nathan’s body. Over their time together the hunter has come to understand how to read between the lines and how to hear the things unsaid. But this understanding is not absolute and when the werewolf tenses, when the air mingling between them shifts from anything but complete comfort, Logan attributes the change to the impending endeavor involving needles and ink. This is largely why he offers to go first, but Nathan quickly pushes that idea aside. A responsible part of Logan wants to argue because, despite having discussed this, he wants Nathan to be absolutely sure before committing to the tattoo. But a different, selfish, voice coupled with the sureness of Nathan’s demand, keeps the hunter quiet. Art born from his own hand, an image as good and claiming as his name, but with a deeper meaning, will soon be etched into the werewolf’s skin. It is an exciting thought.
”If you’re sure,” Logan offers with a helpful smile and he knows that whatever trepidation the werewolf may harbor, he will follow through. Nathan is bold like that and it is one of the many traits that Logan loves but is also confounded by. Boldness can lead into trouble involving guns and killers, but it also means that Nathan is the perfect partner, willing and able to try new things, to chase adventure – no matter how close to home. Though their world is a comfortable one, it is never stagnant, and for this Logan is grateful. For Nathan, Logan is grateful. ”Jerk.” Said with affection and with a grin that matches the one Nathan wears.
The hunter’s old friend arrives with tools in tow and there is no turning back. Nathan pulls his shirt over his head with Logan watching appreciatively. He feels that familiar bloom of pride and twisted satisfaction hot and real inside of his chest because that is his-- that belongs to him. If there is one thing in the universe Logan is going to be smug about, it’s going to be over this, over Nathan. Chris catches the look in Logan’s eyes, wonders if it is even possible to be more obvious. The artist gives a crooked smile, ”Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him.” They are impish words meant to assure, to calm, but they only serve to make Logan realize that soon, Chris’s hands will be on Nathan.
And suddenly, this no longer seems like the best idea.
He is relatively new to the werewolf game but Logan, through sheer human resolve and stubbornness, has managed to wrangle his inner beast down. Its influence, at best, is usually an understated whisper at the back of his mind, hardly noticeable and easily ignored. There is one weakness, one crack in the wall and it is shaped in the perfect outline of Nathan. No one else can call Logan’s beast out of its slumber because it hungers, it desires, it cares for only one thing. His wolf-born possessiveness is momentarily derailed by Nathan’s humored words. Grey eyes fall onto the werewolf and Logan swallows, offers a lopsided smirk. ”You’re the toughest bastard I know,” Logan confirms lightly but there is hidden weight in the statement because it is true. Nathan has a history of guns and injuries, of defeated addictions, and of loss. Logan knows because he has been there for some of it, listened to stories concerning the rest. But right now, Nathan isn’t the one Logan is worried about.
A sigh reaches his ears, Logan looks down to catch Nathan’s blush, the familiar release of tension and thinks, Oh, hell, because that is one damned fine way of sending him mixed signals. He knows that tactic, that method of relaxation and it has his mind dipping into private, dangerous territory. His beast does not need that fuel. The moment Chris touches Nathan with a guiding hand and the buzzing needle, Logan feels that force he knows as his wolf bombard straight into his ribcage like an aggressive dog would a fence gate. His pulse quickens and Logan is looming over Nathan, stepping in close and watching Chris’ hands with a little too much interest, as if daring them to dip too low or turn anything but professional.
”How long is this going to take?” The question comes sternly, which is odd given the easy atmosphere in the room only minute before. Chris looks up with a sarcastic look that borders on haughty. ”Hours. Longer if I keep getting interrupted.” The artist returns his attention onto Nathan, presses needle to skin and continues the process. Logan remains there, standing, and Chris sighs. ”Christ, Logan, stop being weird and sit your ass down.” This earns a sheepish frown from the hunter but he relents, drags a stool close and sits down. The seat is tall enough to afford a good view of the growing tattoo, Nathan’s skin, and most importantly, Chris’ hands.
Though it had been a joke earlier, Logan’s fingers slide across Nathan’s palm. He second guesses the whole hand-holding deal and instead grips loosely around the werewolf’s wrist. The hunter finds Nathan’s pulse and, as always, the rhythm serves as a boon, a magic, steady beat that calms him to his core. ”You doing alright?” he asks because the constant drive of the needle can start to hurt.
”You know the best way to get a guy to stop thinking about the needle?” Chris interjects, ”You stop talking about the needle.” His tone is sarcastic but well-meaning. The man’s disposition remains calm, remains edged with a consistent, quiet humor. ”You should tell him how we met,” he says with a crooked grin and a motionless laugh because he is a professional, and he always keeps his hands steady.
