Post by Logan on Jun 10, 2012 4:12:23 GMT -5
It is a wretched sort of revolution, one made by two tired men who have grown weary of chafing restraint and constant confinement; of rules, of misguided authority broadcast under the label of wisdom. For Nathan it is the most dangerous power play, a thing that even his addled brain can process; he exits Billy’s house unsteadily, but under his own power, and does not so much as look back. It is an action fueled by adrenaline and force of will alone – because Nathan is in open rebellion and vehement dissent, and he cannot show weakness. Billy – Billy’s wolf – cannot see it, cannot be allowed to take advantage of his vulnerability. The animal could kill him for it; may yet. He relies on Logan’s support and his beast’s brazen, assured confidence to see him through.
Sixteen years, and posturing becomes instinct.
It is only when they step onto the porch and the door slams behind them that Nathan stumbles and sags; he leans up against Logan, and lets the other man assist him to the battered truck. Prayers that it still runs are met with a turning engine and the Ford rumbles to life. Nathan slumps into the corner of the seat and the door and sets to carefully peeling his overshirt from his own bloodied skin; he presses the tattered remains of the cloth to his right arm, and wraps it tight. The return journey is long and tired, made to the sound of Lark whining all the while, and it is not taken to a place called home. Somehow, in the span of one night and one action, the little yellow dwelling has turned back into a house, a place where they may exist but do not truly live; a building that no longer represents sanctuary. Emotion, pain, it is all replaced by a dull hollowness, the aftermath of endorphins long since faded.
They pull into the driveway and Nathan hesitates in the truck, as though lingering could make entering that nightmare any easier; together the two men pick their way up the porch steps, and the werewolf does not allow himself to balk. He is not a man to put stock or obvious sentimentality in material things – he has abandoned a life represented in objects and items more than once – but the sight of the broken doorway hits him with a dramatic and profound sense of loss. Behind the battered entry lies chaos, a shattered home, and with it a piece of Nathan’s own world. This was a place untouched and separate, an island from which comfort could be drawn, and now it is adulterated by blood, by corpses.
Nathan stubbornly refuses look at the stains, the bodies, as they enter the living room. Priorities are a way of life, a practiced method of management and containment that both men excel at – small, achievable goals, placing one foot after the other until the job’s done – but this goes above and beyond anything Nathan can divide and segment into controllable tasks. The processes he has learned for handling his own anxiety fall short in the face of such obvious disorder; Logan is the only panacea he has, the final failsafe, and the man shifts in close – as though proximity can alleviate this twisting inside him. The sluggish churn of his brain and the throbbing pain from the bites to his arms tell him that, logically, his own well-being should come first – but the werewolf feels sick with the thought of settling down to work with those dead eyes upon him.
His mind flickers through endless options, a mountain of responsibilities, and can place them in no order. There is no logic to what can come first because clearly, logic and rationality have left the night long behind, and what remains is only a shadow of pain and anger and cold reality. Later, Nathan will have to deal with the consequences of his actions; but for now, there is an ocean between the two men and Blackwater, wider than it ever was, and he allows it to grow.
”Just – just tell me what to do,” Nate stammers, though he starts for the kitchen – a place yet untouched, removed from the carnage. The situation is entirely outside of the man’s realm of expertise, and if he fears if he goes too long between actions his brain will start thinking, and this whole fragile veneer will crumble.
The ride back is silent save for Lark’s worried whining. Logan is still reeling from the day’s events and though the edge of adrenaline has tapered off into a listless weariness, the man remains wholly unsettled. He is no stranger to violence but this was no mere hunt. It was a siege driven by rancid hatred that he and Nathan had no part of, and yet it is clear that Nathan was targeted. Righteous anger persists under his skin as a horrible crawl of emotion, and Logan feels nothing but disdain when he thinks about Blackwater – when he thinks about the place he can no longer call home.
He should have convinced Nathan to leave Tennessee after the incident with Lucas. They could have stayed in Alaska – they could have gone anywhere and they would have avoided this colossal clash of teeth and bullets. Nathan would have been safe; he would not be nursing mauling woods. He would not be bleeding out into the car. Hindsight is the dreary theme that settles within the Ford’s cabin, and with nothing but his thoughts to occupy him, Logan winds deeper into a nest of regrets and what ifs. The hunter’s grip tightens on the steering wheel and tires continue to eat away the distance between Billy’s and the small, broken yellow house the two men used to consider safe ground.
The truck’s engine cuts out and Logan’s fingers linger on the key still stuck within the ignition. He stares forward at the porch, at the yellow paneling as if they pose a question, and as if they suggest a threat. The house stands as an obtuse entity, a thing that once contained a sense of unbreakable security that has now fallen into quiet, sullen decay. Their piece of paradise cut from wood and stone is gone, in the span of a few hours, it is gone. Logan pulls the key free and slides out of the truck, rounds to the other side and assists Nathan towards the porch. With each step, it feels more and more like returning after a natural disaster to see what might be left underneath the carnage.
Logan effectively blinds himself to the chaos inside. He nimbly avoids the bodies like a shell-shocked man wandering haphazardly through a dead battlefield. He rounds in his mind and directs it to one specific task. Nathan is injured and must be tended to. In all of this, after all of this, Logan can still hold onto the one thing that truly matters. He can hold onto it like a lifeline, an anchor to keep him grounded and from slipping into the manic chaos threatening at the edges of his mind. Nathan, though injured and equally stupefied, still serves as the hunter’s boon – the one thing that still makes sense in a world turned upside down.
”Run your arms under the sink. I’m going to find the first aid kit.” The kit in question has since grown after Nathan’s encounter with Lucas. There is enough to supply a field medic because Logan has learned the nature of Nathan’s animal – and the nature of Blackwater. But despite his experience, he could never have expected this. He returns, places a guiding hand onto Nathan’s shoulder and helps the man sit up on the counter. Logan holds his hand out and waits for the werewolf to extend one of his arms. The methodical procedure of cleaning the wounds, assessing the damage, and tending to Nathan’s injuries begins. Logan is transfixed on his task, on cleaning away the dirt and bacteria, on stitching open flesh closed. His hands start steady but by the time he is carefully wrapping Nathan’s arms, there is a minute shake in his fingers. ”This shouldn’t have happened.” Quietly at first, then repeated with adamancy. ”This shouldn’t have happened.” Logan looks up, meets Nathan’s eyes dead on.
