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Logan prowled the night, uneasy and unable to sleep, lightening crashing outside the mansion so close he could feel the thunderous vibrations down to his adamantium covered bones. The shadows were deep in the hallways, even for his eyes, the sky charcoal dark and rolling with unnatural clouds that he glimpsed through the occasional crack in a heavy drape. The power had failed again under the onslaught of Ororo's wrath, which never seemed to be far away. Whether in ecstasy or fury, the Goddess made sure that her people understood her power.
An anguished scream came once again from above, the baritone voice scaling upward around those harsh German tones. Kurt was praying and cursing in metaphysical agony. Logan winced as the shout came again, this time filled with hot lust, sorrowful love, harsh hate, and cold, absolute conviction. She was torturing Kurt – tempting him with all she had. He was denying her.
Logan struggled to remain calm, to resist interfering: she was not torturing his body, only his soul. Ororo wanted worshippers, Kurt most of all, but Kurt had his own God, and in his image, Nightcrawler would suffer willingly for his beliefs. His German friend had begged him not to interfere from the shadows of the chapel after the first night she came to tempt him, and Logan would not deny him. Wolverine knew without a doubt that Nightcrawler's struggle against the Goddess was the only thing keeping him from giving in to the effects of the virus. Kurt was in danger of losing his mind to save his soul, but Logan had known from the conviction in his scent and voice that it was something he had to do.
Gritting his teeth against the sounds that evoked the agony of his darkest nightmares, Logan prowled the velvet darkness, needing to satisfy the virus accentuated urge to keep his territory secure. Despite the anguish it always caused him, he knew his roaming silently reassured the few kids that understood he was protecting them. The others he deliberately frightened into their rooms and out of harm's way.
***
Hank was busy working down in the basement as always, the lab windows now carefully blackened to hide the isolated power circuits connected to the generator that the damn Cajun was somehow able to sneak back in. The blue furred doctor rarely left the lab these days, afraid both that he would slip and somehow expose his immunity to the plague or simply draw someone's attention to his efforts to find a cure. No one thought it was strange that he spent most of his time in the lab – that's how it had always been – and for once, Logan was glad for the man's natural shyness.
***
The soft whimpers alternating with deep groans from the first floor hallway told him that Scott and Jeannie were 'busy' as always these days, and from the absence of pain in Scott's tone, he knew they were just getting started. Logan drew breath from his mouth - he did not want to smell them, to want them again. Scott hated what had happened – was continuing to happen to her - to them - but he simply couldn’t resist Jeannie's powerful allure. Logan sure as hell couldn't claim any different; when she called to him in that voice, he couldn’t help but go to her. Afterward he hated himself for it. And now they were in there rutting again, there wasn’t anything he could do that wouldn’t make it worse for Scott. Logan stared at the door, both wanting to go in and forget himself for a while but knowing it was the last thing he should do. The grandfather clock in the hall ticked many times too many before Logan bit his own lip viciously, the bright copper taste of fresh blood breaking the thrall of the sounds and scents. Stiff backed with resolve, he moved on.
***
"Jubilee and John?" Wolverine thought, stunned momentarily, as he came to a halt outside Marie's old room.
Fists balling instinctively at the thought of the blond kid all over Jubes, anger flooded through him, knuckles opening without thought. But blossoming equally strong within him, Wolverine couldn’t help but feel wicked satisfaction in the pairing. So many things threatened to surface from his swirling emotions – sympathy, protectiveness, anger, sorrow - he had to concentrate to stay calm so he didn’t do something stupid. Literally vibrating from the effort of ignoring the strong scents from the room and the demons they invoked, he drew a shuddering breath and made the choice to be pleased rather than pissed. He even allowed the rare glimmer of happiness to spread across his face as he forced rough hands to relax and claw tips to retract. His knuckles prickled as they healed, and his smile was short lived. Logan snorted softly in the velvet darkness, shaking his head. Out of the horror of all of this, the roses still bloomed – even if they were all blood red these days.