The hunter grimaces. ”Ah, no, I don’t think that’s necessary.” Those were wild, embarrassing days. Logan watches the path of the needle, strokes his fingers over the inside of Nathan’s wrists and tries to rein in the massive jealousy gnawing at his insides. It’s just Chris, he reminds himself, but a stronger, more insistent voice counters with but it’s Nathan.
This isn’t so bad. It’s a scratching, irritating pain that he can’t quite ignore and that is too inconsistent to embrace, but he's right in that it’s certainly nowhere near the worst the werewolf has been through; he relaxes, accepts the fact that he'll be sitting here for the next few hours with a groan and an attempt to find impossible comfort. But when Nathan picks pack up on the thread of conversation it isn’t what he wants to hear; it’s forced, marked by a strange timbre in Logan’s voice that the werewolf can’t help but notice, can't help but react to viscerally. He jerks his head upwards, meets the hunter’s gaze with a wary intensity – and then has to break that pointed stare because Logan’s nerves spike his pulse and set his stomach roiling, his beast straining against its shackles. Meeting those wolf-struck eyes for too long would unravel him just as surely as the hunter ever could.
”Shut up,” he complains, and though his voice is light and he manages a teasing smirk, there’s a warning laced through it; the hand about Logan’s wrist tightens in reassurance utterly lost on the third wheel in the room. ”Let him work, you’ll make it worse.” Chris can pass Logan off as the worried, over-protective boyfriend, but Nathan can’t; he knows, all too well, the feeling boiling beneath the other man’s skin. Logan has always had an endless well of self-control and reserved emotion, but the werewolf regrets having let it lure him into thinking this wouldn’t be a problem, that the hunter had his wolf within hand. ”Relax. I’m good.”
Or he would be, if Chris hadn’t chosen that moment to start his work again; the werewolf tenses with a slow exhalation and eases back into the feeling, his thumb running a stressed circle out on the back of Logan’s wrist before settling. The last thing he wants right now is to fall into the beast’s trap of tight muscles and restless skin, of unquiet hands and jealous thoughts – this is meant to be a memorable experience, something shared and sacred, one Nathan doesn’t want ruined by wolves. The fact that the prickling pain in his side intensifies every time the animal stirs within him is, emotion aside, all the encouragement he would need to let it go – and so he does. Playing everything off as normal is the only step he can take, pinned as he is, to settling them both down.
”Fuck, Logan,” he curses, a swear drawn from the sudden abatement of sensation as Chris pauses to run a clean towel across a freshly-inked section of skin. ”Just tell me. I’ll trade you,” because if this is the same man who’d scrawled the compass upon Logan’s chest, he knows the general timeframe of their meeting – and thanks to Ben, Nathan is well aware of the grittier aspects of that point in Logan’s life. He can guess why the hunter might be reluctant. ”I’ll tell you something worth it, tomorrow.” The werewolf probably has something equally embarrassing – years spent as a drunk and a reckless youth tend to do that to a man – and though it would be nothing Logan would approve of, they both have their respective pasts. Knowing those days are done and gone for good is part of the storytelling charm.
So long as Logan hasn’t slept with Chris, everything will be copacetic.
The thought threatens to bring back that original, dark judgment call regarding Chris’ character, and Nathan swallows the bile in his throat back down through a dry mouth, pushes those ideas away. He doubts Logan’s sense of possession, his wolf’s wild territoriality, would allow him to place Nathan under the hands of anything remotely like competition – no matter how little interest the werewolf has. Their jealousy tends to no know bounds and will rarely bow to a thing like reason, though they work through it. They trust. They make overt displays of dedication by branding eachothers’ likenesses upon their own skin – normal, everyday acts of love and devotion.
Words, rings, tattoos. Symbols of the heart that are enough to quiet the beast.
”Just talk,” Nathan insists again, because this is going to be an endless few hours if he has to lay here in tense silence. His hand will still at the cool, familiar intrusion of Logan’s voice upon his thoughts, and he will continue to coax the man into quiet, one-sided conversation as the session wears on. In a stark contrast to other activities, the werewolf is stoic and near to silent, stress and pain expressed only in muscles that grow taut and locked over time and brief, sharp exhalations he can’t quite bite back; Logan serves well enough to keep him occupied, distracted. It’s the unrelenting continuity that gets to him, eventually; at some point, he abandons their tough charade and slides his palm forwards, entwines his fingers with Logan’s and grips tight.