”Nate, we have to get out of here-- we can’t stay.” They can go to Alaska. To Texas. To Mexico. For all Logan cares, they could go to Istanbul – as long as they go together. ”This place is nothing but trouble, and that’s never going to change-- I can’t.” His voice catches and Logan ducks his head because his eyes are starting to burn. Hands settle on Nathan’s thighs and the hunter draws in a shuddering breath as he attempts to weather the break in his controlled façade. ”I can’t.” A false start and when Logan next speaks, he finds the conviction to look up. ”I can’t have you doing this. Not anymore. I’m tired of you getting caught out and hurt because these goddamned idiots can’t handle their business.” Vehemence weighs his tone and the familiar anger smolders low and ferocious within his gut.
”We just gotta go. I don’t know where but we just--”with each word, he winds down, runs out of steam because the day’s events have him out of sorts and tired. ”We have to go.” There is discontent riding on his shoulders, a devil clawing at his back and its name is Blackwater.
The world condenses into individual moments and specific tasks, guided along by Logan’s authority; because though this house may feel so suddenly foreign, home is a concept more firmly bound to Logan than any material object or impermanent structure. Location is irrelevant, and Nathan takes solace in that fact, struggling to release some of that possessive territoriality that has left him so uneasy. But striking deeper than the violation of their house is the shattering of the werewolf’s perceived realm of safety; that it is not the damage to the building itself that gnaws at him, but what that breach represented. That the peace he had created with Logan had proved to be more fragile than he could have imagined, and he had been falsely secure behind those walls.
He won’t make the same mistake again.
Nathan turns the tap on while Logan stalks off, and lets the water run warm as he unwraps his hastily-bandaged arm, carefully picking cloth from skin, from blood. He pretends it is not his own arm, because it’s easier. It’s someone else’s pain entirely. Peeling his t-shirt off takes a worrying amount of effort, crusted and scabbed as it is to the cuts and bruises that hide underneath; questing, hesitant fingers find no further damage, no cracked ribs, nothing requiring further attention. The image, the wolf, emblazoned bold upon his hip and side runs pink with blood but is otherwise unmarked, and Nate lets his eyes linger there in dull consolation before giving in to Logan’s order. He rests his arms beneath the running water with a grimace, and slumps forward against the sink until the hunter returns.
Here is the one man, the sole individual, that he is at ease with regardless of circumstance; the werewolf relaxes visibly, subdued, and slowly maneuvers himself onto the counter. In Logan there is safety, comfort, and Nathan can let this terrible weakness show because there is no pretending when it comes to the other man; there is only open honesty, crafted from an unabashed love. An arm is offered out, palm up, in the simplest act of endless trust. Nate presses the back of his head to the cabinets behind him and forces his eyes towards the ceiling; when even that becomes too much, he shuts them entirely, focuses on the steady rise and fall of his own chest for distraction. This routine is almost familiar, now, an act they’ve repeated too often in the past year. Looking away sets the event outside of himself, puts a certain distance between his mind and the raw reality of his torn flesh, of Logan’s gentle, but necessarily painful ministrations. He expresses his displeasure only in unconscious twitches and hissed exhalations – and for once, Nathan does not apologize for having gotten himself hurt.
But he can feel the quiver in those normally steady fingers, and Logan’s broken statements – his wavering proclamations – they dig into the werewolf’s heart and clutch with an agonizing desperation. It is a hurt more real than any carved upon his skin. That anyone could render this man so unhinged sends a course of dangerously cold anger through him, a bolt of terrible possessiveness that coils inside Nathan’s chest and refuses to dislodge. ”I know,” he whispers, shifting his weight slowly forward. His arms, leaden and dead weights, rise stiffly to thread the fingers of both hands through Logan’s hair; he presses a soft kiss to the top of the man’s head before drawing him against his chest protectively. ”I know. We’ll go. I’m tired, Logan, and I don’t – I don’t wanna do this anymore. To deal with this.” With Billy; with Blackwater. With wolves. ”I just want you. It doesn’t matter where.”
Because in one night Nathan has broken something he’d long thought as irreplaceable, shattering it in his haste and his anger, but there is hope to be found amongst the pieces. Nate and Logan, their relationship, is a concept that exists outside the limits of this small town, forged hard and bound tight, and their lives need no further Blackwater influence; they do not require this place to survive. His one lingering regret is lashing out as he did – in giving their stay an expiration date. Billy will come for them, should they remain, and Nathan doesn’t covet putting a bullet in her skull.
”Christ, I’ll fly you anywhere you wanna go, Logan, you just say the word. I was thinking – I’ve been thinking about selling the business anyway,” he admits, though the idea hadn’t cemented into something certain until the choice had all but been made for him. Nathan clings to the shred of optimism that is ignited in him, the concept that they can be better for this, for leaving this town behind. That nothing matters if Logan is here. ”We’ll be fine.” Pushing away slowly, the werewolf picks his head up and scrubs a hand over his face, as though that simple act could wipe the weary lines from his features. ”I got you, right?” It’s rhetorical; Nathan knows with absolute certainty exactly how irrevocably entangled they are. He runs his thumb downs the side of Logan’s cheek, and there is a tired, hopeless affection reflected in his gaze. ”I don’t need anything else.”
The brittle thing rattling in his heart writhes and breaks, and Logan can recognize it for what it is – fear. Bravado serves its purpose as a needed shield, a grounding ideal that makes a man capable of facing insurmountable odds. The battle is over – the battle is won—and in the privacy created between two men, Logan is able to drop his guard. The mantle of the hunter falls away and what is left is a man hopelessly in love and hopelessly afraid of loss. They have come close to a premature end. Their entire relationship has been a story of precarious dances, of near misses, of almost-lost chances. That he and Nathan managed to find stable ground in this world of monsters and deceit is a miracle that Logan has taken for granted. The foundation of the brilliant, once-untouchable thing he called life has been irrevocably shaken. The house they once called home is defiled and made strange. The world is off-kilter, askew in the most terrible way.
