Post by Logan on Jun 10, 2012 3:11:32 GMT -5
There is a storm front moving out of Blackwater.
It leaves the deserted town coated in a glistening film of water, a thick fog which envelops the streets and lawns in an all-encompassing blackness – a night broken only sporadically by flickering street lights gone thin and ghostly in the gloom. Hallucinations, eerie reflections picked out of shadow and given life by roving headlamps, are but simple shepherds heralding the oncoming season, and the only company Nathaniel Hart has on his slow ride home.
The man, safe and dry behind the wheel of his car, is ill at ease with his surroundings; despite the familiarity of the trip, the storm has left him unsettled, the shifting play of light and shadow wreaking havoc on his only recently restored vision. It is an uncomfortable reminder of the dangerous fireworks that had played behind his right eye for days, illusions of color that had kept him from driving for weeks following his accident, and at any given moment he expects them to grow permanent, to stay – to plague his vision as they had for so long. To blossom into a pain that had, for the same span, become routine; that still returns in strained headaches.
It has been a month – a long, tiring month – and the small Tennessee town is still not the same. That it is December is somehow a strange and distant dream; that the last twelve months have been a sick combination of the best and worst of Nathan’s life, joy and sorrow in equal measure, is a confusion mix of memories he'd rather forget and couldn't live without. Birthdays have passed; Christmas, a new year entirely, are looming ahead and approaching too fast.
Recent events have not been kind to him; have not been kind to Blackwater or its individual denizens on the whole, and for a time, it had been too chaotic to even remember how to cope, to pause to do so. But Billy has been gone and the void of her absence has become frighteningly routine, a lasting impression of what the pack regained and lost all in the same, fatal blow. There is a piece of her that had never come home to them; a piece of her that had drowned in the river, and driven what was left to flee.
But it is not strictly the abyss she has left in her wake that has the werewolf haunted; it is the memories which that act rekindles into life, that are dredged up from the dark corners of his heart and hound him so.
For Nathan, life has been nothing but painful reminders of impermanence, of just how fleeting mortality is.
There was a time when these fears would not hurt him so; when all the werewolf had to do was pretend hard enough – believe hard enough – and maintain a calm exterior until it became the truth. Years have passed since he was able to comfortably wear that façade, but there is still an ingrained habit that dictates any painful show of emotion makes him vulnerable, even as circumstance renders such options impossible. Billy’s kidnapping; Logan’s disappearance. These are not events Nathan can simply write off as having no effect on him, and with these growing realizations comes a desperate need for permanence, for reliability and, ultimately, for open expression.
Because there are things in his life he doesn’t want to risk losing; can’t risk leaving unsaid for a mistaken belief that there is time.
The final turn towards home is welcome, and the presence of Logan’s truck in the drive is a simple pleasure Nathan never overlooks; he parks, hears the gruff voice of Lark barking even before the motion lamps flicker on. He tries to chase the dark thoughts from his head, but they remain despite the comforting atmosphere of home; linger through a hot shower, through changing out of his business clothes. He stalls in the bedroom, alone, and rummages through boxes and memories half forgotten and never unpacked, left neglected in the back of his closet. There are photo albums. There is the lockbox of the few possessions Nathan dares to consider special – the place where his pistol resided for so long, before migrating to the nightstand with its renewed relevance in his life.
When Nathan finally emerges, it is with a certain resolve.
”Logan,” he calls, a curious note that echoes through the quiet house – a magic phrase that summons the man to him in such elegant simplicity. Having the hunter as a constant fixture in his life has never gotten tired, never gotten old. When the man meets him, Nathan’s question is simple, almost bashful: ”...do you want to come for a walk?”
The storm’s blown through and the night is still wet, but the werewolf can’t stay in the house; he needs to get out, needs to be moving. Evening walks have become a routine, and he seems keen to go whether Logan is game or not; Nathan’s jacket is already on, his fists pressed deep into his pockets.
Logan could say no. He could stay home and put an end to this entire flight of fancy, and Nate will save such thoughts for another day; or he could come, and Nathan could test the extent of his wavering determination.
November passed quietly in somber deference. Logan is a year older, a year wiser, but no amount of wisdom can help him weather the change in Blackwater. The town was irrevocably disturbed the day Billy was taken from them and even after her rescue, the titanic shift remains. There is a sadness, thick and persisting in the atmosphere that threatens to swallow the wolves whole. Logan hopes that they will be strong enough to push forward but a niggling part of him has its doubts.
