It was the second time the Professor had asked Logan to babysit - no, "watch over the children" -- this week and he was even less happy about it now than the first time. He should be out there helping Jean and Storm, looking for what he must have missed the first time, not stuck here again playing nursemaid to a bunch of scared kids.
The school was still a mess. They were all a mess, really. The younger mutants were finally sleeping, Logan taking pity on them and amassing as many mattresses as he could into a classroom so they could all sleep in the same room, in a pile like puppies. He could hear, maybe just sense, Rogue whispering softly; he imagined her touch was comforting even through the gloves. Wasn't she growing up fast. With a boyfriend. Bobby. He had to laugh, remembering how the boy marked his territory at their first meeting. Like a cold hard handshake would be the scariest thing Wolverine had faced yet.
Wasn't quite so tough when the storm troopers broke down the doors, though. They had been caught in the kitchen and Logan had sensed Bobby's fear then. Knew he had forgotten he had power to defend himself, was just a young, frightened boy trying hard to adjust to too many things at once. Logan grabbed him by the arm, stepped in front of him, shielding him. Then pushed him down behind the counter because he shouldn't see what Wolverine could do to frail human bodies.
Scene at his parents' house was, quite possibly, worse. That smart-ass kid flicking the lighter, and Bobby's parents asking him to be something he couldn't be, and the brother not even looking at him. Logan sensed Bobby's fear again, his confusion and despair at that; wished he could take it from him but had nothing to offer in its place. Then the fucking fireballs in the front yard. Smart-ass kid deserved a good beating for that little stunt.
So, bad couple of days all round. So bad his claws were still itchy, the tips sliding in and out of their sheaths with the regularity of a pulse. Nervous tic. Every sob, every thump against the floor, every soft breeze through the broken windows set his nerves twitching. He walked the hallways, sniffing, listening, checking every dark corner. His boots crunched the occasional crystal of glass.
Fuck but he needed a smoke and a drink.
Made his way back down to the kitchen. Was surprised to see Bobby there again, eating ice cream from the carton.
"Déjà vu all over again, eh, kid?"
Bobby jumped guiltily.
"Hey, no big deal. Enjoy it. You OK?"
"Um, yes. No." A sound suspiciously like a sob disguised as a cough. "Maybe."
"Well, let me know when you're sure." Didn't mean to make the kid feel bad, but there it was. Head down, chin just barely quivering, deep breaths. For all his enhanced senses, he sure didn't have any sensitivity. Shit.
"Here, kid. Do your magic on this beer for me. Make it frosty."
"Do my mutant thing, right? That's what I'm good for, useful that way. That's why I'm here," said in a too-loud voice to hide the quavering.
"Not mutant. Gifted, remember? Your gift is your talent." Shit. Again. Logan recognized this song: if it's so wonderful, why does everyone hate me?
"My brother Ronny is good at basketball." Bobby's eyes were focused on the far wall; he could have been talking to himself. "He's not mutant because he runs fast, not mutant because he can sink a ball from mid-court no net, not mutant when he can weave around people like they were frozen. He has a talent people love, I have a 'talent'," sarcasm as thick as his ice cream, "people hate."
And the unspoken question: why can't I be loved, too?
"Can't change your fate, kid, got to play the cards you're dealt. Want a cigar?" His third beer.
That brought those ice-blue eyes back to him. Got a rueful chuckle, too. God, but the kid was young. Might as well start toughening up now; wasn't going to get any easier.
"You can't smoke in here. The Professor..."
"How's the Professor going to find out unless someone who should be in bed sleeping not eating ice cream straight out of the carton tells him?"
Bobby could see the logic in that and shut up. "Go ahead and smoke, then. I can't sleep anyway."
"They're not coming back, kid. You can rest easy." Fifth beer.
Bobby just shook his head, went back to poking chocolate chips around in the by-now soupy ice cream.
"C'mon, kid, let's go. A lot going on tomorrow. You need your beauty sleep." Getting a little impatient now. Not used to dealing with angsty teenagers. Jean was better at this, so were Ororo, and Scott, too. Hell, just about anybody but him.
Again with that flash of ice-blue eyes, fearful, almost. Seventh beer. Long silence.
"Can't."
"Can't? Or don't want to?" Tenth beer.
"Both, I guess," Bobby admitted. "I share a room with John."
"Let's go find you another bed for tonight, then."