There is sorrow here, real and thick, but Logan cannot find it within himself to sink down and surrender-- not when Nathan pulls him in close. The warmth of this man, the sound of his heart beating consistent and alive, washes away the bitter dark. Logan sighs and with that single breath, he releases the howling demons spitting pessimism and fear, and remembers what it is to hope. So simple a gesture – an embrace—and yet it is more than enough to placate Logan. Such is Nathan’s gift, and it is a gift that Logan has come to rely on. Beyond Nathan’s gravity Logan is the experienced hunter built from steel and grit, and it is only within this man’s company that he is able to be human, to be honest.
”You don’t have to --we’re done.” His fingers slide delicately over the skin of Nathan’s wrist and for long seconds, Logan finds peace within the werewolf’s steady pulse. ”We’re done.” Logan has never been more done in his life. It has been a time too long spent deferring to the leadership of children, where he has watched in resentment as Nathan bowed his proud head. His own wolf has been sequestered into slumber partly due to the hunter’s reservations about the beast, and partly because of its discontent regarding Blackwater. To see his partner-- his mate-- in a position of subservience while Nathan deserved so much more, rankled the animal enough to bleed into the man’s subconscious. Logan did not turn into a recluse on a whim; it was a decision made in order to maintain the fabric of Blackwater. But no more.
They have declared their defiance and Billy responded with her own ultimatum. Even if it was possible to mend those burnt bridges, Logan finds his desire to do so nonexistent.
”Yeah, you got me, you bastard –you know you do.” Nathan manages to elicit a sheepish smile from Logan and the man looks up with seeking grey eyes. ” I don’t care where we go – as long as we go. We could live in a goddamned mud hut in the middle of nowhere and I’d be happy.” It is not an exaggeration. Everything Logan needs is right in front of him, looking a little scarred and haggard, but as perfect as the day they first met. He leans into the touch against his cheek like a fond hound and takes to returning the gesture in quiet deference.
The silver band worn proudly on his ring finger catches in the kitchen light and glints like a beacon. Logan is struck by it, by the acknowledgement that waiting is too dangerous a game to play. His fingers draw down Nathan’s stubbled chin and a furrow appears between his brows. ”We should go to New York.” It is a gentle suggestion, and yet has an adamant weight behind it. ”Nathan –“ he breathes out, and finds the werewolf’s hand with his own. ”I’m tired of being your fiancé.” The statement is delivered with a burgeoning, lopsided --if weary-- smile. ”Let’s make it official. No more waiting.” The mere idea has Logan finding his last reserves of energy and despite the terror of the day, the future burns bright.
”We could get married. We could be Mister and Mister-- whatever. We could go off, start someplace new – just you and me.” It sounds like an impossible dream, something too sweet to ever be real – but it will be. Logan will chase it down with dogged determination and make it theirs. ”Hell, I’ll even wear the dress.” Just beyond the entrance to the kitchen lays a field of coagulated blood and corpses, but Logan is not yet ready to break from their reverie. He needs this and he figures Nathan needs it, too.
Playfully rough words, spoken with a smile, are all it takes to grant Nathan the same in return – and for the first time since they’d fallen asleep, all those hours ago, the ghost of a smirk haunts the man’s face. Logan makes it easy to pretend without pretending; because Nathan may still fear those shadows in the dark, the chaos just beyond this room, but time spent with the hunter makes the rest of the world meaningless. The feelings Logan elicits are as real as anything, however out of place, because there is an honest truth in their relationship that allows Nathan to draw strength from it; in knowing that they will last beyond this encounter, beyond Blackwater itself.
Where his own years of planning and problem-avoidance had fallen short, Logan succeeds with little more than a touch and a smile. The beasts outside had tried to take this very thing from them, to catch them sleeping and snuff out that little world’s light, and they failed. That in itself is almost enough. The prospect of a future dulls the lingering pain, the lurking anxiety – motivates him with a will he had been lacking, daunted at the notion of cleaning their broken home, of seeing the dreams they had built in tatters. To give in to that dark sentiment would be the next closest thing to having lost entirely; and Nate and Logan are nothing if not belligerent, stubborn bastards when it comes to others enforcing their will upon them.
Better, then, to let that misery die with the wolves that brought it, and defy expectation: to furnace something new from the flames.
That smile only grows as Logan makes his final play, and Nathan’s tired eyes light up with a renewed vigor. He is exhausted, hurting, came within inches of bring broken – but this is right. His hand slips down, comes to rest with his palm pressed flat to Logan’s chest, to the compass hidden there, and Nathan drops his eyes to follow. ”Yeah. I’d like that,” he replies quietly, for fear of giving this building excitement away, and flicks his gaze back up to that familiar grey stare. ”No more waiting,” he agrees. They seem to have a habit of turning the worst situations into positive memories – the whole confused tale of their relationship follows the same, nonsensical trope – and Nathan thinks he wouldn’t have it any other way.
”And Lark,” he adds, chastising – like Logan could forget their horribly spoiled child. Bad father, tsk tsk. ”—Lark Duvall.” It’s an exploratory statement, testing the waters. It’s a small thing, maybe, smaller than even a ring, a tattoo – but it’s something Nathan’s been mulling over since the day he proposed, since Logan said yes. His family name is inconsequential, a thing that holds sentiment only because it has been his for thirty-three long years, a mark of identity and little else – but Logan’s is another creature entirely. Nathan would be proud, wearing a thing like that: another indelible sign of their connection, a pledge. He wets his lips as he finds the words to ask, and speaks slow. ”And I was thinking – maybe I’d be a Duvall, too.”
The werewolf slides from the counter, slow and careful, and settles his hands on Logan’s hips – pulls him close to press his forehead into the crook of his neck, and hangs there softly. ”Goddamnit, Logan,” is all he can manage for a moment, overwhelmed with sensation, feeling, smell – everything he needs, everything he is, wrapped up in this one man before him. ”Yeah, we’re going to New York. And you – you’re gonna marry me.” Like speaking it somehow makes it more believable, because despite their commitment the idea of making this a reality – of running off, particularly following this harrowing, surreal night – it hardly seems possible. The smile pressed against Logan’s neck turns to a kiss, chaste and soft.
