Post by ♥ Nathan ♥ on Jun 11, 2012 17:44:12 GMT -5
Logan. said:
A blue pickup truck sits in the driveway of a quaint yellow Victorian-styled country house. It is a cloudy Wednesday, with temperatures in the low seventies. The forecast suggests a chance of rain but Blackwater remains bone dry.
It has been nearly a week since Logan’s return. Most of the pressing items on his to-do list have been crossed off. They have retrieved his belongings from Baneberry, Anna has been informed that Logan is alive and where he needs to be. Nathan’s house is free of the clutter, the evidence and reminders related to his spiral into depression. Their determination has seen a careful, tentative return to normalcy – or an imitation of it.
Logan, for his part, has been coping well by not coping at all. His way in dealing with his concerns and issues is to compartmentalize them and then store them away, where they can be ignored indefinitely. A disastrous strategy made easier by the distraction of Nathan’s home. The building has fared well given its age but Logan sees room for improvement, even the necessity in some cases. He has outlined a list that includes easier tasks such as reshingling the roof to more invasive ideas like building a back deck and renovating the kitchen.
Any attempt to breach the werewolf topic has been met with evasion and schooled nonchalance. Logan listens because he has promised to, but there is an arrogant part of him that feels like he has everything under control. There have been no issues, no incidents where his wolf has taken the driver’s seat. As the days creep by, he feels more and more optimistic – perhaps foolishly so. He has determinedly ignored how his aggression, his old anger issues seem to be lurking just beneath the surface of his usual mellow demeanor.
While Nathan works, so does Logan. It gives him something to do while he’s holed up in the house. Logan can grudgingly understand the necessity of his sticking close to home, but he’s starting to get anxious. He deposits a rolling pin into its tray and steps into the middle of the living room. The walls are covered in primer, ready for paint as soon as they dry. He checks the clock – Nate should be back soon.
Logan showers and dresses. He’s hungry and he’s desperate to get out and do something.
When Nathan steps inside he’ll likely notice that the air curiously lacks the smell of cooking food. Logan steps out from the master bedroom, runs a hand through his hair, looks up and catches Nathan’s eyes.
”Just the man I’ve been hoping to see.” A lame joke because Nathan’s about the only man Logan’s seen lately. He leans against the wall, crosses his arms over his chest. ” Let’s go out tonight. Seeing as how I neglected to cook dinner, and all.” A smirk pulls at the corner of his lips. Not the most devious of plans, but Logan hopes it pans out.
Nate said:
Taking time off of work – the span of a few weeks, all told, once you added it up over the past few months – has finally come to bite Nathan back. Overtime is the least of his worries, but it pays the bills, gets the business back on track; a thousand little things he’s ignored and delayed always seem pressing, all at once. Driving home is a relief that never comes fast enough.
The Lexus’ worn brakes squeak worryingly as Nate pulls up beside Logan’s truck in the drive, and he makes a note to call Sabra, get them checked. Another little thing to add on his ever-growing to-do list, but nothing urgent. Seldom is, these days, once the work day’s done – once he’s arrived home on his front porch, work-related worries scoured clean and left on the doorstep. If he weren’t so busy, he’d leave the damn phone in the car until morning.
The house smells strange – like paint, not food – and his wolf rises reflexively at the perceived invasion of territory. The once-dull walls are now a slick, matte white, and it gives his comfortable and broken-in living room an unsettling modern flare - Nate wonders, idly, what the final choice of paint will be. He’s not sure he cares. Logan’s hobbies, no matter his indifference, border on the edge of desperation, an act to keep himself occupied and steadfastly, stubbornly, under control.
Nathan thinks he understands. That nags at him more than anything.
He guiltily enjoys it anyway. Logan’s choice of distraction also stems from a desire to make him happy, or so Nate likes to believe – and the fact that it does is an added bonus. His house hadn’t even looked this good when he bought it. Glossing over buried issues aside, the werewolf’s rather fond of having a handyman around the house, and this handyman in particular – one that generally cooks him dinner.
The man in question emerges from the bedroom, smelling like his soap, and the sight lights up Nathan’s face.
”Blackwater’s not exactly known for it’s five-star dining,” but he’s smiling as he says it, shrugging out of his jacket. ”What did you have in mind?” Nate figures Logan lost track of time, forgot to start cooking – not that he’s obligated to – but the expression on his face says otherwise. Says planning. Or at least an idea hatched within the last five minutes.
”…Do I have time to change?” Unless the dress code for going out is suddenly business casual.
Logan. said:
”We can just hit up that diner.” Blackwater is small enough a town that Logan doesn’t even have to bother using the establishment’s proper name. He lets his eyes wander over Nathan because Logan isn’t shy and the guy looks good in a suit. He pops a smirk. ”Yeah, go on ahead.” As Nathan passes to move into the bedroom and change, Logan bars his way with an outstretched arm, draws him close, and kisses him. ”Alright, now you can get changed.” It’s a cheeky grin that he wears.
Logan opts to use his truck because one, it’s his truck, and two, Nathan’s Lexus screams like a banshee. He reiterates what Nathan already knows – that he needs to get that checked out as soon as possible. Wouldn’t want the brakes to go out, wouldn’t want to end up in the hospital – I care about you so I’m nagging you type things.
It’s a short trip to the diner, a little place called Joe’s because every town needs a Joe’s. The neon blue sign burns mutely against the sunset sky. Logan pulls into the lot, parks the truck and steps outside. It feels good to be and about, even if it’s just a couple miles away and even if they’re just going to sit inside and eat. Something inside of him feels restless, slightly askew, and he doesn’t know what it is because Logan doesn’t talk about things, doesn’t consider them a problem until they become a problem.
The pair make their way inside, Logan taking the lead and holding the door open because he’s a gentleman. It’s in the spirit of those old 50’s restaurants, black and white tiled floor included. The building smells of fried food and grease, and Logan might be a health nut, but he doesn’t see any harm in indulging every once in a while.
A waitress leads them to a booth and Logan slips inside, scoots close towards the window. Gray eyes settle on Nathan and Logan smiles. Doing normal, inconsequential things like going out to eat feels liberating, like he can put the past craziness behind him.