"Will you stay?"
They lay on the bed together. Bobby facing the wall; Logan, arm behind his head, sprawled out on his back, taking up more than his fair share.
It really shouldn't be peaceful, but it was. The night breezes had died down, as did the small sounds in the house, and the beer was slowly circulating through his veins. Mellow. A rare state. If Bobby was a tight little knot of unhappiness against his side, well, there really wasn't anything he could do about that.
Bobby, however, thought different. He hadn't been away from home all that long, remembered the comfort of another person when you're sad in the dark. He rolled and nestled next to Logan's big warm body, stretched an arm out and laid his hand on Logan's stomach. His thumb traced unconscious designs on the cotton shirt.
"John says all mutants are destined to be alone. He says we never are loved or love anyone because we're deformed," he began, words muffled, body temperature dropping a bit.
If Logan looked down now, he was sure he'd be confronted with those intense blue eyes and that was more than he could handle. Love was a touchy subject for him. Let Jean explain it, she seemed to be an expert on what was acceptable love and who was destined to be alone.
"John says that we can never have children because males carry the mutant genes and passed them down to the next generation," Bobby's voice was a little more insistent, he reached up to turn Logan's face to him, but Logan resisted.
This was definitely a job for Jean. Or Ororo. Or Scott.
"John says that that's part of the plan. That Professor Xavier is just trying to supervise the extinction of mutants." The hand on Logan's cheek became a little firmer, a need to make eye contact driving it. "John says that we should be fighting the humans, that we should look for a new leader."
And this one definitely had the Professor's name all over it.
"John says that... that... that we, me and Marie, can never be anything. Can't get close." A hitched breath, a burrowing closer. All mellow alcohol had fled Logan's body, leaving only the irritated kind behind; he stiffened against Bobby's need. "Is that true? We can never touch each other because she will hurt me and I will freeze her?"
"John says" - God, did that kid ever stop talking? Either one of them? - "that I could even hurt myself. Like accidentally. Like if I, you know, do it alone, I could freeze it and snap it like an icicle," His voice, attempting a laugh and failing, trailed off in embarrassment.
"John says...."
"Shut up, will you? Just shut up. What makes you think that punk pyromaniac knows anything?" Logan turned on his side and gripped the kid's shoulders, shook him hard. Dumb kid. He could see why that lighter-flicker would find this one a tempting victim. Big blue eyes unsure, wanting to trust, spikey hair adding to the impression that everything surprised him, gullible enough to believe anything. Looking for love in all the wrong places and too naïve to know it.
"If that's true, why doesn't he burn his off? Did you ask him that? You think Scott sets off laser beams every time he shoots? Do I let my claws anywhere near my best part? Does Ororo calls down thunder and lightning anytime she's feeling good? That mutant shit doesn't stop you from doing what you need to do. Jesus, you're stupid."
Great. Now with the sad face, blue eyes blinking fast, flush pinking his cheeks. That so did not call out warm fuzzy feelings in Logan, just made him hard and twitchy, angry, incapable of helping. Once again, second best to Scott. Or Jean. Or anybody.
Well, there was one thing he did do better than anyone else, he thought, and he had Jean to thank for that. He pushed Bobby around and spooned up behind him, one arm under him, holding him close. Bobby was unresisting, still hurting, hurting more now, actually. Nuzzled his hair, rubbed against the back of his neck. The kid smelled good and clean, though his skin was getting colder.
"I'm going to show you that firebug knows nothing," Logan whispered, sending a shiver down Bobby's spine. Before he could re-consider his course of action, Logan slid his big warm hand down Bobby's pajama bottoms and grasped his soft cock, gently gliding his hand up and down the shaft. The boy jerked back against Logan, went cold and started to say something, but Logan clapped a hand over his mouth.
"Sshh. This is going to teach you something, prove something to you. Help you feel good, help you sleep," he crooned, voice reaching Bobby even if his words weren't. "Then you'll know that you can't believe everything you hear. That you're responsible for your own happiness." Definitely reaching another part of him, a part that was slowly filling and lengthening and standing at attention. Was warm, hot even.
"Feels good, doesn't it? Not cold, no ice. Nothing bad will happen. Put your hand down there, Bobby," Logan whispered. "Touch yourself."
He pushed a long, hard thigh between Bobby's legs from behind, spreading and raising him up a little, continuing to stroke him gently. Bobby shook his head and clasped his hands to his chest. His lips moved against Logan's palm, mouthing silent protests. Logan released Bobby's cock and that got a soft moan.