Nathan lets the time slip by. His thoughts stray far and wide from the actuality of his experience; what he'll do to the other man when their week's abstinence is up, how he'll repay him for this ongoing torture – anything other than the burning ache, punctuated with pointed spikes of pain, that has made a permanent bed of his abdomen. The world backs away to his periphery, a learned and practiced response to resolutely avoid any continuous hurt, until his head is filled up only with the machine’s electric buzz and the melody of Logan's words.
There is, finally, a pause that breaks into the grinding white noise of his mind; Nathan sucks in a breath of relief and tilts his head forward with as little movement as possible, peers down at the nearly finished image now etched upon his side. Blue eyes seek out grey, the werewolf’s face lit with excitement; eager to please. ”What time is it – does it look good?” The muddled thoughts of a man who hasn’t been able to string two together in the last hour – but the latter question isn’t for him. All that matters is if Logan approves.
Possessiveness is a familiar concept, a fault in his character that Logan has carried with him long before Blackwater. The wolf compounds the natural instinct but the hunter knows he cannot blame everything on his animal. Nathan is his prize, his reward after spending two decades lost to the winding roads and sprawling interstates. He has shed that old and tired skin; he has grown into something new, fresh – into someone stronger. On some level, Logan realizes he is being ridiculous because there is nothing to fear-- he has no reason to doubt Nathan-- and yet the jealousy persists. It persists because over the months, the werewolf laying prone on the chair with someone who is not Logan touching him, has become the hunter’s everything.
He thinks he might border on obsessive but does not care, because it isn’t a problem until it becomes one.
”It’s a stupid story,” Logan replies even as the werewolf’s offer of reciprocation piques his interest. He has nothing to hide from Nathan and his reluctance is not born from the need to keep secrets, but his pride. Logan likes his current state as the grizzled old hunter, the learned and seasoned jack-of-all-trades. Even after the proposal, even with the exchange of rings and the matching tattoos solidifying their relationship, Logan still feels a persistent need to impress Nathan. Chris, however, has no such need and decides to breach the subject anyway.
” If the man wants a story-- he’s getting a story. My customer, my rules.” Whether the ego in Chris’ voice is for play or real, is difficult to discern, but the impish smile he wears is telling. ”We were in a bar in Dutch Harbor. Small, dinky little watering hole, if I recall. Lots of men inside, no women.” Chris glances up to catch the withering glare Logan levels at him. The artist is not to be deterred and diligently continues his work as he explains further. ”I said something stupid, he put his fist in my face. Knocked a few teeth clean out of my head. Good times.” He leaves it at that because he knows the piss-poor explanation will compel Logan into filling in the gaps. The hunter takes the bait and Chris smiles his victory ; he figures the conversation will help distract from the weird tension clouding the room.
”We were deckhands on competing boats,” Logan elaborates because Chris has made it sound like something it wasn’t. ”We were drunk – everyone was drunk.” Logan explains in way of defense, like he is trying to justify the actions of his nineteen year-old self. ” And Chris insulted the boat I was working on. You don’t insult a man’s goddamned boat.” His conviction is honest because Logan, at heart, is still that young, brazen sailor. Chris laughs and Logan bristles, then deflates a little because airing out his drunken escapades was not exactly on Today’s agenda. ”Anyway, we got arrested. Spent the night in the drunk tank together. Figured out we didn’t hate each other. The rest is history.” The hunter concludes lamely.
”And thus began a beautiful friendship,” Chris interjects, decides to end the story with flourish because he can. He goes on to talk about himself, tells Nate he was working the crab circuit to save up enough money to start up his own tattoo business. Logan was his first official customer. There is nothing to suggest that their relationship was born from anything but the equivalent of two kids sent to detention, where they eventually worked out their differences. The hours roll by under the steady stream of conversation. There is more talk of fishing, of Chris and Logan’s shared past. Tidbits of information here and there but nothing particularly surprising. Chris mentions a woman named Megan, a subject that Logan quickly and nimbly avoids. The needle whirs on, Logan’s fingers entwine with Nathan’s, and Chris sits there with that damnable, knowing smile.
”Two o’clock – past my lunch time,” Chris supplies helpfully, slaps his hands onto his thighs and stands up. ”I think it looks fucking awesome, but you probably don’t care what I think.” The artist speaks with his back turned to the pair while he searches the unfamiliar cabinets for supplies. ”Go ahead and check it out. There’s a mirror right over there.” He points in a random direction, which happens to be the wrong one, but the mirror is clearly visible.