A panacea to absolve the pain – both emotional and physical—does not exist and so Logan does what he can by way of his own expertise and energy. He has put a call out on the hunting circuit, expressed the extent of the Corbin family’s cruelty. There are eyes and ears all over the country watching and listening because some of them –most of them—keep the creed of honor close to their hearts. The Corbin blight is not limited to werewolves alone, but to the men and women that share the title of hunter with them.
The universe is an imperfect place, this Logan knows, but he has been taught and bred to understand that while his time is limited, he should use it to bridge gaps, fill in the holes, to make that imperfection a little less imperfect. A smallest effort can mean the world but it never feels like enough. Household chores provide little distraction; the renovations are finished for the most part and projects will have to wait until the warmer, drier season arrives.
Besides, Nathan is Logan’s most important project. The werewolf has recovered well enough but Logan cannot shake the concern he carries bright and insistent into every new day. His vision has apparently restored but Logan still watches the man keenly, tries to spy any hiccups in his behavior. He will always worry. Physical recuperation is one matter and Logan finds that as December wears on, he grows increasingly concerned for Nathan’s mental state.
Pack dynamics have changed since Billy’s experience, since her broken return, since her departure. There are more responsibilities than ever bearing down onto Nathan and with the pack members in such a mental, emotional disarray, the machine cannot run smoothly. It is directing a battalion of soldiers when morale is nonexistent. A lost cause.
The storm front rolls on and Logan is drawn into a lull. Nathan is working and though Logan hates to have the man out of his supervision, he knows better than to smother the werewolf. The last thing they need is an argument born from Logan’s often overbearing concern. He is sleeping on the couch when Nathan returns and stirs only at the sound of Lark’s barking. The last few vestiges of sleep dissipate while Nathan is showering and Logan rises to make a cup of coffee. A bite of caffeine might shake the doldrums of the foggy, quiet day.
He sips idly at the black liquid, leans against the counter and stares thoughtfully out of the kitchen window. Not long ago, he would be on the road at this time, chasing the next lead, never settling for anything or anyone. Logan used to call it freedom but he has seen it for what it was, for a while now. Escape. The arrival of one person in a late chapter of the hunter’s life changed everything and this is no small, miniscule feat. Logan knows it is important, knows that they and their little family of two men and a dog is important. They have survived intact, perhaps grown stronger, in the wake of Billy’s accident but Logan worries, wonders over the road ahead. He figures the fear he harbors that something or someone will come along and upset the bond is testament to just how valuable their relationship is. Solemn thoughts for a grey, solemn evening.
The sound of his name shakes Logan from his mute reverie. He sets the cup, half empty, next to the sink and saunters out to meet Nathan. The storm may have passed but the world is still dreary, and it is hardly walking weather, but there is something in the werewolf’s voice, a certain quality that stalls Logan from making any objections. ”I’m due for some fresh air,” he says in acquiescence and retrieves his jacket from where it rests on the back of a kitchen chair.
Old boots splash in paper-thin pools gathered inside dips within the pavement. The air is cold, humid with the phantom remnants of the storm. ”Yeah, perfect weather for a walk.” There is light, careful humor in his voice as he slides gray eyes to regard Nathan curiously. There is a way about him, a murmur in his demeanor that Logan has not encountered before.
He wonders if he should be worried. He worries anyway.
It isn’t about the night; it isn’t about the darkness or the rain or even the walk itself. Nathan’s evening wanderlust is a knotted thing of unease and restlessness, an expressed need to be up and about and anything but still – a lingering reaction to days spent in bed, half-blind and hurting. This recent return to activity, no matter how moderate, is his own personal victory, and Nathan revels in it when possible; walks for the joy of it, for having missed it. That long days at work leave him with a newfound stiffness in his legs is only an added incentive; the werewolf doesn’t quite remember that ache in his back having been there before, and he struggles to combat the effects of his sedentary lifestyle with what movement he is allowed.
Tonight, though, he walks for none of these reasons. He walks for Logan beside him; he walks because it seems a more appropriate venue than home. He walks because it is the easiest way to concentrate his thoughts, to stoke the fire of his courage.
”Shut up,” he jokes mildly, playfully — and lets a worn smile slide along the corners of his lips. ”and just walk.”
Nathan leans close to the other man as they step to the sidewalk; he removes his hand from his pocket and entwines his fingers about Logan’s, presses those work-worn calluses into his skin. Shyness is not a thing that exists between them, though they have never been overt romantics outside of the home; not men prone to overwhelming public displays of affection. The contact of Logan’s palm against his is enough; is all he needs, will ever need.