”How was work?” he asks, comfortable to slide into easy conversation.
A few tables over is a pair of local men – somewhere in their mid-twenties. They spare the two werewolves a few glances, talk amongst themselves. Nothing worth noticing. The waitress returns to Logan and Nathan’s table with two glasses of water and hands them the menus.
He looks through the choices and doesn’t wonder over why all the meat-related meals stand out and tickle his hunger.
Nate said:
Nate enjoys the eyes on him; he basks in the stare and the attention of the kiss before heading to the washroom, resisting the urge to linger. He washes his face; changes into something more comfortable, less starched. They make for the diner in Logan’s truck, much to Nate’s disappointment – yes, his new car is making some awful noises, yes, he knows to get it looked at – but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t like driving it around. Driving Logan around in it.
The mental note to call Sabra jumps up a few pegs.
Nate hasn’t been to the diner in a while – not since Logan’s been cooking for him, at least, and likely longer than that. He isn’t a sit-down meal sort of guy, not without reason, and going out for food usually requires someone to invite along. Aside from Billy, a random member of the pack or two, Nate isn’t exactly sure he had anyone who fell into that category before Logan came along. He appreciates the man all the more.
It’s empty save for a few townies, a surly waitress and some folks at the bar; Nate doesn’t focus on them, his nose processing the scents of those gathered into categories of “boring,” “uninteresting,” and “don’t bother to notice.” It’s the smell of food that dominates, and the werewolf’s stomach rumbles conspicuously as they’re seated; he offers Logan a self-conscious grin. If not for the little sandwich the hunter had made him take, he probably wouldn’t have even managed lunch today.
”The usual,” he replies, perusing the menu. ”Too much to do, not enough employees. We’ll manage.” They always do, so long as he focuses on the positive of too much working coinciding with relative success. ”What color were you planning on painting the walls, by the way?” Nate places the menu back down, smirks playfully over the rim of his glass of water as the waitress returns.
Yeah, he likes his handyman.
”Bacon cheeseburger, medium rare, extra bacon… and a coke,” he orders, turning that gentle smile on the server. If Logan’s going to let him eat out at a greasepit, he’s going to go home full of cholesterol and that’s that.
Logan. said:
Logan gives a quick smile and an understanding nod. The once-fisherman and now ex-hunter will never understand how people can stand office work. He needs to be moving, doing something with his hands, otherwise Logan just gets anxious – one of the driving reasons behind the house renovations. Making Nathan happy is a hopeful byproduct of his efforts. ”I was just going to paint them white. You got any ideas?” Logan never claimed to be an interior decorator.
”I’ll have what he’s having.” Logan smiles up at the waitress, hands her the menu. Renovating the house proves an ample distraction but it’s going to cost a small fortune to do everything he has in mind. If he’s sticking around, and he’s sticking around, Logan will have to look for a job, something he’s been mulling over since his return. ”We should go to the hardware store on your day off. Look at the paint, let you decide on what you think is best. No rush, the walls aren’t going to run away.” He should have confirmed the paint color first but, hell, he needed something to do. Poor Lark will have to deal with the living room being covered in evil, apparently threatening plastic for a while longer.
”What, are ya’ll gonna go curtain shopping next?” The redheaded guy jeers from his table. His younger looking friend seems to wilt. He shields his face from view with his hand, fingers at his temple, politely pretending not to exist.
This is where Logan is supposed to flash Nate a disarming grin and shrug it off like water off a duck’s back. This is where he ignores the heckler or suggests they go somewhere else. At their table, the redhead tries to garner support from his clearly embarrassed friend, says some increasingly stupid and ignorant things.
Logan turns in the booth, sets pair of volatile gray eyes onto the mouthy jackass. ”Why don’t you shut your goddamned hick mouth.” Something in him is riled up and tangling and twisting in his gut like the worst kind of anger. He and Nathan have never been overt concerning the nature of their relationship but it’s a small town, word gets around. Rumors of two men constantly in one another’s company and shacked up together get around.
”What the hell did you say to me?” The redhead jumps to his feet, storms his way closer. His friend pulls a magic trick where he all but disappears by sinking into their booth.
Logan has to respond; he’s up on his feet. ”You heard me. Or are you that goddamned deficient, you can’t understand simple English?” The hick disrespected them –disrespected Nate. There is an overwhelming something flaring in Logan’s chest. It feels like anger but it’s so much more visceral, real, tangible.
The redhead throws a punch; it connects and Logan’s head snaps back. His lip is busted, he tastes blood. Then his vision flashes white, just for a second, because it’s not just anger now, it’s fury. The hick makes to grapple Logan but is stopped cold by a fist to his gut. It’s a quick scuffle and Logan is too damned incensed to listen to any calls for them to stop, to break it up.
He has the redhead pinned to a table. Blood runs out of his broken nose, down his face, onto the flat white surface. He’s coughing and sputtering because Logan’s hand grips his throat like a vice, presses down with his weight. The guy’s face goes red from oxygen starvation and Logan knows he should stop but he can’t. He can’t let go even though he knows he has to. He can’t because something in him doesn’t want to and that something is what is in control right now.
Nate said:
Nate expects Logan to allow the whole thing to roll over, no matter how his own tension rises – and it’s not just his wolf, insulted and territorial, but a twisted aggression harbored by his own heart and entirely, horribly human. His eyes are dark, dangerous as they flick to scope out the redhead’s table, but he ultimately knows the appropriate response – has handled this before, time and again – and simply shuts out the ignorant white noise. He returns to his glass, drops his eyes.
But Logan doesn’t. The man fires back, stands, and before Nathan can reason or grapple for a hold the two are engaged in a bloody, bare-knuckled scrap, accompanied by the noise of a broken glass and the scream of a frightened waitress. The sight, the scent of blood has him up in a flash, scrambling out of the booth and over the table, heart pounding loud in his ears. He can hear himself shouting but it’s detached, indecipherable, lost between the walls of some manageable outlet of emotion and the incomprehensible anger that’s boiling under his skin. The image of Logan’s face cracked back, mouth spitting blood, is etched behind Nathan’s eyes.