The hunter shares a private smile with Nathan but says nothing regarding the tattoo. ”Come on – don’t stand up too fast.” His voice is a little hoarse, like he’s gone the entire set of hours without using it, which is clearly not the case. Logan assists the werewolf to his feet and moves with him to the large, rectangular mirror. He settles behind Nathan, face clearly visible above the man’s shoulder. One of the hunter’s hands comes to rest high on the man’s back, the other on his ink-free hip. Grey eyes rake over the image the mirror presents and through their reflections, he meets Nathan’s gaze and gives a slow, satisfied smirk. In that simple gesture, his approval is made obvious. Logan turns his head, brushes his lips against Nathan’s ear. ”It looks great.” A murmured understatement, but the hunter is having difficulty putting thoughts to words. His art, his likeness, is on Nathan’s skin and it has Logan under the effects of a bloom of ecstasy, a bite of adrenaline, a caliber of excitement wholly inappropriate for such a public venue.
He wants to touch, but he can’t, and instead remains as a hungry presence behind Nathan, the literal devil at the werewolf’s back. His wolf is still roused, fueled by ideas that revolve around the words claiming and, more succinctly, mine. Logan is forced to concentrate, to think of Ben in a goddamned bikini, because jeans will do little to disguise his growing problem.
Chris clears his throat, redirects their attention onto him. ”If you’re done ogling my handiwork, I’d like to get the goods wrapped up.” With Nathan’s permission, Chris begins to cover the tattoo in a protective layer of gauze, says it’ll ‘leak’ as it settles and heals. Logan takes a seat and surreptitiously places his clasped hands in his lap while the artist recounts the proper way to take care of a new tattoo. ”And you’re going to want to avoid certain activities for a while – you know, like contact sports.” Chris stresses the last two words, even though he does not need to, in order to get the point across – and he’s grinning all the while. ”You take care of it while it heals, and it’ll come out perfect. You fuck up, don’t hold me accountable if it looks like shit.” Spoken like a man that’s dealt with a few threatened law suits. His phone rings, and he checks its display, points at it. ”I gotta take this.”
Before Chris disappears, Logan perks up and asks, ”This place have a restroom?” The artist, still transfixed on his cell, waves towards the back. ”Down the hall on…. the left.” He steals away outside to handle his call, leaving the werewolves alone. Grey eyes seek out blue and Logan shares a meaningful look, the same one he wears whenever a potential, impromptu game sneaks up on them. The hunter slowly rises, gaze still on Nathan, until he turns and vanishes down the hall. Should the werewolf choose to follow, he will find himself carefully pressed against the restroom door. Logan’s mouth will settle over his in a hungry, demanding kiss accented with a broken sigh -- an honest, unadulterated rush of relief.
It’s an insatiable hunger that Logan has long since given up fighting. He can only hope to control it, and even then, that control is not absolute because he is hardly wanting of it.
”Was that so hard?” And his fingers slip teasingly over the inside of Logan’s wrist. Chris’ version was a purposely doctored retelling of events, dangerous in the cold atmosphere, but his position as master over the pain and ink delivered to Nathan’s side offers him some kind of immunity. Still, the air slowly clears between them, the insinuations the artist had made fading in the light of the truth. ”Yeah, he’s pretty defensive about his boats,” the werewolf offers by way of apology, smirking with the implication. ”He should know he’s got nothing to be insecure about.” Nathan laughs and catches Logan’s eyes with a devious grin, squeezes the man’s wrist tight.
The werewolf is a starving animal when it comes to Logan’s past, to the pieces of information he can pick up and store away, but there is a steady understanding between them of lines that remain uncrossed. Topics that are dropped and deftly maneuvered from do not go unnoticed, but they do remain unquestioned; Nathan is honest in his own reminder that he doesn’t need to know. Sincere worries about the ghosts of Logan’s past – about his own – belong to a stage of their courtship that they have long since left behind, and though there is always that lingering stab of hot, jealous curiosity, Nathan leaves well enough alone. He would rather commit himself to building lasting memories of the present – to getting the hunter home, preferably in bed, and reminding them both why only now matters.
Beat that, ghosts.
He allows Logan to help him to his feet once everything’s finished; tells himself it’s because he’s feeling more than a little like he’s regaining consciousness after a two-day bender, and not just an urgent need for reassuring contact. But even ridiculous amounts of alcohol consumption had never left him with a tattoo – only Logan can lay claim to that prize. Nathan leans back, meets Logan’s obvious gaze with a knowing smile, and figures the man approves even before he manages to state it. The sight of the stark ink on his own skin strikes a proud chord within him, something wild and instinctual that he hadn’t expected to slide straight to his groin; his wolf is little help, no more than a slavering, submissive thing, eager to bask in the show of ownership branded upon him. That he is possessed, and possesses in turn: an utterly indelible thing, equal and complete.