***
It was then he heard it: a soft, strangled sound barely detectible – even by his ears – over the gathering din of the storm. "The Cajun?" he whispered aloud, fear lancing through him cold and sharp. Wolverine launched himself at the door to Remy's room to listen.
The arrival of Remy LeBeau had changed everything, and they desperately needed him if they were to survive. He hated being dependent, needing the thief to keep Hank's work going until his head cleared, needing his skill at getting the things Hank required, needing him to help feed the kids. Logan deliberately choked back the tickle of the other new found needs he had – the ones that haunted the back of his mind when he thought of the tall, lean Cajun.
"Remy?" he whispered, his nose against the polished oak, sniffing for his scent. Wolverine knocked twice, then once, as was their signal.
Nothing.
The whimper came again on the heels of a blinding bolt of lightning, and the high keen of a German being torn by passion and conviction. Logan knew LeBeau was inside, but he did not answer.
For a long moment, Logan stood at the door, wondering if he dared knock again, if he dared to interfere. They couldn’t afford to draw attention from the others, but he couldn’t stand by and listen to those sounds without doing something. "Fuck," he muttered under his breath, hand rising to knock again. Again nothing.
The door was locked when he tried the handle, but with a quiet *SNIKT*, the lock wasn't an issue. Looking both ways down the hall and sensing no one nearby, Wolverine slipped into the Cajun's room and closed the door behind him.
"Remy," he whispered. He leaned back against the door until his eyes adjusted to the comparative brightness of room, his heart thudding hard in his chest. He could smell the other man here, his scent rich with the earthy-spiciness of French cologne overlaid with those damn French cigarettes. The scent made him hungry, but the whimpering made his blood run cold.
There was no response, but he could hear stifled breathing.
The brilliant flashes of the manipulated storm didn’t help his eyes, so he moved, half blind, to the window to pull the heavy drapes. "Gumbo, ya gotta answer," he rumbled softly into the room, straining to see as his eyes recovered.
It was the faint glimmer of a bright silver earring that caught his attention first. There, huddled in the farthest corner of the room, the Cajun was balled up between the end of the dresser and the walls. Rolled up like a baby, his arms thrown over his head as if to ward off imaginary blows, the thief shivered in the dark. "Remy," Logan whispered softly, but did not move to the younger man.
Lightning blazed bright through the heavy drapes, lighting the room as everything shook simultaneously with ear-splitting thunder that Logan more felt that heard. He could hear the shriek from above that followed, and the Cajun moaned in what sounded like pain, contracting further in on himself.
***
"Fuck!" Logan exclaimed, instantly furious and afraid. His hand flexed, his hands itching to loose his blades, but he resisted. He took a step toward the Cajun, and he groaned, a long-fingered hand coming up as of to ward him off. It stopped him in his tracks.
The lightning continued to flicker outside as he stood there, the wind battering the branches against the windows as he watched the Cajun rocking and writhing silently. Logan stood frozen, grappling with the instinctive urge to go to him, to protect him. Wolverine wavered on the balls of his feet, trying to figure out what to do. The storm was getting worse, he knew. Remy seemed to be afraid of him, but he didn’t know if the kid even knew who he was. Maybe Charles did something or Jeannie could have got to him. Logan dropped into a low crouch. Maybe he could get closer if he didn’t appear to be as threatening.
"Remy," he called out, soft and low in his whiskey and cigar burned voice, trying to be soothing, trying to soothe himself. "It's me - Logan."
Remy didn’t answer, convulsing as Kurt screamed something in German above. The soft whimpers that got worse with every new howl and shriek that came were shredding something inside him and he couldn’t stand by and watch. His lips curled in anger his hands shook a little, but he had no time to indulge the Wolverine and punish the enemy. He had to *do* something right here in this room.
With animal grace, Logan placed one hand down on the floor, fingers splayed, and then the other. Shifting down to all fours, he moved with deliberation toward Remy, all his anger and fear emptying out of him as he struggled to remember his conditioning of long ago and concentrate only on Remy. He couldn't spook the swamp rat, so he took his time, watching every move, every shift of every hair, as he approached. Lightning flashed again, and it was then he realized just how often he'd studied the tall, copper-haired man, how he knew the flex of his fingers as he smoked the thin, dark gitanes. He knew the sound his duster made when he moved through the Mansion. He knew the way he smelled after sex.