It’s no more than a half second later – a cruel span of eternity – that Nate realizes he doesn’t even know who he’s gunning for: the man on the table, writhing, whom his wolf desperately wants to sink his teeth into; or the ferocious werewolf atop him, enraged beyond all possible control. Either target is viable and for entirely different reasons, a fight between cool human logic and burning animal instinct. But it’s been fifteen years – Nate has been this way for more than fifteen years – and he has ample experience winning this battle, even if the idea of Logan hurt and fighting and defending him has his wolf spitting in mad fury.
He lunges, arms wrapping and pulling and holding, anxious and desperate to get Logan off the other man before the situation spirals further out of control – before minor misdemeanors for provoked assault become much worse. Before Logan lets darker secrets slip. Nathan is livid with himself for thinking he could allow Logan to handle this – for thinking he didn’t need the help, didn’t want Billy to need to step in and take charge and claim his prize; because Logan is his problem, is his – but he’d made a dangerous mistake. Still, bottled anger towards his own person is more productive than releasing it upon the hunter’s hapless victim, and so Nate fuels it, driving it away from an outward projection of violence. He has to get control – has to keep it.
Nate has always been stronger than he looks. A heavy hand on each shoulder pries Logan forcefully back, up and away, and then fingers are cupping and clutching at the larger man’s chin, forcing his head to turn – forcing their wild eyes to meet with a furious, whispered,
”Look at me.”
He needs them to connect; he needs to get through and find some shred of humanity left within the half-mad hunter – or otherwise exert dominance over the crazed beast that remains. Further resistance, if there is any, will be met with a quick, controlled jab, pulled but thrown from the hip, taking Logan in the gut. The werewolf will instantly regret its necessity; knows he’ll regret it more when the adrenaline runs thin, but options are running thin for garnering the attention he requires for this to work.
”Logan. Logan. He’s not worth it. Let him go.”
Logan. said:
There’s something in his head, something in his heart and it’s screaming murder, screaming reparation. Fragments of thoughts, of images that have no place in a human mind flash brightly; a silent horror film. Teeth ripping flesh, the jugular, eyes rolling back, prey falling limp and lifeless.
Hands grip his shoulders tight and Logan is ripped from the struggling man. He whips around, furious gray meets unrelenting blue. A brief moment, one where the thing in him shivers in abatement. It does not last, his lips pull back into the mockery of a snarl. Why stop him, why get in the way; he was only trying to protect. Before he can succumb to the anger, to the violence, a fist to his gut. The snap of pain earns a startled grunt; the madness dispels.
Logan slowly unfolds from where he grips his abdomen, stands straight, looks around the diner in silent bewilderment. All eyes are on them; a heavy stretch of time where no one speaks whether through shock or from fear. He can smell it, taste it. He can’t recognize it, can’t name those flavors but they wreak havoc. Blood is a sharp presence, tangy and iron grit. The redhead’s friend hovers, ready to come to his aid once the route is cleared.
A step back, a look thrown at Nathan, at the waitress, the cook. Another step back, a stilted slow turn. Logan exits quietly, with a rigid walk. Once the open air envelops him, he finally feels like he can breathe again. Wipes at his split lip with the back of his hand, spits a mixture of saliva and blood onto the dusty asphalt. One last surge of outrage has him punching the wall in frustration, anger. The thin flesh over his knuckles rubs raw, cuts open.
The hunter turns his head but just slightly, can’t raise his eyes to look at Nathan. Not guilt. Not shame. The bastard deserved getting his ass handed to him. Something else, then. Something related to Logan and his easy smiles and how he always has everything under control. His uninjured hand digs into his pocket and he unceremoniously tosses his keys towards Nathan. It’s not safe for him to drive, not when he’s feeling like this; he can still be responsible, even now.
He silently gets into the passenger seat and stares determinedly forward. Refuses to say anything. Remains detached. Doesn’t feel safe, secure to talk, to breach the topic of what the hell just happened.
It’s on the ride back that the forecast finally proves true. The sky opens up, a trickle then a downpour. The smell of rain is a boon, naturally calming. Logan draws it in, holds onto like a lifeline.
”He deserved it.” Spiteful but true. He doesn’t say anything beyond that, doesn’t feel secure enough to drop his guard – not until they get home.
Nate said:
The madness in those eyes, now directed at him, sickens Nathan to his core.
It is only desperate measures that get Logan to find a hold, to respond, and though the horror is close to over Nate can’t yet breathe any sigh of relief. He breaks eye contact, looking at anything but Logan, anything but the soundless faces gathered around them, and waits with clenched fists until the other man makes his stiff-legged exit. He follows at his heels like a hound, and doesn’t look back.
The old Ford’s engine turns over once, twice before catching, rumbling to life, and Nate shepherds them out of the parking lot. He doesn’t seem angry; not anymore. There’s a residual disgust directed at himself, but none of it is towards Logan, though the adrenaline-fueled tension that courses through him cannot yet settle, cannot calm. The stillness between them that follows is rote, is how they handle things, and the werewolf knows better than to interrupt it, even now. Even when Logan does himself. Nate mulls the words over in his head, finding them frustrating and only half true – the guy deserved it, but not from Logan.
”He was an idiot,” he cuts in - a vague agreement - and drops the subject there.
Nathan drives the rest of the way home in silence, knuckles white on the steering wheel.
He parks lazily, lopsided in the drive beside his Lexus, and waits in the rain for only enough seconds for Logan to join him in dashing through the downpour. The ground smells fresh, clean; the sort of storm that makes him want to throw all the windows open; it seems so simple, so commonplace, a reminder of easier times. They enter to the warm, familiar comfort of home, to the objects and items and entire rooms that smell only of their mingling presence, and Nathan immediately relaxes, at ease. Blue eyes flicker to Logan’s hand, to the blood crusted to his knuckles, before chancing up to his face.