But the warmth of the hunter at his side is a comforting contrast to the night’s cool breeze, the most attractive lure, and so Nathan just sidles up against him and keeps him close: a barricade against the darkness. The werewolf’s skin tingles as though the promise of electricity is still sitting heavy on the wind, and the back of his neck is marked by goosebumps; a shiver runs down his spine, and Nate isn’t sure if it’s entirely from the cold. He concentrates on the motion of his feet, on Logan’s reassuring company, and finally finds his voice.
”You surprised me, you know,” Nathan whispers, eyes focused on cracks in the pavement at their feet. It is a musing start, a promise of things to come; an invitation for sincerity, for an equal exchange. ”Sticking around. Here, Blackwater.” A beat. ”With me.” It’s not meant to be so dejected, but the werewolf’s emotions are broadcasting all wrong, wrapped up in his own thoughts and ideas that he can’t make sense of. ”When we met, I never expected you to be the sort of man who’d settle down.” Because somewhere inside the hunter is the man who had no place to call home for twenty long years, a life supposedly lived by choice, and Nathan is plagued by the notion that one day that ghost will reappear. He trusts; has endless faith in the Logan’s fidelity, in his love, but that does not make irrational fears any less real.
Nathan stumbles over his next few words, his confessions — unsure of how to continue. ”So I just wanted— I needed to let you know. What that means.” How much he understands the implications of that trust. Romeo, Nathan is not, but he tries. The werewolf stops dead in his tracks, squeezes Logan’s hand roughly and meets those familiar grey eyes, delaying the inevitable with a rough swallow.
”Damnit, I had this whole thing planned out.“ That might be an exaggeration. He knew what he wanted to do, he just hadn’t expected finding the right words to be so goddamned hard. Nathan sighs, tries to continue; fails. ”…I don’t know how this is supposed to go, I’m not any good at this.” There is a firmness in his voice, a need for Logan to understand that he’s not referring to them, to their relationship, but his handling of this situation; his inability to put thoughts into coherent sentences. To express this thing that sits vulnerable and needy inside him.
To make an admission of dependence that so often renders a term like “love” insufficient.
”I’ve lost a lot of things, Logan.” And he breaks eye contact, stares down at where their hands meet, the fist still in his pocket clenched tight. ”Important things. And I didn’t ever think – I didn’t think I’d be able to have this again.” Broken men don’t get second chances. But Logan had proved him wrong in a whirlwind so effortless it was very nearly frightening, sweeping Nathan up with unimaginable speed, and the werewolf has never once looked back.
”I don’t think I could handle losing you.”
There is a connection here, the kind that exists between friends, family, and lovers. It is a kind of magic, an indefinable, sublime bond that works without words, exists between the lines. Nathan is restless and Logan can sense it through an instinctual, empathetic response cultivated over their time together. But sensing does not mean understanding and Logan is no mind reader. He is left to wonder as they stroll into the damp Blackwater night.
A mild joke and a worn smile adds to the guessing game of what exactly is on Nathan’s mind. Logan’s insistent need to worry abates as the presumptive cloud of dread he has been collecting dissipates. All it ever takes is a smile -- one of the mysteries of Nathan that Logan never cares to solve, simply accepts and enjoys. Fingers touch across his, and they unfurl by their own volition, thread together and hold until his palm is pressed against Nathan’s like it belongs there, and maybe it does.
His eyes drop to look at their clasped hands hanging between them comfortable and warm – a physical metaphor to the connection that always exists, the thread that binds one man to the other. Logan has not drawn such a brilliant, enduring comfort from anyone or anything since his childhood. It is impossible to put into words, this feeling. Heartrending in the affecting sense, until it bleeds glowing into lazy amenity. An addiction that he has learned every way to elicit, to achieve that remarkable sense that all is right in the world. Like watching Nathan as he sleeps, focusing in on the rise and fall of his chest, his breathing. Sidling in close until he can hear, feel, the man’s pulse. Alive and well. Real.
He thinks maybe he had found the key to the universe, the one thing that matters, the one thing that makes sense even if he does not truly understand it. Can’t, really, because it defies definition. For a man of forty-four, Logan is doing alright.