”Good,” he replies, wetting his lips. ”I like it.” Sweet, simple, because it’s an effort to keep his voice level, to keep that wavering longing from slipping out. That stare of Logan’s is certainly no help; not something he wants to continue in the middle of Chris’ shop, and the artist thankfully interrupts them. Though Nathan isn’t exactly enthusiastic at the idea of hiding away his new-found source of sexual frustration, he allows the artist to bandage him up, heeds the words of warning he impresses upon him. ”Logan’s came out alright,” he compliments with a shrug. ”I figure he’ll keep me on track. And probably kill me if I fuck it up.” Nate shoots the man in question a teasing grin, all teeth and laughing eyes.
When Logan beckons, the werewolf cannot help but fall in step behind him, the lost and hungry dog hot on his heels; he mouths a thank you to Chris as they both exit their opposite ways, grateful for the opportunity to be alone. Half a day spent in the company of others might be the most social experience forced upon him, outside of work, since their trip to Alaska. Nathan suspects Logan’s turning him into a hermit; isn’t sure he minds.
It’s with a soft grunt of surprise and satisfaction that the werewolf settles his back to the door, exhaling slow as Logan moves in, mouth greedy. Nathan submits to his kiss, relaxes in it, allows the hunter to stake the claim and validation he so suddenly needs because the werewolf does, too. Because hour upon tedious hour beneath another man’s hands has left him wanting, sullied; because the look in Logan’s eye leaves no room for indecision or doubt. Hands on the hunter’s hips hold him appropriately close, and Nathan makes do with the lack of contact by bearing down upon the man’s mouth with a sudden surge of desire, controlling and keen. Teeth linger on lips before he manages to break away; to remember that they are in a public place, if only just, though he makes no move to push Logan from him.
”I think this is the sort of thing Chris specifically advised against,” he breaks in, voice low and edged with a dark humor. Nathan is not a man prone to pious acts of denial – a man who’s police record will corroborate his willingness to bend the rules – and nothing sets him off more than Logan, more than the hunter’s hungry gaze and knowing he put it there. Still, there’s a stiffness in his body that doesn’t make this any easier, and a burning itch in his newly-marked side that feels more than a little like someone took a hot iron to him. Considering Logan’s chastity following a certain hunting accident, he trusts that the older man has a bit more self control – or at least concern for Nathan’s safety – than the werewolf himself. ”I can’t make it a week,” he admits, shifting to tug Logan’s waist against him, even as it stings, and one hand moves to palm softly at the place where the hunter’s own tattoo will rest come tomorrow. There is a tremble in those gentle fingertips.
Hell, Nate isn’t sure if he can make it until they get home. Responsibility is Logan’s job.
When the hinges of the restroom door creak, Logan tries not to wince. He steals a surreptitious glance out into the hall and is relieved to find it empty, and the building quiet. The hunter looks over his shoulder and shares a look with Nathan, the same look of two misbehaving teens chasing wayward adventure. He fights a grin, nearly loses, but manages to school his expression into something less telling, something a little more normal. Unneeded jealousy and unhealthy possessiveness aside, Logan decides the whole ordeal went rather well ,and as he walks further into the main room of the tattoo parlor he starts to think they’ll make a stealthy exit.
”And here I thought only ladies went to the restroom in pairs,” Chris’ voice stops Logan dead in his tracks. The hunter swallows and steels his nerves, then turns a raised brow onto the artist, like he has no idea what Chris might be insinuating. The man sits backwards on a chair, arms resting on the top rail. A cigarette dangles from his lips and he blows a stream of smoke out from the corner of his mouth. He rolls his shoulder in a lazy shrug like he’s ready to drop the subject. ”Was wondering if you guys wanted to go out for lunch. Got a few friends meeting up at the Outback. You’re welcome to come along.” He draws an openly assessing look from Logan to Nathan and back again.
”We’re good,” Logan replies but his voice catches and he has to clear his throat. ”Nate and I’ll grab something on the way back to Blackwater. We’ll see you tomorrow, same time?” There is rough quality to his voice, sand and grit, like he is dealing with a sore throat. Chris shifts in his chair and tilts his head back with narrowed eyes. He takes a long drag from cancer stick and releases the smoke with amusement-laced words.