”Let me get you something for that,” he tells more than offers, pointing a finger at the couch. Lark, already settled there possessively, rolls to her back at the presumed attention and thumps her whip of a tail into the cushions rhythmically, adding a bite of inviting normalcy to their exchange. ”Sit.” And in that, there is no room for bargaining. Nate stalks off without waiting for a reply, returns a moment later with a wet washcloth and a glass of water; he sets himself down on the coffee table and takes the man’s wrist in his hand.
”I didn’t think you were the punch first, ask questions later sort of guy.” It’s casual, conversational. Nate swabs carefully at Logan’s knuckles as he speaks, decidedly avoiding any eye contact. The rest of his statement is unspoken, lurking in the back of his mind: you are now.
”Sorry I hit you.”
Logan. said:
Logan is quiet and not just by his refusal to speak, but with his entire demeanor. His face is wan, but otherwise unreadable. He is locking up and shutting down, throwing up those walls because that’s how he handles things – by not handling them. Gray eyes spare Nathan a glance and Logan obeys because he’s too out of sorts to put up an argument.
He sits there, on the sofa, in that same determined silence. Nathan comes back, settles onto the coffee table and Logan doesn’t so much as look in his direction. It is with sedate apathy that he allows the younger man to tend to him. His fingers twitch, whether from the little shocks of pain or the roiling sentiments lurking beneath the hunter’s stony façade.
Nathan talks, and Logan sits there like a child solemnly expecting a scolding. Still no reaction, no indication that he is, in fact, going to talk, to deal with this like a responsible adult. It is not the loss of control, the evidence that he is not dealing with the wolf as well as he had thought, that weighs so heavily onto Logan. It is what that loss of control represents – the revelation that he is not as together, as strong as he wants Nathan to believe. He wants to be perfect in the younger man’s eyes, wants to be everything and anything he needs because while Logan never gives anything away, there is a wealth of things he wants to share.
Things like how waking up to Nathan next to him makes Logan feel like that’s all he’ll ever need, all he’ll ever want. How Nathan coming home is the best part of his day. How every day he gets a little bolder, a little more ready to make that call back home because Nathan makes him stronger just by being there. How he wants to make that call home because he wants to open up the rest of his life to Nathan, share with him his family, his history. All these things, Logan wants to reveal, but can’t because of stupid reasons and inbred ideals like men don’t talk about these things.
He has let things sit unsaid in the past. He has let things decay and fall apart. This is too important. He’s pretty sure he’d lose his mind if he ever lost this.
Nathan sits unanswered, tends delicately to Logan’s knuckles. Gray eyes watch fingers run a washcloth over his hand, drawing away the blood. Logan swallows.
He breaks the silence.
”I love you, Nathan.” It’s quiet, hitched. He looks up briefly but can’t hold that gaze, looks down. ”So goddamned much.” Rough and broken, like a puppy growling through unshed tears.
Nate said:
The silence is haunting, sinks deep. A new round of oppressive quiet punctuates each statement, and Nathan finds himself unable to draw out even a single grunt of irritation or a subtle fluctuation in expression; he gives up, sullen, and responds in kind: with nothing. For a few aching, drawn-out moments, there is only the sound of the rain on the roof, at the windows, and Nate cements his focus on the simple act of needlessly cleaning the grit from Logan’s battered knuckles.
The man is patient, when he has to be – when the subject is something as important as Logan – but he’s already risked so much by letting this drag on, by letting the man believe he was under control, normal, fine. By not explaining any of this to him for fear of driving him further away. The change is big enough by itself, without all the weight of Logan’s sordid past dealings with werewolves added on, and Nate hadn’t wanted to risk that, not so soon. Nathan thinks this because, in his mind, there can be no other reason for the sudden drastic change in nature the hunter is experiencing; he lost control, slipped, and nearly killed a man. It’s enough to shatter anyone’s confidence.
There is a stirring, and Nathan sneaks a gentle glance upwards before returning to his work. He has no desire to snip whatever whisker-thin strands of silk are drawing Logan out of his reclusive shell, and fears ruining the moment by speaking, by looking. It is the hunter instead, then, that first finds his voice.
That the words spill over into a confession – a profession – is entirely unexpected.
He looks up at Logan, looks up at his man with the swollen jaw and busted lip, his friend who can’t meet his eyes as he exposes his heart, and time stands still. The hand on Logan’s squeezes tightly; the other rises, sets a gentle thumb on the hunter’s jaw, fingers curling under his chin to raise those eyes back up to his for the second time tonight. His blue gaze is unbroken and steady, firm beneath the line of his brow; undaunted, because he can do this. Because he knows, has known.
”I love you too, Logan.” There is force behind those words, an earnest need to make the man believe. ”Don’t you ever doubt that. You’re stuck with me, no matter what.” A promise, honest and true; a commitment that, a year ago, he wouldn't have thought himself capable of making again in this lifetime. That he has come so far is no small testament to Logan's own power, the sway in which he holds Nathan, the fidelity that has been creeping upon them for months.
There is no fear, no hesitance; there can be none. It is the most certain thing Nathan has ever felt.
Logan. said:
He is not a broken man, but he is weathered and a little tarnished around the edges. There are tears here, cracks there, a messy patchwork of experiences and regrets tethered together by nothing more than a man’s tenacity to push forward and carry on. Those threads tentatively keeping him whole were frayed to the point of breaking when Logan first stepped foot into Blackwater. He felt old, hollow, like he was reaching the end of the line. The world desaturated, became this lifeless, mundane static picture of robotic thought, obligated actions.
Then he crossed paths with a man he never thought he’d see again a year after they had parted ways.
A small thing, happenstance, an unexpected twist that sent the world flaring back into color.
He owes Nathan more than either man will either fully understand and Logan distresses over the knowledge that he will never be able to put his gratitude into proper, accurate words. Because there are none, not for this, not for something that defies definition.
Fingers beneath his jaw compel him to look up and so he does. Gray meets blue and holds. He feels a little foolish because he thinks he’s known, has known for a good long while, but it still hits him hard. Breaks his patchwork self into pieces, reforms him into something stronger, something without those cracks and tears to wear him down.
