After the storm, the lake is back to most of it's former glory. Logan fills a bag with shattered glass from along the shores. When the straps of his waxed-canvas bag strain under the weight of it, he empties the bag into the bed of truck and goes again. It's a practically sisiphean task when the lake washes more ashore every time the water gets choppy, but as Logan so often does, he manages to turn the endless into the meditative.
It's the fourth of fifth of these walks he's made today when the nagging itch of something like a sliver in his back stops him. He examines a gash in the fabric of his pack and knowing the likley cause of the metaphorical thorn in his paw knows he'll have to dig it out. But something else someone told him comes to mind. Something about a stone.
Hey. Got a minute? If there's something suspicious about the way he looks around, there is. Should the transferrable properties of his healing factor be unaffected by that stone, he can imagine about everyone else in this cabin might take issue with him testing that out on one of only two human beings amongst them. Still, he likes Wes for this. He's seems... the least likely to complain about it if it doesn't work.
If Wes has allowed the pace of his life to slow in the days following the dome's shattering, it feels like a deserved break. He's been running for a long time now, past injury and heartache. Past the point, perhaps, of even knowing why. The evidence of poorly-patched and mostly-ignored injuries is written all over the body of the tall man as proof that he should have stopped long ago. But only now does he give himself that space.
The first few days he rises only enough to walk from one room to another, followed from the very start by a strange black shadow. The little one-eyed cat stays to the corners of the room, tucking itself under furniture and ignoring all efforts to be coaxed either closer or further away. It watches, silent and unblinking, as the man makes himself a plate of eggs and promptly ignores them, and as he flips the pages of a book without doing much reading.
He's come to recognize each of the men by the weight of their footsteps, so Wes knows it's Logan before he even looks up. When the man urges his attention, though, he sets his book down without hesitation and unfurls himself from the couch. Sure. Wes's green eyes narrow as he looks the man over for any sign of obvious trouble. Takes stock against evidence of all the things he's come to expect from this place. What's up?
He turns that rock in his hand like a worry stone, before brandishing it where Wes can see. "You know about these things? What people say they do?" It's occurred to him of course, that they might not have a lick of meaning to the two men in his house without some extra-sensory gifts. As such, he's not about to be so cruel as to spring a potential injury on Wes. Not without giving him a choice.
People been saying these things... fix whats' wrong with people powers. You know... like. Porting wouldn't hurt so much, if Kurt kept his on him.
Wes recognizes the stone immediately, though its value isn't something the younger man has had much cause to explore. Of all the strange gifts they've been granted in this place, a stone that aids in sleeping is perhaps the most useless of the bunch. He'd set his own aside immediately, not bothering to tuck it under any of the cabin's pillows, but instead locking it up in the box that holds a few photographs and a crochet deer toy.
Really? It sparks his interest immediately. It's already tough to keep their partner from trying his luck with his powers, despite the collar he's been known to wear. If a simple stone could change the damage, Wes wonders if adding his own might help doubly. Do you think it's possible?
"I'm no sorcerer." He shrugs his reply and turns his eyes on that stone again. But I know how we can test it out.
He leaves that to sit with Wes a moment, suspecting the younger man is apt to reach the same conclusion without much more provocation and nods towards the washroom on the first floor of their cabin. Grab a pocket knife." He says, if you're willing.
It's not a far leap to understand what Logan is insinuating. What strikes Wes as more unusual is how long it's been since he's had to consider the strange warping power of the other man's healing factor. Perhaps that is just a testament to Logan's fierce protective streak. Though Wes is sure he'd be grumbled at for mentioning as much, he's not wholly unaware of the lengths that the older man goes through to ensure that any amount of pain begins and ends with himself.
For all that he owes Logan, he's sure this will be a small price to pay. He's rarely without a blade anymore, so he only has to reach into his pocket for the requested tool. Barefoot and still in his shorts, Wes pads across the cabin dutifully. Here, he offers, holding the hilt out to the man, expecting he's only needed as a warm body and not the aggressor.
If Wes has ever been anything with certainty it's observant. It makes for the kind of discussion in which a man doesn't have to over explain himself. The kind of discussion a laconic man appreciates. Perhaps it also lets him go on without considering just how much Wes observes him and how much the younger man knows without ever being told.