”You alright there, Duvall? You’re sounding a little hoarse.” There is a knowing tone to the artist’s voice, one that has Logan flushing around the collar. The hunter shakes his head, purses his lips, and plays it off coolly. ” Must be that bug that’s going around-- we’ll see you.” Logan places a hand at Nathan’s shoulder and makes for the exit, fighting a grin, a blush, and a laugh all the damned while.
”Must be,” Chris parrots and follows the pair with his eyes. ”See you.” He turns, snuffs out his cigarette in an ash tray and shakes his head, thinks maybe Logan isn’t getting as old as he thought.
Tomorrow Nathan and Logan will return. It will be the hunter’s turn to get his tattoo, to proudly wear the image of the werewolf on something as intimate and personal as his skin. There will be easy conversation peppered with stories and questions. And inside the bathroom, on the wall, there will be a sign typed in bold, comic sans that reads ’Bathroom Etiquette 101: Keep your hands to yourself.’
It is a long, restless night, filled more with hushed whispers and laughing complaints than anything like sleep. When it comes, at least for the werewolf, it is fitful and fleeting but well worth it; a lack that is driven by the unscratchable itch gnawing its way along his hip, a reminder of the permanent brand that now sits there. Being forced to sleep on his left side for the remainder of the week is an annoyance ranked a distant second to their continued abstinence, but it certainly manages to irritate the werewolf well enough at three in the morning, when anything resembling comfort is eluding him. Eventually darkness descends; gets him through to dawn and then some, but the point comes where staring at ceiling seems like a shitty way to spend the morning, and Nate forces himself fully awake.
It’s one of those rare days where he rises before Logan, driven by insomnia, and as it’s as he sits up with a snap-crackle-pop of frozen bones and protesting limbs that Nate realizes he’s pretty sure he got hit by a goddamn truck. A day spent cramped and tense, locked into place beneath Chris’ hands, has left its toll on Nathan’s muscles in an all-encompassing soreness, joint stiff and complaining at his slow move from bed to shower. He runs the water cold, lets it sluice over the half his body he’s allowed to wet before slowly cranking it hot, working the night’s woes from his bones. It’s remarkably unsatisfying.
He dries and dresses, pops a Xanax and two aspirin. The house is still silent by the time he makes his slow way to the kitchen, save for Lark’s nails on the hardwood, and Nathan busies himself with cooking and tossing scraps to the dog. The scent of food on the air helps; coffee is even better, and the werewolf slowly starts to feel human again. He sets two plates high on the counter and turns off the stove, meandering his way back to the bedroom with a smile on his lips. Nate shuts off the alarm and climbs back into bed, straddling the hunter with an ignored objection from his bad leg, from his back. He wakes Logan slow and easy, all indolent kisses and impossibly chaste hands, and when the hunter rises to meet him he slips away with a chuckle; tosses a pair of jeans at him for good measure.
”C’mon, lazy. I made breakfast.”
Bacon, eggs, toast; small talk, and then the road.
It is an easier trip than the day previous, marked by a lack of commuter traffic on a mild Saturday morning; they arrive on time, and Nate allows Logan to lead the way with a small, smug smile playing on his lips. Because every near-miss, every success of their libidinous game can only serve to encourage him – the best sort of positive reinforcement mechanism. It’s a learned behavior that only gets worse over time, no matter his nagging conscience, and the thought of reentering this place he has laid claim to inflates him, his wolf, with some measure of pride. Outside the door, Nathan hauls Logan’s head towards him with a heavy hand on his collar, lets that smirk play near the hunter’s ear.
”Be good,” he challenges, which is as good a way as any to ensure an inevitable downward spiral – or to at least get Logan on the same page.
Inside, it is the same old scene, a repeat of yesterday with only a change in the ambient soundtrack to mark the passage of time. Chris greets them warmly – that same damnable, cocksure smirk on his face – and though there is a teasing, deliberate glint in his eye, the man says nothing regarding the previous afternoon. They stick to known tropes, to easy laughter, and when the artist inquires after Nathan’s health, the werewolf can only offer him a pleased grin – unable to hide that surge of excitement that thrums through him. If Chris had any doubts that the younger man liked his handiwork, his fears would be assuaged by that exuberant expression alone.