Logan sets his hand onto Nathan’s forearm, slides it up until he gently holds the werewolf’s wrist. He turns his head, presses the uninjured side of his chin, the corner of his mouth into Nathan’s palm. And just like that, Logan lets go. An invisible weight tangibly dissipates from his shoulders; the man, in his entirety, relaxes with an exhale.
"I won't." Because Logan trusts Nathan without hesitation. ”Been wanting to say that for a while.” His voice is rough with emotion, all gravel and grit, but also quiet. The backdrop of rain sets a gentle atmosphere; he doesn’t want to break it.
It is easier now, to talk. He’ll wonder later why he was so damned reluctant, why he felt like it would be awkward or difficult. ”Better late than never, I guess,” he says and the corner of his mouth twitches in the ghost of an apologetic smile. Logan drops his hand, along with Nathan’s, into his lap, holds it fast. When he falls silent, this time it is thoughtful, not at all evasive or cold.
”Nathan.” He looks up from where he was staring at their entwined hands. ”Thank you,” Logan says in earnest, with the certainty of a man ready to step forward. ”For everything.” For existing. For giving him a reason to stop running. For giving him a home. For being safe harbor.
”I honestly don’t know how you put up with my hardheaded ass. You must be some kind of saint.” There’s a grin spreading across his features but it stops, jilted because Logan’s lip is split and it kind of hurts to smile. ”But I’ll stop, being hardheaded, I mean. About talking, at least.” He knows Nathan wants to help him and it is clear that Logan needs it after the incident at the diner.
”M'probably still going to be hardheaded about other things.” There’s his familiar humor, mute and docile. He won’t wallow in depression or regret because Logan has Nathan, and Nathan is all he’ll ever need to move forward, undaunted.
Nate said:
Nathan had never expected Blackwater to turn him around – had never expected a man, met on a lonesome highway and then discarded in self-loathing and shame, to wheedle his way into his life so profoundly. There was a time when, if forced to confront it, the werewolf would have known with a hollow, dead certainty that he would never feel anything resembling love again; that such feelings had withered up and away, forsaken, nearly two years ago. That he’d never feel whole again. Healing is not a power he’d had any particular faith in, in those days, at least in matters of the heart; when you’re that down and out, it’s hard to imagine, hard to even remember, a time when anything might feel, have felt, anything like joy. Depression adulterates even memories.
Blackwater had done a rough, patch-up job of piecing the werewolf back together, of returning rough smiles and some of the light to his eyes; the effort is nothing compared to Logan’s easy influence. Time would have restored Nathan to something resembling a functioning human being, but Logan has made all difference between a life only half lived and some wholesome, almost forgotten existence of contentment, fulfillment.
It is always an even exchange between them; one life for another.
”I know.” And while it’s not something that has to be said in order to be felt, to be shared so completely, Nathan believes in the power of words; knows the strength and honesty of them when spoken by a man like Logan. That knowledge makes the moment all the sweeter. ”I know. You don’t have to thank me for it. For any of it. That’s… just what love is.” He’d give Logan the world if asked, but the simple trade of a heart for a heart comes without sacrifice; it’s not just caring in spite of any flaws, but loving the flaws themselves.
Because Nathan knows he’s not perfect, either; that he has asked so much of this man, who has given his all in return, and who can still look at him with the same eyes each morning. No judgment, no demands, no fear.
Nate’s thumb runs a slow, affectionate path across Logan’s cheek, brushing on the ragged edge of stubble and skin, before their hands drop and he edges forward, close. He rests his forehead against Logan’s, shuts his eyes slow and leisurely, letting a smile play on his lips; their fingers remain tightly entwined.
”I’d like that,” he says softly. ”But you wouldn’t be Logan without being a stubborn ass, at least sometimes.” And then those blue eyes crack open, fixing the other man with a hard stare, smile grown into a playful smirk. ”Besides, you already promised you’d put up with my shit. For-ever.” He emphasizes each syllable. ”What choice do I have?” It’s playful, cajoling; Nathan’s ability to withstand Logan’s nature has nothing to do with obligatory tolerance, and everything to do with the fact that he just does. It doesn’t need more thought than that.
He pulls his head away, wets his lips in pause, in thought.
”When you’re ready,” which is a nice way of saying that there will be no more waiting games, but Logan may still have the illusion of control, ”we’ll talk about it.” The serious stuff. The important stuff. The werewolf stuff. Nathan may not be the best teacher, but who is? It’s not like there’s a handbook.
There should probably be a handbook.
A slow, impish smile slides itself across his features, and he leans back, meeting Logan in a mischievous gaze.
”…Or you could just ask me, now. One thing, anything, it doesn't matter - what's the most ridiculous rumor you've ever heard? Ever wanted to know? I’ll tell you all our embarrassing secrets, if you ask the right questions.” It's a gamble, but he makes it - he's tired of waiting. Nathan wants to share this, not force it upon him, and maybe some levity will allow Logan to let him in.
Logan. said:
”Come hell or high water,” he agrees. Logan is committed, determined to follow through with his promise. Their strange story of happenstance ended up in a place Logan would never had predicted, but is so damned grateful for. He knows without a whisper of a doubt, that this is home. That he is done running, finished leading a wayward and ultimately goalless lifestyle. Forty-three years old and he finally understands what he wants –needs- in life. Humor in the lines of his face, in his eyes. ”And we both know what would happen if you threw me out. I’d just end up scratching at your door until you let me back in.” He has seen the grooves carved into the front door – another item on his to-do list.
His wolf brought him home. Logan may not understand the whole werewolf thing but he feels like there’s something important behind that. Even the animal in him knows what he needs, where he belongs. It’s a comforting thought, though it is clear that there are issues. Issues like nearly strangling a man to death. Logan has dealt with enough uncontrollable werewolves to know that, if he ever fell to that, he’d deserve the bullet in his head. A sobering thought, but Logan is a prideful man, one that believes in his own strength of character. Gray eyes wander over Nathan’s face. He also has a willing, committed teacher. The odds are in his favor.
There will always be a part of Logan reluctant to address problems openly but this is a relationship, and he is willing to change to make things work. He made a promise, he's made a lot of them to Nathan, and Logan will follow through. He will always follow through. The topic is not so much breached as it is prodded, and he can't help but feel a surge of affection at how gently Nathan is handling the situation. His barriers are lowered and he has no desire to throw them back up.