There are bodies to remove from the living room, a home to piece back together for sale, and plane tickets to buy. Nathan doesn’t think he’s ever had a stranger to-do list. He sighs slowly; lets himself relax into Logan’s chest, drawing out the moments before responsibility takes hold. ”I’ll get us out of here,” he whispers – a promise. ”Soon as we can go. We’ll get the house fixed up and I’ll get someone in here – and we won’t even have to look back.” But Nathan makes no move to begin work on these tasks, unwilling to drag himself away. The pain in his arms is a fuzzy memory at his periphery when these thoughts run rampant through his head, and he’s reluctant to let that go; releasing this moment threatens to waste the last of his energy away in a rush, and Nate is well aware that sleep is yet a far and distant prospect.
There is a mountain of priorities and harsh realities waiting just outside the door. Wolves materialized out of nowhere and wreaked havoc on their home. Nathan nearly died and will soon add a new litany of scars to his already impressive collection. It was horrible – it is horrible—but Logan finds his silver lining, as always, within Nathan --within his growing smile and tired eyes. ”No more waiting,” it comes as a mantra, a code to live by. No more waiting. Logan mirrors Nathan’s gesture, slides his hand over the image of his wolf etched into the man’s skin. And he thinks – this is his life, this is his home. Everything he could ever want, everything he will ever need, is contained within this one man.
”And Lark. We can’t forget about Lark,” he says gravely, accepting the admonishment with a grin. Logan misses the small tell, does not think it is anything more than a good-natured shot at him for forgetting their third family member. He has thought about names and assumed they would go with a concatenated version. Hart-Duvall. Duvall-Hart. Whatever Nathan felt was best, because Logan decided the day the werewolf proposed that he would do anything to make this happen, to make this real. Surprise flutters over his weathered features and for a stunned second, all Logan can manage to do is stare. ”You’d do that – you want that?” This is no meager gift. To Logan, taking on the name Duvall has weight behind it, meaning. There is a family heritage there, one he is proud of, and one he wants Nathan to be a part of.
”Are you sure – we can talk about it,” he offers because this is a partnership of equals. Logan would never expect anything out of Nathan that isn’t completely willing to give. His concern is assuaged when the werewolf moves off of the counter and pulls him in close. ”Careful,” the hunter murmurs as he winds his arms around Nathan’s waist, ”That’s blasphemy.” Logan presses his face into that dark head of hair and sends a wistful look around the kitchen. He installed those cabinets. He renovated those counters, he replaced that tile floor. He has poured months of effort into this small, yellow house, but Logan cannot feel bitter about leaving it behind.
Nathan is a warm, solid presence within his arms. ”Nathan Duvall,” Logan muses with an awed smile. The more he considers leaving, the more he realizes the growing sense of evolution. They have outgrown this house, they have outgrown Blackwater. It has been a long time coming and the attack is an ugly catalyst for their departure, but there will be no more waiting. The hunter draws back, slides his hand against Nathan’s neck. ”I love you, Nathan – and we’re going to get this done.” They will get the house cleaned up. They will get their affairs in order. They will leave, they will get married, and they will build a new life together as husbands. The hunter leans in for lingering kiss, one of slow relief and affection, before resigning himself to the monumental task that lays ahead.
”I’ll get the truck pulled up,” is his reluctant prompt. Logan steps away, looks at Nathan with tired longing and sighs. ”And load the bodies up in the back.” He’ll dump them somewhere, douse them in gasoline and turn them to ash. Logan has no reservations – those were not people. Those were animals that deserved to be put down. He does not leave right away and instead stands in the middle of the kitchen regarding Nathan with a thoughtful look. Their eyes meet and there is a small upturn at the corner of Logan’s mouth. ”It’s going to be alright,”comes his gently spoken truth.
A grisly task waits ahead but Logan feels capable. He has the future to work towards, to look forward to, and nothing will stand in his way.
Hadn't taken much to track the truck. Not with the scent of blood and gunpowder still lingering heavily to the side of it.
CRACK
His jaw slid back into place after finally changing back, and with his fingers free of the change, Aysun stopped for a moment. Slipping his jeans on that he had went back to retrieve, still bare foot he stepped forward. His bare chest barely noticed the cool air as he made it the last few feet from the trees to the house where the truck now resided. Stepping gingerly around bodies as he did so. Nothing seemed to faze him these days.
Scratching his blood stricken hair, Aysun sighed inwardly. How was he going to start? "Hey! I'm joining your pack, here let me help you clean and move the fuck out!." No... Couldn't do that. Not with the state of their human and wolf minds alike. They were on edge and ready to make like ducks and get the flock out of there!
Aysun wouldn't blame them, he himself had been there and done that. Sometimes he only wished he could find a permanent home, someone to share his life with. A place to breath and relax, but it seemed werewolves were cursed. One way or another, the life of a Were was never simple. To find that one person to which you belong was really all a Were needed, home would be with them.
Instead of barging in like he did with Billy. Aysun decided to take it easy and knock on the... wall, near where the door was suppose to be. Three solid knocks seemed to be enough and Aysun stood back, arms crossed, ready to take what onslaught he might get.
He hadn't met these men, and they didn't seem to take kindly to anyone, so Aysun knew he had to be on his toes. Nathan was strong willed, but also tired looking, almost at the breaking point. Heck, they were all tired and hurt. It's what you do afterwards that counts. He wasn't even sure if they had agreed to take over the Blue Ridge pack, but if they had, he wanted to be there.
The pack needed a new direction, and Aysun would contribute any way he could, even if that meant taking control. Though for now, he would sit back, help, and wait to see. Either way, Blue Ridge would be better off without their predecessor. Now things might get easier, granted the bad apples needed to be weeded out of pack members still residing in Blue Ridge. Though as far as Aysun had heard most members were forced and scared. Bringing those few around shouldn't be to difficult.
While waiting for the occupants of the house to greet him, Aysun slowly began to realize something.... Not only was he half naked, his nipples ready to cut glass, but he was covered in dried blood. On the right side of his head, a cut bled freely, soaking his bleach white hair a scarlet red. Almost matching that of his eyes as they peered lazily into the dark house. None of this bothered him of course, he was a warrior, and had endured worse. Nathan and Logan on the other hand? Guess we would find out.