Logan stilled halfway to the man, knowing that he knew way too much, and much too little. Was he pack or was he just the enemy temporarily allied?
The hair on the back of his neck stood as he suddenly knew that there was a choice to be made, and he was the one that had to make it. Could he trust the Cajun? With everything?
Those were the stakes here – the Mansion, the X-Men, his life, the world. Logan knew choices: everyday he chose not to give in to the animal within; everyday he chose not to hurt his sick friends though by all rights he should. The rain beat a furious tattoo on the window glass and the trees scratched the stone as the wind whipped around the building. It was dark - so dark – and it was hard to think. It would be so easy just to let go, forget the Cajun, and surrender to the storm. He wasn't Scott, and he wasn't Charles, but, these days, they weren't themselves either, and he sure as hell couldn’t trust their judgment. When he joined the X-Men, he hadn’t wanted Cyke's job because he hadn’t wanted to make choices for anyone else. Wolverine knew in grisly detail what it was like not to have a choice. But here and now, the only choice he did not have, was not to choose. He was the one that had to decide for all of them, and the wrong choice would probably be fatal. Logan's head swam as he tried to think, tried to puzzle out the attack, the virus, the Cajun, and the fact Sinister had sent him. The chaos outside made it hard to think, hard to decide. Could he trust the Cajun – with everything?
A searing flash and a boom that instantly rattled the paintings on the walls drew his whirling emotions to the surface, and he let loose a howl that came from nowhere and everywhere all at once. The air in the room shifted, the curtains billowing out from the window, and the Cajun shuddered, gasping. Stunning, eerie red eyes flashed in the darkness.
It was decided in that instant – instinct over thought, just like he did everything else. Wolverine chose life, to have hope when everything here was darkness. Despite everything that he had seen, all the horrible things he'd done in his life, and all the reasons he knew better, Logan chose to trust the man before him. "Rems," he whispered almost inaudibly.
But with that instinctive choice, the rational part of his brain also knew that his choice was somehow… more than just for the others. There was a deeper reason, far more personal, that was flickering to life, and he tried the blink the flash dazzle out of his eyes, the hairs on the backs of his arms standing at the realization.
Still halfway across the room , Logan stayed stock still, trying to absorb what he now knew, trying to decide if he was being blinded by something he wasn't even sure he wanted. Hell, even if he chose to go to Remy, there was no guarantee he'd respond to him. Not the way he wanted, maybe not at all. Wolverine shifted his weight slightly, cocking his head to listen to the Cajun's breathing. Slowly clearing strobe dazzled eyes caught the barest flicker of crimson and a deep throb pulsed in his head and his chest.
Logan shook his head to shake off his doubts, shrugged his shoulders to loosen them, and snapped his head to one side, producing a symphony of dull metallic clicks. There never were any guarantees; he'd never lived his life halfway and this virus sure as hell wasn't going to change that. The problem was, Wolverine not only needed Gambit to be all right, but Logan wanted Remy to respond to him – not just the normal way. He wanted… he wanted more than he dared to think about since he came back to himself in the cold Alberta snow.
A sharp cry erupted from LeBeau just a second before a second virtually simultaneous flash and boom, and before his eyes cleared he was there, breathing him in. His touch was gentle, but Remy tried to scoot away from him, but there was no where he could move. Confused eyes, bright with an inner fire, flicked up to him in the darkness as he struggled.
"Gambit," he rumbled softly, trying to settle him. "LeBeau."
Still no effect. The kid was as slippery as an eel, and Logan didn’t want to hurt him. Finally, he barked, "Remy!" and he caught a flicker of recognition in those red on black eyes. The Cajun's wiry frame stiffened in his grip, but at least he stopped struggling.
"It’s all right," Logan soothed softly, holding him close and hoping to Heaven and Hell that he wasn't lying. "Ya gotta come back to me."