”Oh hell,” There’s a short laugh and he scratches at his chin, bemused. ”Sweetheart,” he says in a chiding tone, ” I was a hunter and… there are so many goddamned stories, I wouldn’t know where to begin.” Werewolves are steeped in lore involving grisly, scary things like abducting people and eating them. There are legends involving the full moon, theories on the uses of silver and wolfsbane. Those are the tame stories hunters share with one another. There’s a whole other list filled with things ranging from the weird, to the ridiculous, to ideas that make a man wonder if whoever came up with it had a werewolf fetish.
Nathan asked for the most embarrassing rumor and Logan sits up straight, and decides to deliver. ”Wolves are all instinct, I’ve seen them in action.” A fair start, factual. Logan places a hand at the back of his neck, rubs at it as he tries to deliberate on the best wording. There is none, so he just goes for it. ”I’m not gonna go after every bitch in heat and try to make puppies, am I?” Hunter stories involving defiled neighborhood dogs that miraculously conceive are, sadly, a thing.
Logan, on boring nights and long drives, has wondered if that kind of thing falls under bestiality. A deep thinker, this one.
Nate said:
The werewolf had asked for the worst, and Logan has not spared him. There’s a brief, sobering moment where Nathan recognizes the dehumanizing intent behind rumors like that – that they’re no better than dogs, feral – and he quickly sweeps it under the rug. Nate places a hand on Logan’s thigh and gazes dramatically into his eyes, brow furrowed and lips a tight line.
”Yes. Yes, Logan, you will. All the bitches.” And it’s a miracle that he delivers it with a straight face.
The moment passes and he breaks, unable to keep himself from laughing, face creased with the force of his grin; it’s another minute before he can finally meet Logan’s eyes again. ”But really - really? No – is that like, a thing? You guys think about that?” Who does that? Nate comes to the conclusion that hunters either need to a), get out more – and to a bar or something, not a crazy shack in the woods – or b) get some friends. Preferably ones that don’t stalk around in the forest at night and think about things like werewolf sex. With dogs. ”Sounds like someone with too much time on their hands.”
The wolf stirs, stretches, voices its displeasure at even mocking the concept of Logan chasing down stray dogs – or anything else, for that matter. The stab of possession Nathan feels is sudden, protective, and untamed.
”…But no, you’re not gonna have a problem. I’ll keep you from making any puppies.” He smiles. The beast will keep a territorial handle on him; that much he can feel.
Nate rises just long enough to slide himself over to the couch, settling in comfortably next to the older man. He gives maintaining an upright position a shot, abandons it just as quickly, and slides down to recline with the back of his head in Logan’s lap, legs draped over the arm of the sofa. He kicks off his shoes lazily, takes Logan’s hand in his and just holds it contentedly on his chest.
”Do you have, like, hunter parties? Conventions? You all show up, sit around and flex your muscles, share your ridiculous stories about bestiality wolf porn… Sounds like a good time.” He smiles slyly, peeks upwards. ”We should go. I think we’d be a hit.”
Logan. said:
There is a moment of disbelieving dread and then, thankfully, Nathan gives up the game. Logan shakes his head and looks to the side, that silent way of saying alright, you almost got me. ”Smartass.” There is nothing but affection in the hunter’s voice. ”Good, I’d make a horrible father,” he jests and relaxes back against the couch as Nathan settles into his lap. Fingers find their way into Nathan’s hair, play with the strands idly. He loves the texture of it, the length. Logan would probably throw an internal fit if Nathan ever decided to cut it.
”Yeah. We all show up in plaid and compare gun sizes.” It’s not far from the truth. Logan has, more often than not, gotten into deep conversations about the merits of one gun over the other. ”Of course, mine was always the biggest. No contest.” Off-color innuendo is always a good sign and Logan chuckles at the lameness of his own joke. ”We don’t have annual hunter gatherings. But we have our spots. Safe houses, things like that. Usually the property of hunter families; places to refuel and lay low, if we’re in trouble.” Logan, for his own part, has never dipped too far into the hunter culture and circle. That innate level of discretion is why the Duvall family is among the lower echelons of the hunter society.
”One guy, he told me a story. Told me he saved his own hide by distracting a werewolf with a game of fetch,” he rolls his shoulder in a shrug. He’s always thought that story was all kinds of ridiculous. There are a litany of other tales; werewolf piss scares away critters, use it to protect your gardens from vermin. Don’t have sex with a werewolf, you’ll catch the virus. Logan, astute scientific man that he is, tested the sex theory –several times—and proved the hypothesis wrong. The sacrifices he makes in the pursuit of knowledge should be entered into legend.
Logan falls quiet, takes a moment to enjoy the peace, to listen to the rain hit the roof. He feels bolder, more willing to talk than he has in a long time. The hunter cycles through his list of things he wants to say, but can’t quite choose, can’t quite settle on something that feels right. Logan decides to borrow from Nathan’s tactics. ”You let me ask you something. It’s only fair I return the favor.” His turn to take that gamble. ”Ask me whatever you want. No matter what, no matter how embarrassing. And I promise to answer.”
Like any man, he has his regrets, he has those memories that he’d rather not look back into. Twenty years he spent running, trying to outrun those ghosts. Looking back at them now, those specters and skeletons in his closet no longer seem so threatening. Nathan has that effect. Like magic.
Nate said:
”Of course yours is the biggest, dear,” Nate replies, patronizing, reaching his free hand up to pat Logan’s shoulder - eyes still alight from his successful prank. ”I’m sure they were all very impressed.”
As Logan talks, Nathan finds himself frowning; finds that he doesn’t like the way the man uses the word ‘we,’ not anymore; it’s not simply because he knows Logan doesn’t quite belong to that boy’s club any longer. It’s because he’s better than that, an individual apart from the rest via heart and soul and little things like a werewolf boyfriend – or maybe that’s just what Nate wants to believe, just his jealousy talking. Nathan has never met another hunter, has no base upon which to make any real sort of comparison (barring Lucas, of course, whom Logan has assured him is a twisted sort of exception), but he thinks it’s true. It pleases him to believe that Logan is different, incapable of that blind viciousness.