”Yeah, I’m sure. If you’d have me,” he replies, lifting his head to meet Logan’s eyes – because this is important, something he grows more certain of with each moment that passes. Logan’s name is representative of something he can only aspire to; a moniker of inseparable kin, of trust and support, and Nathan thinks he might crave that more than anything. The hunter has a way of filling in his blanks, of making those missing pieces inside him part of a new whole, and it has been a long time since the werewolf has known a thing like family – a long time since he has wanted to know it at all. It would be enough to exist in this world of two men and a dog, but Logan inspires him to so much more; to being part of something greater than themselves, an existence shared in holidays, with Ben, with an endless mob of nieces and nephews. Nathan might be domesticated – and he might not give a damn.
Hearing his own name from Logan’s lips removes any last shred of doubt. He grins, sheepish, and leans into the hunter’s embrace when it comes; succumbs to that kiss, lets it soothe away anxiety, tension, uncertainty. Nothing is ever perfect, but in Logan’s arms, Nathan can pretend. ”I love you, too,” he says softly, his mouth lingering near Logan’s in the dying labors of a tender moment. They part, and Nathan leans back up against the counter, his right arm drawn tight to his stomach. An indolent reverie gives way to reality, to responsibility, and the werewolf nods as Logan speaks casually of disposing of the bodies. His eyes linger on the gauze that hides the fresh, searing marks carved painfully into his skin, and he bites back the wolf’s sentiment of weakness – useless.
”Yeah – yeah. I, uh, I’ll clean up. Place isn’t gonna sell if it’s covered in blood,” he reasons. Logic before emotion; things he can do before things he can’t. Those tasks will be just as important, will keep him grounded and steadfastly avoiding that feeling of naked futility. Nathan shoves off of the counter, determined, and when Logan turns that small, hopelessly handsome smile upon him, the man can’t help but return it. ”I know,” is the gentle response, and though his face his pale, his features beaten, his expression is one of only a solemn, certain acceptance. Because it’s going to be alright, and Logan doesn’t lie.
He gathers supplies and follows the hunter from the kitchen. The scene is the same and yet it strikes him differently; because this isn’t his house anymore, and these bodies don’t belong to people. This living room will belong to someone else, and Nathan and Logan will move on, will settle somewhere entirely of their own making. A heartening train of thought that is derailed, shoved aside by a sudden shifting of smells, by the sound of a knock at the shattered entry to the house. Pupils contract, pinprick in a sudden surge of possessive fear, and the man is on his feet and facing the doorway in the same moment that panic gives way to anger, to rationality. Individuals with hostile intentions don’t knock, but the men are on edge, wild and instinctive, and Nathan can think of no one he would want to see on that porch. He meets eyes with Logan for the briefest of moments, and then he is moving.
There is a dangerous, predatory intent in his stride as he makes for the doorway, retrieving his pistol from the table; the man outside is unknown, foreign, and that makes him a threat. In truth, he would hardly be any safer were he familiar. The werewolf blocks the entrance with his very presence, and assesses the man with a dark and feral look. Nathan himself is a mirror to the grisly horror etched upon Aysun’s skin, but his body, his posture settles into a role of cold and assured confidence – a projection that yes, it is the most natural thing in the world to come upon him shirtless and blood-soaked, bandaged from his wrists to his elbows. That there is nothing wrong with the situation save for Aysun’s continued presence.
”The hell are you,” is the only curt greeting the stranger will be allowed. This is not the night to be knocking on Nathan’s door looking for handouts – or worse, to play some messenger boy for Billy, as he currently assumes. The man has her scent all over him; he smells like the fight, the carnage, though Nathan can’t remember having seen him. The werewolf’s eyes are hard, accusatory and suspicious, and his grip on the pistol flexes reassuringly as he flicks his gaze to the open wound on the side of the stranger’s head. No move is made to relinquish the doorway; there is no offer of hospitality.
The wolf is awake, furious, and it masks his light-headedness, his vulnerability, in a wash of animalistic emotion and inborn composure. The animal’s territory is solely Logan, now, is wherever its mate resides, and with the night weighing heavy upon his shoulders, Nathan’s first and only instinct is protect – defend.
”Could always put an ad out on Craig’s list for cultists – they dig the blood thing, right?” It is one last shot at keeping the mood light, the final hurrah before Nathan and Logan fall elbow deep into fur and blood. The hunter exits the kitchen and heads straight towards the living room where, fortunately, the mess has been relatively contained. He draws a tired look over the lumps of lifeless fur, over the blood splattered on the walls and caked onto the floor. The sight is disgusting and has his skin crawling with disdain for the dead combatants, but it is the stench that strikes the man the hardest. His wolf stirs and begins to pace; Logan can feel the beast’s discontent and the sooner they get the house cleaned up, the better.
He looms over one of the corpses, grey eyes cut sharp and cold like the exposed metal of a blade. Decades ago, when there wasn’t a hair on his chin, and he was as thin as a rail, Logan dreamt about monsters. He dreamt about awful beasts with gnashing teeth and a wicked, insatiable need to kill. The scene before him harkens back to those nightmares, to those ingrained stereotypes regarding werewolves, but it is a nightmare defeated. He and Nathan weathered this storm and Logan no longer sees monsters – he sees mangy, pathetic dogs that deserved every last bullet piled into their worthless hides. A boot jostles one of the creature’s heads and his nose wrinkles in the facsimile of a snarl. ”Ugly sonofabitch,” he mutters under his breath. His mouth forms a grim line and Logan makes to kneel down but is stopped when the atmosphere turns foreign. Someone is here and last the hunter checked, no one has business being here.
The instant Nathan steps towards the door, Logan is on his heels like a faithful hound, radiating a focused sense of duty and protection. Weariness burns away under a second injection of adrenaline and Logan’s entire body reads tense. The magnum sits in its holster snug against the hunter’s chest and he checks his mind – remembers that there are two bullets left within the weapon’s chamber. It is more than enough to handle whoever has come knocking, should they prove deserving. Nathan barricades the door with his presence and Logan steps in next to him, priming for a fight. What he finds is a shirtless, white-haired man looking bloodied and worse for wear. The scenario, despite the lunacy of the night, manages to read strange.