The beginning of a revelation breaks the quiet, gently shakes Logan from his reverie. Retreated dread makes a slow tentative return because for all of his strengths, the hunter has a colossal vulnerability – Nathan. Insecurity rears its caustic head and Logan, for his part, is suitably confused. The one-sided conversation continues with Nathan talking and Logan trying to divine where the subject is headed. Words wind by and it sounds less and less like Nathan is about to pull the most convoluted and misdirecting breakup in Blackwater history. Logan’s heartbeat slows, he exhales, takes to watching Nathan through a furrowed brow. Lips part like he is ready to talk, to question, but he only listens.
Nathan comes to a sudden halt, Logan stops mid-step, and turns to face him. The inflection in the werewolf’s voice is not lost on him. Logan chances an encouraging, if slightly bewildered smile. ”I’ll be honest, I have no idea what’s going on – but I hope it’s good.” The smile turns lopsided, fades into a thoughtful line when the conversation turns to lost things. He remembers Vegas, remembers Julian and while those memories that do not involve him inspire a bite of jealousy, Logan has always respected those ghosts.
”Hey,” he starts, galvanized by that last troubled statement. A free hand reaches out rests against Nathan’s neck until it earns him the man’s attention, that well-loved set of blue eyes. There are a number of overtures Logan could make but he settles on something recognized and shared between them. ”I got a compass right here,” he taps two fingers directly over his tattoo and more importantly, directly over his heart. ”Remember?” The nautical star, through storm and through rough seas, always leads a sailor back home. ”And it points straight to you,” A grey wolf, newly born, traveling miles without rest chasing after its own, personal North Star. ”It always will.” His voice falls quiet but no less earnest.
A chill breeze picks up, has the tips of his ears red and aching with cold but Logan cannot feel anything but a determined need to push those shadows that speak of loss far, far away ”There’s nothing, and I mean nothing, that will ever change that.”
Nathan has never been a man prone to eloquence, to bearing his soul in flowery acts of speech; but if he is anything, he is honest, and so he relies on that simple nature to get him through. He’s likely talking too much as it is, confusing both of them in a jumbled mess of half-started phrases and broken revelations—a thought which is echoed by the furrow in Logan’s brow, the uncertainty briefly written into the lines of his face. But something gets through, some frightened and worried part of Nathan that he hadn’t meant to express so overtly; the hunter consoles him, reassures him with a hand to his heart.
It’s not what this exchange is about, but it’s what Nathan needs to move forward.
That tattoo is a reminder, a mirror to the object contained safe against Nathan’s chest, an engraved golden disk that is an ever-present weight in his breast pocket; a promise, a pledge, heavy with responsibility. With devotion. It is a lasting, profound reminder of the vices he no longer carries, a physical presence to occupy the space in which they used to lurk; a metaphor for a more intangible void that Logan himself has closed, has taken up residence in, has healed by virtue of his patience and his love. The compass is an invaluable and cherished memento that Nathan has never managed to equal – to even appropriately express his thanks for.
Nathan has spent so much time worrying about the future – what will come, what may happen – and for once, all the man wants to do is focus on the present. To remember that, with Logan beside him, right now is all he needs. He is a man sick of doubt, sick of fear, and these notions are what have lead him to this point; a combined want to live within this moment before it’s gone, and a pressing need to make this final commitment, to make some ultimate show of his dedication.
”Well, if you’re certain,” Nathan begins, with a half-hidden smile; something shy and nervous that settles about his features and is reflected in the musing quality of his voice. He shifts his weight distractedly, clears his throat. ”Maybe you’d consider settling down a little more, then.” The werewolf keeps the question from his voice; lets it sit as a suggestion between them, as casual as his fluttering heartbeat will allow.
The hand not wrapped about Logan’s withdraws from his pocket. Fingers uncoil and pull with them a small object, pressed between his thumb and the crook of his forefinger and held up to catch the light. It is a thick silver ring, and he turns it over thoughtfully in his grip – as if still contemplating the act despite the revelation; but when, at last, he extends his arm in offering – a movement to broach just the few inches that separate them – it is without hesitance. Blue eyes look upward, lock with solemn sincerity upon grey; a warning impressed there that Nathan is absolutely serious. That there will be no punchline.
The object is an old thing, tarnished about the center and marked with a worn patina, a hint at a life of use and age. It is a simple item, unremarkable if not for sentiment and circumstance, unadorned and unembellished; there is no bow, no neat ribbon to wrap the moment up in curls and lace. There is no shining gemstone and no flaunting of wealth. What remains is only a pockmarked circle of metal; tarnished, imperfect.
And that one fact alone renders it more than appropriate.