”And don’t put too much stock in the fetch thing,” he adds evasively. No one’s ever exactly thrown his wolf a stick before, and he doesn’t feel too sure about the rumble of excitement that courses through him at the idea. He is trying to make a point that werewolves are not as blindly animalistic as dogs, thank you very much – but it seems the beast disagrees. He makes a note to hide Lark’s tennis balls. ”I’m just glad you didn’t believe that if I’d bit you in bed, I’d turn you.”
A calm silence settles between them, and Nate watches Logan through half-lidded eyes, face turned to lay his cheek against the man’s stomach.
Nathan is a private man concerning matters of his past. Logan has been a rare exception – someone who has caught glimpses and hints of a sordid history through brief windows the werewolf had meant to leave closed – but he also makes it easier to bear the burden. As far as Nate would like to believe, his life began the moment Logan walked into it; everything else can be behind them, water under the bridge, and he would be content in never knowing what came before. They can live here, in the present. The prompting, though, sends a new litany of questions through his mind, a fierce curiosity that wills him to take advantage of the offer.
How many men – women – came before him? Has Logan loved like this before?
How many men has he killed in cold blood?
They’re all wrong. Things he doesn’t want to say, doesn’t really need the answers to. He swallows; an open invitation into all the things about Logan he’s interested in, but would never ask, and he can’t pick the one thing that might be worth knowing. That might be important. Nate reaches up with a hand to touch Logan’s face softly, trace the laugh lines worn into his cheek, opposite his busted lip.
”Tell me about your family,” he says finally. It’s not humorous, it’s not indecent – it’s just what Nathan wants to know.
Logan. said:
Logan has his father to thank for the ideals and methods that set him apart from hunters like the Corbins. The Duvall brothers were raised with an understanding that good and evil come in all shapes and sizes, that all men, humans and werewolves alike, have the same capacity for monstrous acts. It’s an old family code – to judge carefully and, if they are called to action, to act without malice. John was a good man.
The light touch against his face inspires a quiet smile and Logan considers his family. The Duvall clan is small; the family tree sparse of branches. In his mind’s eye, he can recall every face, every name with rueful clarity. Homesickness no longer hits him so hard, feels more like a phantom ache than an open wound. Logan looks back on those times and it’s like he’s watching a film. There’s someone that looks like him, talks like him, but they aren’t him. A different man. He’s changed – and he hopes it’s been for the better.
”Well, there’s Benjamin – Ben but never Benny,” he says wistfully, humor warming his bourbon voice. ”He’s my younger brother. Nearly a foot taller than me and twice as wide.” Logan is by no means a small man – he’s tall, broad-shouldered, decently built – but compared to his brother, he’s a light weight. ”Ben’s a good guy. Weird as all hell, but a good guy. He, ah, went to clown school.” Logan can only imagine the kind of terror his ox of a brother inspired in people suffering from clown phobia.”He runs the family shop now, but he still wears his goddamned rainbow suspenders.” He thinks about Ben’s wife and their multiple children, decides to leave them for later.
Logan’s mind moves to his parents and the humor dissipates. ”Victoria – that’s my mother. Good woman. Kept me and Ben in line when we were snot-nosed brats. She’s the best homemaker you could imagine.” Home cooked meals. A clean house. Comfort when they were sick and bedridden. Logan’s childhood may have been different than most on account of their hunting heritage, but his mother made it feel normal.
”My father…” he trails off, swallows down the sudden verbal roadblock. He made a promise to be open. Logan pushes forward. ”We argued a lot. About nothing. Everything. It’s just because we were both so goddamned stubborn.” Victoria had always said that Logan got his hardheaded nature from his father. ”He had heart disease,” he says, noting the thoughts as they come, not feeling to need to organize them. ”I was angry back then. We got into a huge fight about the family shop-- stupid, pointless stuff. I packed up my truck, hit the road and didn’t look back.” Logan left Alaska for a different reason but the fallout with his father was the proverbial last straw.
A familiar guilt gnaws cold in his gut but Logan feels a rising need to talk about this; to put into words one of his greatest regrets and most bitter of lessons. ”Kept telling myself I’d call and make amends. Then I’d put it off. Tell myself I’d do it tomorrow, later.” The road kept going and he kept following it. And before he knew it, there was gray in his hair and lines on his face. ”Then I ran out of tomorrows.” Heart disease. He didn’t even go back for the funeral; felt too much like the black sheep, couldn’t stand the thought of looking at his mother. Didn’t want to deal with the disappointment he was sure he’d see in her eyes, that he was sure he deserved.
”He was a good man.” And Logan’s done talking about his family.
Nate said:
A comfortable sigh, and Nathan just shuts his eyes, relaxes, soothed by the sound of Logan’s voice. He just listens, hardly interrupts – lets the man talk.
”Your brother sounds like a bear. A… clown-bear.” Except there’s probably a better word for him, because Nate likes to think of Logan as a bear and if Ben is bigger, which boggles the mind, the word just doesn’t apply. ”Clown-sasquatch.” Far more accurate. ”I’d like to meet him.”
He’d like to meet all of them; likes dreaming that they can be normal, functional, can have family gatherings and go on vacations and sleep all day. The most simple of things seem brighter, more romantic with Logan – everyday activities that take on a new life. Nate doesn’t think he’s ever wanted something like that before, to feel part of a bigger picture, included. Family life was never really a thing for him, and certainly not something to aspire to.
The conversation turns dark, moody, and Nate presses his face into the folds of Logan’s shirt.
”He raised a good son,” is all he can manage, soft and true. The quiet lingers, gloomy and deep, before Nathan can find his voice again. He fills the void with his own words, with confessions, with the barest hint of sympathy.