Logan sends a seeking glance towards the woodwork, as if trying to divine if this man is, in fact, alone. Paranoia is a survival mechanism and trust is in short supply. Logan does not know this man. He does not know what this man wants and therefore he is a threat – guilty until proven innocent. ”You best start talking, friend,” he adds after Nathan delivers his sharp greeting. The hunter settles an unrelenting hawk-point stare onto the stranger and his demeanor suggests authority, challenge, and danger. ”And it better be quick.” He decides to give the guy five seconds to explain himself before he pulls out his gun and demands an explanation.
The count begins –One, Two…
”The hell are you,”
A shiver passed through him as he looked into the eyes of the beast. The man ahead of him was strung tight, his wolf worse for wear. Silver flashed in the gloomy light as his pistol shone in the sun. Averting his gaze, Aysun felt the arrival of the other man. ”You best start talking, friend,” ”And it better be quick.” He glanced reassuringly to the mans partner, Aysun's wolf glowing behind his eyes. An almost sad smile pulled at the corner of his mouth as he looked back to Nathan.
Senses on high alert, Aysun's wolf took everything in. The atmosphere was doom and gloom, but he felt he could help them relax. This of course would be easier with an Omega present, but given that they didn't have one. Aysun and his wolf would play submissive and keep cool, hoping it would keep the men's wolves under control.
"Name's Aysun Brune." Unwinding his arms from across his chest, Aysun continued to avert his gaze from Nathan as he addressed him. "I've only come to offer help." Blunt and right to the point. Offering his hand to shake would be the correct introduction, but that's saved for humans. They were all Were's, such gestures could be seen as threats. Instead, Aysun took a deep calming breath, his wolf also subsided, letting him take this one.
The trust between wolf and host was essential to keep the peace within. Now if only Aysun could convince these two he meant well, that they could trust him in time. That he wished to be a part of a pack they have yet to construct.
The world of Were's was a hard one, allies were hard and few between the enemies. As far as Aysun was concerned, he was giving these guys a calling card. He would submit to them and give the fuckers who wanted to give them shit the boot. He would be the trump card they could hold and use as needed. Aysun and his wolf knew how pack life worked, and they were and always would be the enforcer. A wolf who could adjust to different situations. A man who could keep the peace, and sense. Both could be the warrior if needed, the punish-er when called for. Aysun could do this, like he had for all these years. He rehabilitated wolves, and taught humans.
Great now I'm a fucking self proclaimed Were Whisperer!
Stifling his inner groan, Aysun waited for his Alpha's reply, weather he was aware of it or not. The wolf inside had already made its decision, he was just along for the ride.
Even as their locked gaze is broken, Nathan stands accusingly, daring this trespasser to placate him with excuses. Logan is behind him, beside him, and he draws up tall despite his flagging strength, a tense and predatory figure cut in the shadows of the doorway; the beast spits fire and caution, demands he chase this intruder off before his last reserves of energy fail. The submissive gestures, the calming body language, they do little to settle the thing curled tight inside him. Nathan’s wolf – Nate himself – couldn’t care less about the man’s social standing, his non-threatening posture or averted eyes; the fact that Aysun is here, violating his porch with his presence, is more than enough for both animal and man to deem him dangerous. Simple offers of help fall flat in the face of distrust and paranoia.
There is a pause, a long beat reflected in confused and narrowed eyes, before Nathan can find the words to speak. ”Don’t need your help.” He does not bother to give the man his name; this is no trade, no parley. Knowledge is power, and Nate will give none of that up. The left side of the werewolf’s face draws up in the resisted efforts of a sneer, and something flares in his chest, an irrational anger based in assumption and suspicion. ”Did Billy send you?” Because Nate can’t make heads or tails of the chain of events that may have lead to this meeting, and uncertainty makes him guarded. There is a battered and bloodied man at his door who thought of lending a hand before even putting on a shirt. It resonates with a sickening wrongness, a perplexity that reinforces ideas of subterfuge, of deceit – that Billy would send this man to finish what he’d started, or that Blue Ridge had a back-up plan.
He takes a haughty amount of comfort in having figured it out – because Nate is too proud a man to accept a thing like help from a stranger. Not in his house, not with his mate behind him, not with every plan he’s made hinging upon his wolf-fueled ego. Blackwater would not grant him assistance, not after what he’d done, and so the truth must be a much darker thing. Nathan needs nothing, needs no one but Logan, and with that force driving him there is no thought paid to politics or alphas – only perceived threats and an overpowering requirement to get this over with, to escape.
”You should go,” he says flatly, and despite his wording the statement does not fall as a suggestion. Nate disengages coldly, breaks eye contact with a dismissive turn of his head, and turns from the door; he will not leave Logan to handle the interloper alone, and lingers nearby to lend a physical sense of support, but the man makes it clear that he is done with their exchange. Further discussion will have to be taken up with the hunter, should Aysun have a better explanation – else he’d best run back to whoever sent him before they resort to more physical measures.
Nate needs to take some aspirin, clean the goddamn blood off his walls, sleep for about five years, and get fucking married. Interrupting those plans at any point is bound to be a bad idea.
The door to the house stands splintered and askew. There are dead wolves piled inside and the stench of blood and gunfire remains thick in the air. Nothing about the scene is friendly or comfortable, and try as the stranger might, his gestures cannot assuage the rumbling dissatisfaction of Logan’s wolf. The hunter sends a lingering glance onto Nathan, senses the man’s own persistent paranoia, and redoubles his efforts to find out exactly why the white-haired man is here. There are too many questions unanswered and the stranger’s unsatisfactory declaration of help leaves Logan more suspicious than ever.
”Aysun Brune,” he delivers back curtly and slides fully into the doorway as Nathan draws away. ”Can’t say I know the name.” His tone is a verbal prompt and the way he looks at Aysun suggests that the werewolf should elaborate, and he should elaborate quickly. Logan is in no mood to play politics, to beat around the bush and wait for the stranger to get to the point. Nathan is hurting and tired, and Logan can feel it. There is an overwhelming need to protect and to tend to his partner and the longer the white-haired man takes to explain himself, the longer Nathan has to go without rest.
