He's used to fending off Logan's familiar band of manhandling. At first out of concern for the man's intentions, and then for the amusement of finding himself grasped even more tightly. Wes has always been reluctant to give in. He demands proof, loathes assumptions, and never wants to take anything at face value. But he caves easily when Logan grabs at him now, bowing his head as if accepting some fate he knows himself deserving of. He doesn't expect the other man to kill him. At best it would only give him a few days' breathing room from the younger man. But it doesn't feel like his style. What those hands might do instead, he almost hopes for. Rattle him around, knock out a few teeth, mash his nose back. Carve out any piece of him that would make it feel like they're approaching something like equal. Of course they never can. There's not enough of him to take so much and leave anything still standing. Wes doesn't have the substance. He isn't made of fine enough stuff.
Wes lets himself be brought forward and pushed back, still willing himself not to breathe. Not to do anything to detract Logan from what he means to let loose, or let anyone else in the cabin hear this moment. The betrayal presses on his chest like a vice, and he imagines what little he knows of the other man from what he's been able to see. The brief glimpses they've shared of each other's lives, only understanding by living inside of it, never willingly allowing themselves to talk about it. What's there to say? How can a person sum up so much, particularly around the fear that it'll only keep happening again and again? That in some ways the things that they do -- or things done to them -- must define everything.
I know, Wes agrees, tears still standing in his eyes like fresh pools. It's not a gift. It's not anything. I don't have anything to give. I'm sorry. What do you want me to do?
Despite the man's effort to maintain anger over injury, the lack of answers for either of them makes that kind of energy feel futile. Though the crease in his brow doesn't grow shallow, neither does his sharp blue-eyed gaze look as angry as it does alone and lost. Nothing. he says, dropping his hands from where he holds Wes. There's nothing. You did... whatever you had to do. I'm not waiting to hear you tell me anything .... or see some kinda proof. I forgive you. Is that what you want? What'll make you feel better about it? That I'da let you? If I thought you just... needed something from me. Something like that? Because I would you know? I'd give you whatever part of me you could carve up if it helped you. If it made you happy. I would.
I still would.
When he breaks Wes' gaze his eyes close a long moment and the shake of his head that his thoughts give way too isn't disappointment in Wes. It's drawn on himself. The weight of something self effacing pulling on the line between them.
No. It prickles his heart to see Logan offer himself so willingly, promise any part that Wes could find a way to take. The big man shakes his head, insistence overlapping with the offering. It's not what he wants. It's nothing that he wants. He knows the words that people could fling at him. He's memorized them all by heart. Some he grew up being called and some he's only recited to himself, in his own mind in front of the mirror. There are things he knows are unforgivable. Acts he's committed that he would be right to be condemned for. But selfishness is not something he's ever counted among them, and it twists his gut to think of the way callousness turned so self-serving. He doesn't want that from Logan, but he knows what the man's offer amounts to. What it reflects back.
He's said it himself in other ways. Given it as best as he can, even if it's so much less. Draped his body over Grady's in a hail of gunfire, been first to breach the door, gone with less to let the other have more. It's the kind of thing a person gives when they think it's all they have, when they can't fathom anything else being quite enough. It speaks to what Logan thinks of himself, and what Wes wishes he'd never made the man feel. He shakes his head again, grabbing the other man by fistfuls of his shirt and burying his face into his waiting neck. Wes shudders against him, trying to find stability and to will Logan to believe it's not what he wants the other man to be.
Please don't take him away too. Don't take this from me too. I can't stand it.
The unexpected impact of Wes flung against him, staggers the man a moment. His arms coming up for balance and settling cautiously around Wes instead, a quiet promise of whatever forgiveness Wes needs and whatever acceptance Logan hopes they can find in the unsatisfying resolution of circumstances that bring out the worst in them.
I'm not goin' anywhere. I never do. he replies, forgetting the difference between words expressed and words merely felt by the connection determined to keep the bound together.
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Wes lets himself be brought forward and pushed back, still willing himself not to breathe. Not to do anything to detract Logan from what he means to let loose, or let anyone else in the cabin hear this moment. The betrayal presses on his chest like a vice, and he imagines what little he knows of the other man from what he's been able to see. The brief glimpses they've shared of each other's lives, only understanding by living inside of it, never willingly allowing themselves to talk about it. What's there to say? How can a person sum up so much, particularly around the fear that it'll only keep happening again and again? That in some ways the things that they do -- or things done to them -- must define everything.
I know, Wes agrees, tears still standing in his eyes like fresh pools. It's not a gift. It's not anything. I don't have anything to give. I'm sorry. What do you want me to do?
no subject
I still would.
When he breaks Wes' gaze his eyes close a long moment and the shake of his head that his thoughts give way too isn't disappointment in Wes. It's drawn on himself. The weight of something self effacing pulling on the line between them.
No matter how stupid of me that feels.
no subject
He's said it himself in other ways. Given it as best as he can, even if it's so much less. Draped his body over Grady's in a hail of gunfire, been first to breach the door, gone with less to let the other have more. It's the kind of thing a person gives when they think it's all they have, when they can't fathom anything else being quite enough. It speaks to what Logan thinks of himself, and what Wes wishes he'd never made the man feel. He shakes his head again, grabbing the other man by fistfuls of his shirt and burying his face into his waiting neck. Wes shudders against him, trying to find stability and to will Logan to believe it's not what he wants the other man to be.
He thinks, forgetting the connection.
no subject
I'm not goin' anywhere. I never do. he replies, forgetting the difference between words expressed and words merely felt by the connection determined to keep the bound together.