”This?” he replies, pointing at his own hip. ”Nah. Got no problem – not yet, at least.” And the werewolf waves a hand in gesture over his tattooed side before shrugging. ”Feel more like I fell down the goddamn stairs, though. Just stiff.” And not because of any contact sports, to his own great disappointment – though with the lingering twinge running down his spine, even Nathan can admit it’s probably for the best. For now. They settle upon matters of business, and he lets that feeling, that exhilaration stay with him because his only other option is to give into the animal that is pacing somewhere within him, that beast that represents paranoia and fear and overbearing obsession.
Because Logan is his, mated and marked, but he will not ruin the casual atmosphere with that prickling beneath his skin. His wolf submits to his practiced expression of human dominance, settles to a slow boil, and Nathan relaxes. It is easier to let things be; to finish their exchange, and know the end result is well worth it.
”You ready?” he asks as Chris sets up, though it’s perfunctory at best; this was Logan’s idea, after all, and after yesterday’s display, Nathan is fairly certain the hunter’s zeal matches his own. He lets that smirk linger anyway – that hungry look in his eyes he can only just manage to stifle when Chris returns, dulled to mere smug satisfaction. He is hopelessly obvious and, as ever, can’t find it within him to give a damn.
The night is spent in playful camaraderie like two kids returned from adventure, giddy and harboring residual excitement. Logan, though sympathetic to the itch and crawl of Nathan’s tattooed skin, eventually succumbs to slumber. Sleep proves to be the perfect area to hide from temptation, a place where Logan can touch and explore without compromising the art now etched into the werewolf’s body. He dreams and he snores, and as always, the hunter proves to be a heavy sleeper. It takes quite a bit of convincing on Nathan’s part to rouse his partner and when those grey eyes finally slide open, Logan has a slumber-heavy moment where he thinks he might still be dreaming. He smiles that smile reserved specifically for the werewolf, the upturn of lips that is simultaneously fascinated and affectionate like he still can’t fully believe that Nathan is real.
Logan could not ask for a better way to start his day.
Breakfast, a shower, getting ready to go out. Small, seemingly mundane tasks, that have come together to create this wonderful thing that Logan now calls his life. Domesticity is in Duvall blood, his younger brother is clear indication of that, but Logan still feels like he stumbled into it headfirst – he jumped without looking and there have been no regrets. Two men and a dog. Family and home. Warm, comfortable thoughts to usher in the rest of the day. He slips an old button-up shirt on, gives Lark a scratch behind her ears, promises they’ll make it up to her by taking her out to the park later, and together he and Nathan head to Knoxville.
Outside of the tattoo parlor, Logan turns a questioning look onto Nathan. A hand at his collar, pulling him in close, and heated words against the shell of his ear push his already teetering mind into dangerous territory. Nathan knows how to play his games and he knows how to play Logan – and the hunter would never think to complain. A smirk pulls onto his features, Logan raises his hand in a mock salute, ”Scout’s honor,” he says in a tone that does not, in any way, suggest dedication to innocence.
Inside, the hunter is instantly more at ease than the previous day because this is familiar territory, a place where he and Nathan have mingled and made theirs. It is a surprisingly possessive thought that Logan does not dwell on. He has become used to the odd images and suggestions born from his animal half, and they do not often enter conscious thought. They drift in his subconscious where they collect and subtly influence his thoughts and actions. And today the hunter is fortunate because Nathan will not be the one in the chair. Jealousy, on his part, should not be an issue. Logan meets the artist’s eyes, nods and grins, and they exchange their greetings. There is small talk and typical questions involving how Nathan is holding up, because despite the innuendo he delivers, Chris is a professional. The hunter is unbuttoning his shirt when Chris questions if he is prepared.
”I was born ready,” Logan replies easily, slides into the chair and the endeavor begins.
The needle buzzes to life and Logan tenses briefly. At the first touch of metal against skin, he exhales and relaxes, turns his head and meets Nathan’s eyes with a smile. The hunter is among those who finds the tattooing process relaxing, even pleasurable, and the constant drive of the needle pulls him into a heady lull. Chris mentions their scars, asks if they make a habit of getting into fights with lawn mowers. Logan deflects with the excuse of car accidents, which isn’t an outright lie because, since Blackwater, he has dealt with his fair share of totaled vehicles. Nathan and Logan know the truth, have survived it, and the hunter’s decision to place the werewolf’s likeness over his mauling scars is not one born from narcissism. It felt right and Logan does not want to second-guess this gut decision, and so he doesn’t.
”You,” He draws the word out, lets his attention wander over Nathan. ”Owe me a story.” A burgeoning grin says, without words that, yes, Logan has not forgotten and expects payment. ”Make it a good one,” he challenges with laughing eyes.