A flurry of bolts came in fast succession and Remy suddenly burrowed against him, holding his head with his hands, muttering incoherently. Without thinking, Logan just drew him closer to his chest, absently running his lips across the Cajun's forehead as his fingers ran strong down his back. Remy gasped at the contact.
"Hurts…" the Cajun finally ground out. 'W-wolv…?"
"Yeah. It's me."
"H-hurts…" he mumbled, unfocused eyes looking upward.
Logan frowned. The look might not have been intentional, but it was unmistakable. The angle was strange - too strange - and as Logan traced it, he realized… Kurt and Ro were battling wills *exactly* there, two floors up.
Ororo screamed in frustration high above and Remy convulsed in his arms. "Fuck," he murmured to himself and to the spirits of the trees and the winds and the water. With startled understanding, his eyes looked upward. Remy could feel them! He didn’t smell of sickness, and there wasn't any fear in his sweat – just pain. Unconsciously, Logan began rocking the copper-haired man in his arms.
"It'll be alright soon," he softly promised those slitted red on back eyes. Ororo was fueled by the earth herself, but Kurt would get tired. "Kurt will 'port away eventually."
Lightning crashed and another low whimper was torn from Rem's throat, and it drew a low growl from deep in his gut. Logan nuzzled Remy along a copper-stubbled cheek. They were hurting what was his.
*…hurting what was his.*
The words echoed in his head an instant after he thought it.
*…what was his.*
Was the Cajun his? Logan drew back a little, shaking his head softly in the gloom, wanting to deny that he hadn’t thought about it in the back of his mind. His eyes unconsciously drifted to the sparse reddish fuzz on the strong forearms now griping him so tightly, and followed the beautiful lines of muscle up to those amazing, unnatural eyes. They weren't human, but they were beautiful.
Since LeBeau arrived, Logan hadn't been able to take his eyes off the pale, sleek man. But it hadn’t taken long to figure out that the Cajun was no kid - and no wide-eyed recruit either. Tough and resourceful, he quickly became a powerful presence at the Mansion, standing toe to toe with Jeannie and getting Hank set up and going a hell of a lot faster than he could have with his head so foggy from the virus. He figured LeBeau must have wanted him too, because he hadn’t wasted anytime getting in his pants. That first time had just been a diversion, and the second, and the third, but then there was the last time, in the moonlight.
Something changed.
Logan leaned a little closer to inhale him – sweet tobacco, earthy ambergris and filé, sweat, the jagged citrus of pain, and that strange scent somewhere between cinnamon and chili pepper that only belonged to him. Long, nimble fingers unconsciously wound into his hair, drawing him wordlessly closer, and he allowed it without concern. A wordless, encouraging sound came unbidden from his throat.
Suddenly, Logan was positive this thing between them wasn't just a diversion. He knew it wasn't for him at least, and he was beginning to think it might not be a convenient fling for LeBeau either. Hope flickered a little brighter, tightening in his chest.
Shuddering silently, Remy let his head fall onto his arm, uncaring that he bared that spot at the hollow of his throat, and it ripped an interested growl from him despite the fact that the last thing on his mind should be sex. The Cajun's pulse, throbbing in his ears now, drew his eyes down and his mouth followed. "Maybe just a little taste…" he thought.
Skin warm, fevered and salty under his tongue, Logan gently lapped the hollow above his collarbone, feeling the ebb and flow of blood and heat just beneath the skin, before moving upward, and leaving a trail of gentle nips along the way. A soft groan – this time not in pain – registered in that bit of his mind that wasn't centered on the burning in his groin, and the Canadian drew back for a moment. Lightning flashed again, and for an instant he could see the smoldering look in those red eyes.
"Lo-gan," was all he managed to say, but those damn clever fingers moved from his hair to his face, tracing around one eye and along his cheekbone before winding into the sensitive whiskers along his jaw. Logan felt a flicker of that strange connection again. The Cajun's lips twisted into a smile at his hiss of pleasure, but the next scream from above stole the strength from those fingers and made those crimson eyes roll back in his head.