Aysun’s allotted five seconds have long since passed but Logan refrains from pulling out his gun. He senses no suggestion of violence in the man’s demeanor but is not fool enough to drop his guard. Aysun’s submissive strategy may work on some but Logan and Nathan are too wired, too tired, and too committed to the idea of lingering danger to be placated. A moment passes, then another, in which Logan simply stares at the white-haired man expectantly.
”I don’t care if you’ve come here offering miracles,” is Logan’s eventual ultimatum. ”If you can't tell me exactly why you’re here – and exactly why you want to ‘help’, then you best turn around and leave before I'm inclined to make you leave.” The hunter regards the stranger with a cold look and there is obvious weariness etched into the weathered lines of his features. Logan wonders if this man is one of Billy’s lackeys who has come to extend an olive branch, and if that is the case, no thank you. Those bridges have been burned and he will let them burn because he and Nathan no longer need them.
His patience is nonexistent, his nerves frayed. This was one hell of a time to pay a house visit, and until Aysun delivers an acceptable, thorough explanation, the door remains metaphorically shut.
(I'm sorry, I'm rather rusty with Rping right now. I'll get better I swear!
)”Don’t need your help.” Arching a brow, Aysun looked past Nathan to the scene all around them. Pysically, they didn't need his help. On the other hand, mentally, they needed to get the hell out of this place.
”Did Billy send you?”
"Billy?" Aysun stopped looking around long enough to watch Nathaniel run through all the possibilities. Cocking his head a little to the side, he took this all in. ”You should go,” Staying silent, he glanced back to Nathan's partner, having not heard of him from Billy, Aysun could not address him by name. Though it seemed he didn't have to.
”Aysun Brune, can't say I know the name." Nathan stepped back, leaving the other man in his place. ”If you can't tell me exactly why you’re here – and exactly why you want to ‘help’, then you best turn around and leave before I'm inclined to make you leave.” Understandable, though taking the time to go through 'everything' would keep them from where they seemed so keen to take off to. Crossing his arms once again, Aysun held the storm grey eyes within his gaze.
"I know little about Billy, or rather. You'r involvment with Black Water." His scarlet gaze never faltered. "I'm here because I have little places to be, I haven't a home for years. My only reason for finding my way to Tennessee, was the fact that this was the birthplace of my mother. I only wish to find a pack to which I can be a part of, no matter how small. Billy took me in on a temperary basis. I was only there to help them." Aysun sighed heavily, averting his gaze. He didn't want it to seem like a challange, but he too was tired of this.
When did it all end? He had spent the last two weeks cooped up in a hotel, and now he was trying to join a non-excistant pack. Why he bothered to get himself into these things was beyond him, as for his wolf? He drove Aysun to better, bigger things. Without his help, Aysun would still be insane. Still be chained and 'researched'. Without the wolf, his very being would be nothing at all.
" I just figured I could offer you two some help cleaning up. I've been traveling for most of my life..." Again he glanced to the ruined house, "I've picked up a few trades, renovating a house shouldn't be to hard." Though his mood didn't seem to change, he tried to lighten the mood. "You don't expect to sell the house looking like this, do you?"
He didn't offer a smile, everything was on the table. Everything except... "Don't misunderstand. I'm not in this just out of a favour. I do expect something for my hard work." Taking in a deep breath, Aysun realized how tired he was becoming, the change took alot more out of him then he had expected. "Some of the split from the house, or a place to live... Again I can do odd jobs anytime." Lifting his hand, Aysun touched around the sore spot on his head. Wincing when he found the source of the blood.
Thats when he heard the slight whine from behind the hunter. A small white head poked itself out from behind him. The animal looked up at him with its soft brown eyes. crouching down, Aysun held out his hand slightly. "Hello, you pretty little thing."
Nathan does not watch, but he listens. Logan is fully capable of handling himself – of making a decision on whether this stranger should be trusted, should be driven off, should be allowed in – but that doesn’t mean the werewolf is comfortable. It doesn’t mean Nathan will leave his partner alone or anything like vulnerable, and the pistol remains clutched in his shaking hand as he paces the perimeter of the ravaged room. Avoiding the use of his arms save for his hold on the weapon, Nate shoves the couch back in the vicinity of its original location with a hip, and when Lark comes packing out of the bedroom to inspect the commotion, the werewolf looms behind her – behind Logan – with an air of overbearing protectiveness.
He breathes steadily, deliberately, wound taut as Aysun’s excuses drone on; as the man reveals knowledge the werewolf feels he shouldn’t know. Nathan stiffens before striding forward to stand beside Logan, incensed.
”How would you—“ but Nate cuts himself off, eyes narrowed, and the anger floods out of him in a rush. There is no energy left to fuel such fires, no will to argue save for the fury spit by his wolf in preemptive defense. If Aysun had been at Billy’s, he’d heard the ultimatum – he may well know Nathan and Logan have to leave Blackwater without having resorted to eavesdropping. It seems a stretch, but Nathan has enough shreds of sanity left to not leap immediately upon every last doubt and fear that worms within him, not when the stranger has offered a strangely acceptable solution, an opportunity. His eyes dart to Logan for support; the man has more of his faculties about him, is less inclined to give in to wild instinct and make brash decisions, and Nate will defer to him if it comes to it.
”We’re not a pack,” he clarifies. ”And the house doesn’t need renovating, either.” It’s defensive, sharp; Nathan is fond of the labors Logan had put into the battered little home, and will not see those efforts insulted. The stranger’s joke falls flat in the wake of his humorless gaze. But Nathan is tired and close to seeing sense – his strength is sapped, not near enough to help with as much of the cleanup as he’d like, and the agony in his forearms make him well aware of that fact – and if Aysun can help Logan, they can get this done faster. If Aysun can prove reliable, they can leave.
He may be desperate enough to take that final risk.