"C'mon, kid. This is going to feel so good. You're going to love it, love doing it."
He grabbed a clenched hand and forced it open, guided it down between Bobby's legs, molding it around Bobby's cock.
No reaction, so Logan settled his hand over Bobby's where it lay motionless and slowly began pulling and squeezing. "Doesn't that feel good to you? You like that? So hard and silky. Feels different here than here. Rub right there, right under the head. Oh, that makes you twitch, doesn't it? That's what you like."
Bobby's arm remained stiff, refusing to take part, shaking his head no.
This was a challenge, a contest, the damn kid was going to enjoy this. Logan put all his considerable skills to work. He breathed soft encouragement into Bobby's ear, tightened his arm around him, rocked his hips against Bobby's ass in an irresistible rhythm, denim-covered leg rubbing sensitive inner thighs and crease. All the time, his hand, fingers interlocked with the boy's, kept up an erotic tempo: down, up, swirl around the head, soothing with the drops of fluid at the tip.
"Oh, yes, you feel so good in my hand. So big and hard. I can feel you moving against me. Getting wet, aren't you? Feel it coming up hard? And you're hot, not cold."
Bobby was no match for Logan's experienced touch. He succumbed to the words, the pace, finding his own rhythm and started to get into it. Body tensing against Logan's, buttocks tightening and relaxing, breath coming in staccato cadence now.
Logan slowly liberated his fingers, let Bobby take over; nothing was better than one's own hand and the sooner Bobby learned this little relaxation tip, lost his fear, the better off he'd be. He slid his hand away from Bobby's mouth, down his neck and softly worked his nipple, earning a gasp and a faltering in rhythm while this new sensation was processed.
"Again," Bobby said, harsh and desperate, so Logan did it again, and then to the other one. His other hand held Bobby's hip, pinning him, knowing that restricting his movement now would ratchet up the heat. Sure enough, Bobby's body was arching and writhing, searching for leverage to thrust up but thwarted by the big hand holding him down.
"Let me move, let go, please let me move." Babbling, punctuated with grunts and groans and gasps. "Oh god, oh god, oh god, it feels so good."
Logan let him fight it a bit, then eased away, preferring to stroke and pull the tight sac, rolling each ball in turn. Breath and body now erratic, hand making wet sounds, moving faster and faster. The kid was hot, jesus, was he hot, jerking off like he'd never done it before.
Logan was himself losing control. Difficult to feel that lithe body working against him, hear the panting breaths, knowing the pleasure that was about to come. He shouldn't, this wasn't about him, all for the kid. But he caved, indulged his own need, pushed his trapped erection up hard over and over against Bobby's tight ass.
Bobby pressed back hard against Logan for a long, impossible minute, then bowed his back up, a series of breathy gasps followed by wordless moans. Then an explosion of satisfaction, "Oh god, oh god, oh god, yes, yes, yes" as he spilled hot all over his hand, his chest, Logan's hand, the bed.
Pressing one hand over Bobby's heaving chest and his pounding heart, Logan softly stroked him with the other, gentled him down. He shook a pillow free and used the case to clean them both up, Bobby flinching a little as cotton rubbed against his over-sensitized member but too tired and relaxed to care.
Seeing that relief, that satiation, did nothing for Logan's own condition, hard and hot and trapped in his tight pants. Tried to maintain the mellow long enough to ease the kid to sleep but he was going to need relief soon. Awkwardly standing up, rearranging himself, had to get out of the room.
"Good, wasn't it, kid?" Logan smiled. He recognized the dazed look, the slack breathing. This kid was a goner. Hooked on a new habit, but too tired to know it just yet. "Didn't freeze anything, didn't snap it off, didn't shoot ice cubes."
Bobby nodded but his eyes were blinking slowly, sleep coming in fast. Logan tucked him back into his pajama bottoms, pulled the blankets up to his chin and ruffled that spikey hair. "Now will you stop believing everything that kid tells you?"
That riled his dormant anger at John again. Stupid punk, poisoning Bobby's mind with hateful rhetoric. Someone ought to teach him a lesson. This time, Logan didn't think that someone, anyone, would be better equipped to do so, not Scott, not Jean, not even the Professor. This was one lesson that Logan was highly qualified to teach.
|