"Fuck," Wolverine swore under his breath, desperately trying to figure out what to do, but his cursing gave him an idea – a distraction. If Remy was lost in the distant feelings of the others, he'd give him something closer to focus on. It had worked when Remy wanted to distract Jean from discovering their plan, and he bet it'd work for him.
Thick fingers suited more for war than love struggled with the small buttons on the silky black shirt. One arm trapped supporting Remy, he knew was never going to get him naked this way. So, after stealing a quick taste of that pointed, raspy French chin, Logan grunted and awkwardly levered Remy up, and carried him over to his bed.
Even in pain, the Cajun was the most handsome man he'd ever seen – almost pretty, god so beautiful, but still all man. Those cheekbones, that jawline, those damn perfect thin lips; Logan's eyes devoured him as he laid him back, long legs dangling off the edge of the bed.
Something he couldn't sense happened that made Remy flinch, his red-on-black eyes screwing shut. "Shhh, shhh," Logan whispered soothingly, his fingers quickly stripping back the dark silk to reveal pale skin dusted with fine copper-hair stretched taut over plenty of lean, hard muscle. Logan bent to nip and suckle a perfect dusky nipple, grinning fiercely against his warm skin when it drew a gasp of pleasure, not of pain.
"This plan just might work," he thought, his excitement growing.
Working his way slowly over to the other nipple, Logan licked and tugged the fine chest hairs in between as his fingers fumbled with the top button of Remy's artfully ragged button-fly jeans. Button after button gave way as he lapped his way down that hard stomach, and the Cajun began to respond, abs quivering under his lips. Sliding back to settle between those long legs as he suckled, Logan chuckled at his sudden responsiveness, letting the vibration draw another gasp before he drove his tongue into his shallow navel.
Like a cat stretching, the Cajun arched beneath him, and Logan used the opportunity to hook both of his knees in the crooks of his elbows. With a little lift, he slid the jeans over narrow hips exposing the bare flesh underneath. Logan growled softly, knowing the scent. Wanting. Craving.
Eyes glittering, Logan struggled with the beast within, trying to focus on the fact that this was for Remy not him. He drew a long breath and let it out slowly as his fingers scrabbled at removing the last of his clothing.
"One shoe, two shoes," he muttered. Rems smelled so fucking good. "One sock, two socks…."
Clothing flew wherever it went. The torn up pants were harder to get off his impossibly long legs. When they hit the ground behind him, he had one warm, powerful leg against his chest, ankle over this shoulder. He groaned, not able to resist, not another second.
Starting with the high arch of his left foot, Logan started placing long rows of sucking kisses and soft nips, licking each away before he moved on, his hands kneading the muscle and sinew, mouth trailing. Remy's length still lay flaccid on his belly as he worked, but Logan could slowly feel the Cajun returning to him. By the time he'd worked his way down his right leg, memorizing every divot and scar, he felt the first light touches of that tingling sensation he normally got in his mind when he touched LeBeau. Wolverine was rock hard in an instant, lips drawn back in a feral grin, as his wild heart raged at the mental touch.
Another crash of lighting drew a soft moan from Remy and a fierce, dark look upward from Logan. Their connection flickered, and it jolted Logan back to the task at hand. "I've got ya, Rems. Come back now," he whispered to the younger man, trailing whisker kisses down the other thigh until Remy was back in his head.
From that first time in the basement hallway, the Cajun's scent had haunted him, and now, so close and intense, it was hard to think. Night after night, the Cajun's scent had returned in his dreams, even if it was just a whisper that washed over him when the dreams got bad. He didn't know why, but it soothed him. He'd even remembered waking, shocked from the worst of his nightmares, with the taste of the Cajun's mouth on his. It was maddening and perfect, and without another thought he captured that beautiful cock with his mouth and swallowed until his nose was buried in the spicy musk that filled his dreams.
His jeans had grown uncomfortable by the time the erotic throbbing in his head reappeared; it pulsed in time with the heartbeat he could feel on his tongue. Logan grinned, stopping for a moment so that his sharp teeth didn’t catch delicate flesh. "Time for phase two," Wolverine thought breathlessly.