”You’re gonna have to forgive me if you’re a diamonds man. I just didn’t see it.” Nate tiptoes around the actual asking – gives Logan the leeway to accept the ring as nothing more than a gift, or let Nathan down just as gently. Logan could never feel the need to make good on this promise – to make any of this official, legal, – but his wearing that ring would be enough. ”But this runs in the Hart family, and I want you to have it.” Nathan has never considered himself a family man, and the fact that something has survived the long years between his leaving home and now is a testament to its import. Logan always challenges him for more, pushes him to make the next leap; because there is something so intensely special in their little household, their world of hunter, werewolf, and dog, that makes Nathan want what he has been missing.
He steps off the edge.
”Logan. Logan Abraham Duvall–” his heart clutches, seizes tight, and his breath is frozen in his lungs; Nathan wonders, in a flash, if he is supposed to be on one knee— ”We wouldn’t have to change a thing, if you didn’t want to – but I’d die a happy man if you’d wear this. If you’d say yes.” To a question the werewolf hasn’t even asked, but one that hangs between them, unspoken, nonetheless.
If there is one good thing that will come out of this ordeal – out of the entirety of Nathan’s life – let it be this.
A bright, beguiling grin extends over the hunter’s features because it goes without saying – of course he is certain. Logan has never before, in his long and storied history, achieved such a sense of rightness. Life before Nathan was limited to the road, sequestered to the pessimistic conclusion that his world was one where the puzzle pieces were never meant to fit together. But he was wrong. A chance meeting on a desert interstate, a second chance meeting in a small Tennessee town. The pieces started to slide together, snap into focus, reveal a picture that presented brazen ideas like hope and family – and home.
Logan Duvall may be a fool at times, but he knows a good thing when he sees it; and he will never be fool enough to let this – to let Nathan go. The grin pulling at the corners of his mouth quietly winds down as the first inkling of what might be happening prods at his mind. He has seen the movies, the television dramas – a guilty distraction when he lived from motel room to motel room – and they have afforded him a good idea of what a proposal looks like.
This looks like a proposal.
It is the sight of the ring that sells the idea and Logan feels his heart beating frantically somewhere in the neighborhood of his throat. He is struck dumb, quiet, because this entire concept is unexpected, a complete and staggering surprise. The last and only time Logan even considered tying the knot was an act born out of obligation, one that burned away under the blaze of betrayal– leaving a bitter sting.
Wide eyes slide from the ring to Nathan’s gaze, then back, then again. His face is not so much stoic as it is monumentally dumbfounded. Staying silent opens up a breeding ground for nervousness, for doubt, for those hounding ghouls that wreak havoc on the werewolf’s anxiety. Logan’s lips part, enough for a huff of air to escape from between them, but nothing else follows because his mind has stalled and is nothing more than a puttering, useless mess. He finally blinks, redirects his attention onto nervous blue eyes.
”Nathaniel Hart,” Logan says and it sounds like he is speaking through a swallow, like something is caught in his throat. ”Are you proposing to me?” All signs point to yes and there is a cartoonish, visual indication when the realization finally sinks in. The hunter perks up, looks at the man with, if possible, wider eyes. ”Jesus, Mary and Joseph. You are.” There is wonderment in the statement, in the grey of his vision. No trepidation gnaws at him, and what follows is a flood of unadulterated joy and it is that joy that propels him forward.
Logan has Nathan in a tight, bear-hug of an embrace, grinning face pressed into the man’s black hair. He laughs warmly, a sound born not from humor but a hybrid of relief, giddiness, and euphoria. And to think, not but moments ago, Logan thought Nathan might be calling an end to their relationship. Work-calloused hands hold Nathan’s face and Logan moves in to kiss him; a fierce, lasting, but innocent gesture. More for the connection, like Logan can communicate everything he is feeling through touch and with them, maybe it works.
He breaks the kiss, presses their foreheads together, strokes the werewolf’s jawline with a thumb, and remains there. A chance to think, a moment to kick start the rest of his brain into service. Logan remembers the ring, pulls back just enough to see it still clutched in Nathan’s hand. ”Give it here,” he commands, excitedly insistent. He slips the ring on, finds that it needs a little adjusting to be the perfect fit, and that somehow makes sense, somehow aligns with the motif of Nathan and Logan.
After a solid ten seconds of staring at where the ring rests against his skin, Logan turns his eyes onto Nathan. That familiar bud of affection blooms vivid and brilliant and Logan has to kiss him again, and so he does. In the fog of a cold Blackwater night, Logan holds onto Nathan. His fingers thread through black hair and on one of them, a silver ring catches the light, glints proud and freely. ”God, do I love you.” Whispered like a benediction.