Lark melts into a puddle behind Logan’s legs on the floor, and when the stranger reaches for her, she bares a lip defensively. Nate frowns at the dog and grabs her by her collar, her claws scrabbling against the hardwood as he hauls her away; he is nearly as protective of her as he is Logan, and the thought of someone greeting her – tonight – rubs him in all the wrong ways. The muscles of his arm burn with an impossible fire as they flex to tug her with him, and the werewolf tightens his jaw. ”Yeah, you’re real goddamn ferocious,” Nate grumbles at her as she whines. ”Best guard dog.” But despite his weary bitterness, there’s still an affectionate tone to his voice when addressing the animal – she had been a good guard dog, after all. She’d saved their sorry asses, given them time to prepare. Nate collapses to the couch with a shiver and coaxes the dog up beside him, where he sits with his knees drawn up and an arm over her shoulders, eyes downcast and unfocused.
He can feel his attention span folding, his ability to concentrate growing slack, and Nate presses his right arm into his stomach in an involuntary reaction. ”Help move the bodies,” he orders sullenly, and does not look up. It is a stubborn acquiescence; an admission of Nathan’s own incapability that he phrases as a test, a command. ”Anything he wants you to do – you do it. And then we’ll see about… working something out.” Lifting his head, Nathan directs that hard stare on Aysun once more, peering dangerously at him from over Lark's back.
Nathan will sit on this couch, and he will not sleep. He will not leave Logan alone; he will stay awake with Lark at his side and the 1911 clutched as tight in his hand as his ruined arm will allow, and he will watch Aysun work.
And he will not hesitate if the stranger should prove to validate his fears.
Aysun speaks and Logan listens with a brittle edge to his demeanor. The hunter is listless and the last vestiges of adrenaline have tapered off, leaving him with a bone-deep weariness. The more the white-haired man drones on, the more Logan’s paranoia transforms into confusion. Grey eyes throw a seeking look over his shoulder and Logan regards Nathan with a guarded, if bewildered look. The night has been a series of one odd event after another, and though he supposes he should be thankful Aysun isn’t at their throats, Logan is not quite sure what to do with the man. He levels a hard look onto the stranger and deliberates.
”House is fine as it is,” he adds brusquely because the hunter is proud of his handiwork. He has poured hours into the task of turning this small yellow house into something entirely his and Nathan’s own, and though the attack has left the property defiled and foreign, sentiments linger. ”But if you’re that gung-ho about it…” Logan trails off and his grip on the doorframe turns hard when Aysun chooses to interact with Lark. There are boundaries here and Aysun is overstepping, well meaning though he is. Nathan acts first and wrangles the dog further into the household, and it is enough cause for Logan’s hackles to deflate.
When Nathan delivers his decision, Logan remains quiet for long seconds. He stares at Aysun, regards him with a cold and calculating glare until the air between them grows uncomfortable with silent threat. ”You heard the man,” he drawls roughly and pivots on one foot, granting the man access into the home. ”Get your ass in gear and move those wolves into the back of my truck.” If Aysun wants to play the random good Samaritan, fine, Logan is not above taking advantage of free labor – especially when the night’s events have left him wholly drained. None of this lack of energy or apparent weakness shows in the hunter’s body language. His posture remains straight, his shoulders set, and his gaze an unrelenting presence at Aysun’s back.
One wrong move, one suspicious word or gesture, and Aysun will have both Nathan and Logan to answer to.
As Aysun drags out the first of the carcasses, Logan takes a private moment to look at Nathan and take stock of his partner’s disposition. The werewolf remains vigilant but he is tired, and it is a tiredness that took root long before this horrible night came to pass. Dealing with Blackwater, keeping the pack running while the others were indisposed, has taken a toll on Nathan and this attack was, effectively, the last massive and terrible straw. Nathan’s respite has been a long time coming and Logan knows now, more than ever, that he will do whatever he can to grant his partner his much deserved rest.
He will go as far as to extend a fragile trust to a stranger who knows too much. When Aysun returns, Logan gestures to another one of the bodies. ”That one next.” The hunter kneels and throws one of the carcasses over his shoulders, and follows Aysun out towards the truck. The process repeats, more orders are given, and with Aysun’s help, the red on the walls and floors slowly begins to disappear.
It took allot of hard work, but the end result was worth it. The house was just about in order. A few holes in walls needed to be patched up, and a new door was in order. Other then that, nothing else had been to terribly ruined. Just showed how quick these two could eliminate a problem.
"Looking way better." Covered in blood and muck, Aysun ran his hand through his filthy hair. He on the other hand had seen better days. Seeing as how they were all tired and ready to sleep, Aysun took the rag he had been using into the bathroom to rinse it out. As the faucet ran over the once white rag, pink slowly dispelled from it and spiralled down the drain.
Looking into the mirror above, Aysun groaned inwardly. His browned skin was now ashen looking and drained of it's natural luster. Dried and wet blood clung to the right side of his skull, along with the stains that marred the rest of his chest. He hadn't been that badly hurt, in fact the wound on his head wasn't from a tooth or claw. Frowning, Aysun reached up to touch it again. It was much to clean and consistent to be from a wolf....
Looking back over his shoulder, he arched a brow towards where the two men should be on the other side of the wall. Someone had a good shot, good thing it had been in chaos and not a calibrated effort. Turning back to his reflection, he was able to use the rag to do a quick clean up of his head, face, and chest. They had been at it for awhile, but now he wasn't sure if he could stay awake any longer. Sighing, the Enforcer turned in the bathroom and made his way, bare foot, back to the living room.
"I don't know about you...." He stepped past the men to look out to the dreary day. Clouds blanketed the sky in a false night. Hopefully this could help him sneak into his hotel room without to much of a fuss. "But I think it's about time I left you two. If thats alright?" He glanced back to the couch, noticing how pale Nate had become. "Need cleaned up and rested..." His voice faded out, he too could feel the drain of the day. Though he should be used to this by now. 'How could anyone get used to this life.... You fought to stay alive and sane, and you fought to keep your home...' Humans weren't built for this kind of living, good thing we had our wolves to somewhat balance it out.
Aysun stood back, his weariness really catching up with him. It was time to head back and sleep, but he would be back. This place needed a few small repairs and needed to hit the market as soon as possible. They had till the end of the month. Half a month to find a new place, and sell this one. From there on, he wasn't sure what would become of Blue Ridge, but until then Aysun had a goal. What Nate wanted to do from here on was up to him.
Blue Ridge.... Will it stay the enemy of Black Water?