After a quick lap of a rough tongue over a lightly furred belly button that drew the first unaffected gasp of pleasure from the Cajun, Logan needed something slick. The room was too cool now, so Logan had to hurry. The barest brush of long fingers on the hairs of his arm send a shudder through him reminding him of that first time. It gave him an idea.
With a creak of bedsprings, Logan was off the bed in a flash and fishing through Remy's jeans pockets. He had to have that damn velvet glove somewhere - it always seemed to make a magical appearance whenever the kid found him. With a satisfied grunt, he tugged the glove out of a front pocket and pulled the little tube of lube from the tailored compartment within. The glove itself got tossed as he climbed back onto the bed.
Still pale and shaking every so often with wracking tremors, the kid seemed to relax a little as he bushed against those pale runner's thighs. "I'm gonna make you feel so good, you won’t be able to think about anything else, Rems," he promised in a deep whisper. The pulse in his head that told him Remy was ‘there’ flared to life as he pressed a kiss to the center of his chest.
"Ummmmm, ya smell so good," he crooned as he dropped his head forward to sweep the stubble on his chin lightly across pec and belly, continuing downward, lapping over his cock and down to his glorious balls. Lightning crashed and Remy arched up off the bed in spiking grief, but Logan was merciless in his worship continuing down until he drew a sound from the Cajun that had nothing to do the anguish from above. Logan was rapidly growing addicted to the feel of the sparse silky hairs on this tongue, and from the soft moaning and the needy hitching of his hips as he laved his lover's opening, Logan was suddenly confident that he would be able to indulge in his Cajun addiction again.
Fingers were slicked with lube and he slid back up, catching the tip of his length with his lips as his fingers started to work the oily slickness into his opening. Wolverine heard himself whimpering as he fought the rising urge to simply take the man – the glowing in his head told him that he was wanted like fire wants air. It would be so easy to take, to have, to possess him without concern. He closed his eyes and moaned as his finger continued to work inside.
"Slow… slow…" he chanted in his head to resist the animal that was raging inside him. He was not an animal – he was *not* an animal - and Remy was a gift, not a possession.
"One finger, two fingers," he counted to focus. His dick brushed against the comforter and he bit back a howl. He was so hard, it was hard to concentrate. Through clenched teeth, he ground out, "Three fingers."
"O-ouai…"
Wolverine's head popped up, Cajun on his tongue. LeBeau's voice was weak, but it was his mind behind the words and the sharp intelligence was back in his eyes. "Yeah, Rems?" he finally croaked out, stomach churning icy cold for an instant afraid that the man would tell him to stop, that this had all been a terrible mistake.
"Now," was all Remy LeBeau could whisper before his head lolled back.
Logan didn’t need to be told twice. He caught those long legs up in his arms, the heated flesh hard and soft and far more powerful under his groping fingers that even he had realized. He lifted Remy up a little, sliding his knees underneath because he wanted – no, *needed* – to see Rem's face when he did this…and ah... ah… he was pressing into that incredible heat in one long, slow, mind blowing slide.
Twinned gasps merged and echoed from the walls as Logan fought to keep from blowing his load from the erotic empathic feedback in his head. Balancing a little awkwardly on his knees above his much taller mate – and mate was what he was now - he drew breath after glorious breath scented with filé and gitane as he watched those clever lips part and the deep flush of desire replace the lines of pain on his face. Logan knew he was grinning stupidly. He didn’t care.
When he knew he wouldn't set them off just by moving, he leaned down to steal a slow, wet kiss and studied his mate with every ounce of focus he had. "Remy," he rumbled softly, low enough to shake his bones, and waited. He needed… he needed…
Crimson on back eyes flickered open, and Logan's mind stuttered at the look they held.
"Les anges doivent vous avoir envoyé, mon amour," Remy whispered, staring at him like he'd never seen another face before.
Logan had never blushed with a hard-on before, but he had to look down and away as those eyes told him something that managed to scare – and excite – him. Strong, agile fingers traced his cheeks and wound themselves into his hair, and Logan knew he wanted nothing more than this.