The scene is perfect. It is cold outside but Logan cannot feel a hint of the chill. There is absolutely nothing that might sully the moment, the romance. Logan leans back, expression impish, dopey smile turning into a lopsided smirk. ”Does this make me the wife?” Well, maybe there are some things.
In the interim silence, all Nathan can hear is the sound of his own heart, caught thick in his throat and pounding in his ears. There is a telling pressure settling above his temple that is the first harbinger of an impending headache, a relentless reaction to his amplified pulse; the werewolf hardly notices. It is outside of him. There is only this one moment, endless: Logan; Nathan; the ring in his fingers; and the silence that stretches between them like an ocean.
Nathan worries he has been careless with this fragile thing they have created, a delicate, vulnerable love of filigree and silk; he worries that with the same sweeping stroke that could make all this last forever, he will have shattered it apart.
But the words come – slowly, finally – and they are not the denial he so fears. Nathan isn’t sure what reaction he had even expected; shock and surprise make sense, but he needs more. In his vision there had only been the presentation, the proposition – and then a gap. The unknown; a blank page he’d chanced to believe could be filled with new memories to make, experiences to share. But the moment of the hunter’s actual response had been a mystery, even to his imagination, and so the reality is made all the sweeter for having not known.
”I just might be,” he replies, the beginnings of an unstoppable smile pulling at the corners of his mouth; it’s coy, modest – hopeful. He speaks his words as though they’re an admission; a way to confirm to even himself that yes, this is happening. He is proposing; and Logan hasn’t said no, not yet. Nathan hasn’t scared the older man off with the force of his obsession, by moving along all too quickly.
That grin grows big, turns sheepish in the light of Logan’s apparent approval. ”I could get down on one knee, if you wanted, but—“
And his words are cut off in a powerful embrace, a gesture which consumes him so completely that there is no room for further thought. Nathan wraps his arms about Logan tightly, possessively, and buries his face into his shoulder; a knuckled, clenched fist keeps the ring safe, pressed against the hunter’s back. He leans into Logan’s chest, siphons off warmth and comfort and every little thing that makes him feel alive, whole, human. This is what he lives for; this is what every moment of his life has been leading towards, has culminated in. The werewolf simply breathes; takes in this feeling until Logan’s hands pull him away, draw him on.
They kiss, and that act is the most sublime declaration; the only confirmation that Nathan will ever need.
”I’ll take that as a yes,” the man whispers softly, words for Logan alone, small and hushed against the heavy night. He passes Logan the ring; watches it fit passably, aptly. Nathan thinks he’s never seen the man wear anything quite so well. ”I love you, too.” Hands now free of their burden snake about Logan’s waist, hold him close and find a hint of skin beneath his shirt. This is easy, a familiar comfort; it washes away his doubt, his fear. Between Nathan and Logan, things have always been surprisingly simple, even when at their most complex; the hunter has been a reliable constant the younger man can never forsake. A rock, a center; steadfast, dependable. When everything else in Blackwater crumbles around them, this one thing can still be right.
”Mm,” Nathan muses, rocking back on his heels, hands sliding to Logan’s hips. ”You’ll make a fine wife.” And by now Nate’s beaming, unable to contain the feeling radiating out from inside him, expressed plain on his face. ”Making me dinner. Keeping my bed warm. Sounds right up your alley.” The sight of Logan like this – with an innocent, childish set to his happiness, a pure and unadulterated joy – is something that Nathan can’t help but reflect, to flash back in smiles and soft laughter. It might be the single most rewarding experience of his life – to have put that emotion there, in the man he loves.
Nathan’s brain is already ticking, planning and imagining – there will be phone calls to make, plans to discuss. Things that can all be saved for another time, but the thought doesn’t stop Nate from dreaming. He has never wanted to be a romantic, a traditionalist, more than he does when Logan is near; he entertains wild thoughts like taking the man up north, to New York or Boston, and getting this done right.
A thunderclap, distant but ominous, breaks him from his daydream; lightning flashes against the dark sky, and signals the end of the storm’s lull, of the hope that the weather had rolled through. Nate shrugs with a laugh; tugs at the hunter’s arm gently as the first drops of rain fall around them, and nods his head back down the street.
”C’mon. I need my fiancé,” he likes the way that word feels and sounds, no matter how joking his tone – the werewolf links arms with the hunter, expression pleased, smug – ”to take me home.” To a house that is no longer Nathan’s alone; to a life permanently shared.