”I haven’t seen my parents since I moved out.” As though it were yesterday, recent, and not nearly fifteen years ago. ”Well, moved out isn’t really right. Ran away.” But that’s not quite it, either – it would have happened, had things continued down that same path, but getting mauled and forced into a pack had rather sped it all up. ”I was bitten when I was sixteen. Didn’t have much choice in it, what happened, where I ended up, but I think things worked out alright, in the end.” It just took a decade to get there – but admittedly, uncomfortably, the wild years in between hadn’t been that bad, either. He just wouldn’t want to relive them now. ”We didn’t really have a good relationship anyway. I don’t think about them much.”
There’s regret there, too – a long stretch of time spent feeling like he could never go home, until ignoring it got easy and the feelings just went away. The hollowness left behind is more routine than any true emotion; a feeling that he should feel guilty, should at least fake it in order to seem human, but all he can do is just hurt in the fact that he doesn’t. That not missing them has gone from an act of bitterness to an effortless… nothing.
Nathan rolls his head away, slides an open palm up under Logan’s shirt, fingers spread to rest chastely on the man’s stomach – just for the simple need to touch him, to feel that he’s there. Eyes reopen, slip upwards, find that grey pair he knows so well and lock onto them with a barely-managed smile. Family might not have been the best topic, but they’d broached it, and now Nate’s dying to know—
”Will your mom like me?”
Will, because it is no longer a hypothetical.
Logan. said:
Logan has dealt with the ghost of his father, the lingering guilt, for years. He has thought back to those days they spent together, bonding over fishing and hunting. John was the one that taught Logan all the important things in life – how to change a tire, how to fix an engine, how to stand up for what’s right – how to be a man. He isn’t sure what he’s after, absolution, maybe. Forgiveness. Whatever that elusive thing is, Logan feels one step closer now, after disclosing his mistake to Nathan.
A half-hearted smile and Logan listens to what Nathan has to share. It’s hard to imagine Nathan as a runaway but then again, it’s hard to imagine him as anything else that the person who, at present, is laying in his lap. Sixteen is a young age to be bitten, to have your life so irrevocably changed. Logan wonders how the werewolf managed, wonders if there was someone there to hold his hand and teach him like he does Logan. There’s a sting of jealousy but Logan smothers it down. Competing with ghosts is pointless but he can’t help it, can’t help but be envious of the memories Nathan has made with other men, women.
”Yeah,” he agrees, and thinks that things worked out in the end for the both of them. Calling a finish to his constant traveling was a long time coming. A year ago, Logan thought his life would end either in a hunt gone wrong (he came close) or a car crash. Bam, gone, just like that without ever having owned up to his fears and calling back home. Now things are different, brighter, and hopeful despite the fact he’s got wolf in his blood.
A wolf that took control and dragged his sorry ass back to Nathan. Logan decides he likes his wolf.
He doesn’t miss how Nathan words his question – will, not would. And if there’s any residual reluctance to man up and visit home, it’s gone now, busted clean through and burned away. ”She’d love you.” Victoria doesn’t know about Logan and his more-than-friendly views on men, but he can’t see his mother caring. She’d be more upset to learn about his sordid history with people whose names he never even bothered to learn. ”She’d make you feel right at home – then try to drown you in her cooking."
She will think that Nathan needs more meat on his bones, because compared to the Duvall men, everyone needs more meat on their bones. The thought of Nathan politely trying to contend with a mountain of food, Ben’s bizarre antics, and a gaggle of nieces and nephews, sends a flare of affectionate longing through Logan. He’s inspired, committed – he wants to make that image a reality.
”I could call, figure out when our schedules meet up. We could spend a week or two up there, and let you meet everyone.” The nearest holiday is Thanksgiving, but that’s months away. Logan looks down, runs his fingers gently over Nathan’s scalp. ”What do you think?” There is a lingering fear about seeing his mother but it is overwhelmed by the excitement. He wants to show Nathan off. Show his family that – hey, look, I did something right, for once.
Nate said:
Nathan rolls over slowly, towards the back of the couch, and wraps his arms about Logan’s waist, burying his face tiredly against the other man’s stomach. He feels like he could just lay here forever, Logan’s hands in his hair, and never want.
If only everything could be so easy.
He wonders, briefly, if Logan heading back home to his rural-type hunter family with a werewolf boyfriend in tow is the best idea – but the man doesn’t seem put off by the idea, seems excited, and Nate can’t help but smile in return. He’d want to show off, too, if he had anyone to parade the man around in front of; hell, Nathan wants to truss him up and cart him around town like they won’t be verbally assaulted. Again.
”I’d like that,” he murmurs, words muffled up against Logan’s shirt, and he just can’t bother to care. Dreams of the food that will be heaped upon him, and the his inevitable death under a pile of pancakes that he fails to eat himself out of (and so dies happy) flutter through his head, make him squeeze the other man in gentle appreciation. ”She can cook me all the food she wants. Have you seen me eat?” It’s rhetorical. Nathan’s been eating every last scrap of Logan’s homecooked meals each night for the past week, and cleaning out their leftovers in record time. He still consumes calories like he’s 17, and has the metabolism to match.
Roaming hands slide up the back of Logan’s shirt, clinging. He turns his head slightly in response to the hunter’s suggestion, his question, and blue eyes meet grey in curiosity and interest.
”You would really do that? You’d want to?” Nathan doesn’t honestly believe that Logan would lead him on, but he’s still surprised at the sudden offer. His chest warms with affection at the idea that Logan wants to take him to meet his mother. They’re serious, committed, regardless of any intricate mating rituals that are meant to plague dating lives, but every new little step in their relationship – words spoken, mothers introduced – still sets a fire in Nathan’s heart. ”Call. I’ll see when I can get off work – we’ll go.”
As if in response, in preparation, the werewolf’s stomach groans a loud protest, reminding him that somewhere along the line they’d skipped dinner entirely. That abandoned bacon cheeseburger is sounding pretty good right about now. Nathan releases Logan to haul himself back upright, slowly, all hands and elbows and entirely unnecessary bodily contact. He gives a slow and leisurely stretch that cracks a joint or two in his tense spine, scratches his side idly.
”Guess we should eat something, too, while we’re at it.” He gives Logan a small smile, then leans in close and presses a lingering, ghost of a kiss just below his ear.
”I love you,” a new repeated mantra – just because he can.