The needle leaves briefly when Chris wipes the area clean, but its bite soon returns and Logan settles in for the hours-long procedure.
Nathan stifles a lingering discomfort at Chris’ probing questions, however jokingly they are made, because Logan’s body is his – scars and all – and he admires every inch of it. It is not the tattooist’s fault that their language of unspoken words and half-made gestures is utterly foreign; that there is no way for him to even guess at the animal that lurks within each of them, or the danger that entails. And so the irrationally defensive notion is shrugged off, pushed away; Nate focuses on the fact that the artist is covering up marks left by another wolf - that long-dead creature who had dared to touch and mar something precious, something that belongs to Nathan alone - and instead, his own likeness will soon paint itself across that expanse of skin. That is worth a little bristling.
The werewolf settles on a stool near Logan's head, and dares to feel at ease.
”Story time, huh?” he mocks, eyes knowing and influenced by the weight of a half-hidden smile. ”I don’t think I have many good ones, but I guess I did promise.” His thumb runs idly over his stubbled chin, his expressing musing; Nathan drops his arm, palm up, to rest on his knee, and extends it in offering. A needless gesture, perhaps – but a necessary exchange, regardless of any comfort to be drawn from it. The werewolf won’t be out-wimped, not in this, and his fingers require Logan’s skin beneath them to stay steady; when the hunter’s wrist rests firmly in his hand, he will continue.
”There’s this club in Vegas – uh, well, kind of a honky-tonk, really, I guess.” He pauses, debating on how to go on – or maybe just to let the idea of Nathaniel Hart being anywhere near a honky-tonk sink in. ”Now, I swear there wasn’t any line-dancing when I went – but they did have this, ah, mechanical bull?” The smile on Nathan’s face is largely for himself, now, indulging in the memory; he breaks eye contact to glance at the ceiling, feeling a creeping warmth beneath his collar. ”I was really drunk at the time,” Nate admits, as though that can explain it, ”since I’m not sure I would have done it sober anyway and all, but – well, it was a shitty combination, okay.” He wets his lips, turns his head back to watch Logan with a sheepish fluster.
”I was trying to show off, but I don’t think it worked all that well, considering I fell flat on my ass in half a second. Blacked right the hell out,” he finishes with a grin, free hand tapping a finger to the side of his skull. ”Had a bruise for a week. And I will never get on one of those sons-of-bitches again.” Not unless the werewolf picks drinking back up as his favorite pastime, and all the remarkably stupid decisions that come with it – being sober, Nathan also decides to leave out the part where he’d gotten laid anyway. The whole tale is a recollection the man hadn’t thought he’d ever bring up with a smile – melancholy has a way of lingering on memory – but here and now, telling it to Logan, it has somehow faded to an unremarkable event of the past. Time and distance – the lazy fog of his hunter’s love – have built a sky-high wall around that ancient pain.
Aces High, like many of the locations he remembers in Vegas, will never again be a place Nathan feels at home, but it’s good to be able to talk about those times with a smile instead of clinging desolation.
That revelation allows Nate to relax as the conversation moves forward, to fill the idle hours with tales of the casino Elysium, of the wilds of Nevada – within the city limits and without – and his tenure as head of security there. There are the men and women he’d caught cheating at the tables or violently assaulting the slots; the couples who’d thought the elevator was their private bedroom; a whole host of embarrassing incidents caught on security camera and stored for posterity. For Nathan, in retrospect, it had been a decade of highs and lows; of the most money he’d made in his life, and of spending it before it hit his pockets. He’d lived too bright, burned out too hard. In the end, Nate regales Chris with the uninspired story of his first meeting with Logan, leaving that known world behind; even slips in the shared bed mistake for a laugh. It’s somehow easy in this atmosphere, in Chris’ quiet acceptance – even approval – to talk about them, and Nathan finds that he enjoys it.
The chatter holds them in its sway; distracts them through the hours.
”C’mon,” the werewolf finally cuts in, having drawn one conversation to a close. ”You gotta stop making me look like such a wuss. Do you even feel that?” Nate is grinning as he speaks, nodding at Logan’s tattooed side, where Chris still patiently plies his trade. The hunter is never particularly vocal with expressions of either pain or pleasure – though the werewolf takes pride in breaking tradition regarding the latter – and Nathan figures he should have expected all this casual stoicism and indifferent nonchalance. ”He’s almost done, and I don’t even get a whimper? You’re making me look bad,” though if Nathan is forced to admit it, he doesn’t think he did too poorly for himself, either.
It’s just the principle of the thing, really – and all in good fun.