"Logan, me regarde," Remy whispered, still weak, but so very sure.
It was hard to look up, to see again what he knew was there in those eyes, but when he did, there was just a flash of joy there, and warm lips were pressed against his, a tongue inviting, slick wetness, the feel of thighs rubbing on his sides and heels on his ass. A fleeting grimace let him know his first thrust hurt Rems a little, so he went slow, bracing one hand down beside him so he could draw that long, red Cajun heat in and out of his fist and capture those thin, sly lips between gasps.
It was motion and feeling and bliss; it was sex that was like running hard and falling upward at the same time. Fingernails raked across his back and clever, rough fingers found his nipples, drawing sharp hisses and pants, the friction between then making his belly tremble after each thrust. He could not stop and he could not look away from those eyes and the occasional smug flash of teeth. When he dropped onto an elbow so he could get closer - *deeper* - the damn Cajun started to grind himself back against him with lazy, twisting hips that tilted with impossible flexibility, hips that threatened the tenuous grip he had on the animal within. His ears were filled with sighs and softly growled Cajun words and his head was filled with the pulse and heat he could only call Remy LeBeau.
A solitary flash and sizzle came and went virtually unnoticed, the winds calming outside the heavy curtains. Flesh slammed into flesh, dark and pale, and Logan's world had reduced to just one stunning, demon-eyed man that left him breathless and needy. Their joining went on and on, and when everything fell into white stars, their roaring cries filled the silence left in the wake of the storm. He knew it had been much too short; he knew he had the Cajun back.
Now all he wanted in the world was more.
***
The sharp jolt of teeth and a hot tongue on his nipple brought him back. His hyperacute senses told him he was at Xavier's and he'd been out a while, and the softness against his back was probably a bed, though not his. He was naked and most definitely not alone, so he popped an eye to see who it was. Red-on-black eyes were peering back at him through coppery bangs.
The Cajun had been waiting for him to wake up, and the Cheshire grin he flashed and the gentler follow up to the nip that woke him up drew a rare smile to Logan's face. Agile fingers traced across his chest and down his belly, and Remy rested his chin on his chest and blinked lazily.
"Anybody ever tell y'dat y'hairy, cher?"
The soft snort that he made rippled though his belly, growing as it went, as the Cajun's eyes danced mischievously. Before long, their combined laugher was echoing off the walls, and Remy rolled off his chest to lie next to him to catch his breath. It had been a long time since he laughed like that, and that thought suddenly sobered him. It was the first time he had felt normal in a long time. No, not normal. Better than normal, he realized, suddenly uneasy.
"Non," Remy murmured from beside him, slowly rolling over him with impossible grace to straddle his waist. The thief's weight felt right settling across his middle, and as his eyes drifted across pale skin and copper hair, Logan's mind stuttered.
"Shhhhh," Remy murmured, drawing one of his deadly hands up to lick at the space between his fingers.
Logan's gasped, eyes squeezed tightly shut from the intense rush of fear and trust that poured into him. When the Canadian opened his eyes again, his hand had been gently pressed flat against the Cajun's chest, and his lover was looking at him seriously.
"Remy meant what he said."
Logan frowned. "Ya didn’t say anything…"
LeBeau tipped an eyebrow at him and slowly moved his hand in a small circle and looked at him knowingly before gracefully hopping off him and heading toward the bathroom. Logan couldn't help but watch him move.
"If Remy gonna return the favor, y'need a shower, cher," he called as he strolled away. In the doorway, he turned back for an instant and smirked, "Remy'll wash y'hair, den make y'forget y'troubles."
Logan looked long and hard at the door Remy passed through, listening to the white noise of the water running in the shower, listening to the genuinely happy zydeco humming that suddenly emerged. The storm had broken, and the moon suddenly made an appearance through a slit in the drapes gone askew from the storm. Everything had changed. Shifted. There was *humming* in his bathroom.
Silently, Logan slid to his feet and headed toward the happy sounds. He didn’t need to be asked twice.