Looking at the knife, Logan shakes his head and his palm presses Wes' hand back towards him. There's glass in my back he says. I can feel it. But I don't know how big. Or how deep. Turning towards the sink he stops part way to add, if your back starts to hurt. Stop.
Glass? Wes instantly regrets his days of indolence. It seems to him that the injury Logan refers to must have happened with the dome's initial collapse, and that his partner has been carrying around that shard and waiting. Perhaps it's not a logical conclusion, but the guilt says more about his mindset than anything. Knowing that he's been particularly selfish, and that idling in this place can always mean danger. He should have done more.
Wes gazes at Logan's reflection in the mirror in front of them, then smoothes his hand along the man's shoulder. For a moment he lets his grip steady his nerves, then reaches to pull Logan's shirt up his back and over his head, revealing the broad swath of sunbaked skin underneath. I see it, he signs into the mirror. Wes spreads his thumb and index finger and presses the two into the side of the man's back, a few inches from the impact point, to give him a sense of the size of the injury.
He's done worse things to softer men. He's opened Grady up plenty of times, too, fishing for a slug or giving an infection a little breathing room until they can make it to the next safehouse. There's something instinctual about doing it, and Wes rarely founds cause to be sorry. He's usually quick, efficient, and as brutal as he needs to be to get the effect he wants. But he can't dismiss the irony, or shake the feeling of the last time he sliced a blade into Logan's unsuspecting flesh. He steadies himself with a few audible breaths, heartbeat thrumming in his chest, and then makes the first slice.
If the sensation bounces, there's too much adrenaline in him to realize. Wes cuts further, shocked to see how quickly the man's skin starts to close around the fresh wounds. He doesn't have time to be gentle or thoughtful. Wes cuts deep, and when he's given himself enough space, he pulls out the jagged, bloody piece.
He can feel the hum of hesitation in Wes’ fingers when they graze across his skin. Still, he knows Wes will do it. He’s reliable. And it matters that he does because in a weird way, it’s not just a request to scratch an itch he can’t reach. It’s an olive branch.
Their private admissions and words of exoneration aside, Logan knows well when someone’s treading lightly around him. Taking care not to overstep in a particular direction. But how much forgiveness can one tap from a conversation alone if neither one of them are the type to put much stock in words.
He stifles a grunt when the blade gets just deep enough to start being unignorably comfortable. Involuntarily the muscles in his back jump, twitching like a horses hide, as the foreign object twists and rocks until Wes can walk it backward. Wriggling its corners like barbs from his flesh until it lets go of him. That moment of relief is like a little drop of euphoria that makes pain feel more like anticipation in hindsight.
Logan's ability to heal itself of illness and injury is something that Wes has observed more in the theoretical than practical. On the whole, the older man has gone to lengths to keep the rest of them at bay as his body knits together any signs of injury. For Wes, that means he's rarely gotten the opportunity to see the progress up close. Instead, he's noted the weathered planes of skin, unmarred by the kind of damage he's known Deerington to inflict on his partner. He's marked Logan's capabilities in a lack of proof and wondered privately what it must feel like to bear no scars of the places one has been.
Now, he can't help but watch. It seems miraculous, the way skin and sinew emerge anew and stitch over the proof of what he's done. Wes thumbs the area almost disbelievingly, but finds the skin there as even as the rest of Logan. When their eyes meet in the mirror, he passes the breadth of his hand over the man's back and shakes his head.
I don't think so. Fingertips graze across an uneven bump to the left of the older man's lower spine. This one is entirely encased, though, and he grits his teeth and presses thoughtfully. Feel that? Something's under there. It's all the way in. He grips the back of Logan's neck reassuringly, then urges the man's head to bow. With another little breath Wes steels himself, and slips the blade of the knife in.
There's method to his martyrdom most of the time. Even beyond Deerington where self-abuse could so easily turn into threat to those around him, learning to avoid raising the suspicions of normal people and how not to traumatize school children has made him skilled at keeping injuries out of sight until the viscera is thoroughly swept under his skin. In some ways it feels like having nothing to show for one's self. Or at least, not enough to excuse any complaints. On the other hand, no one wants to see it.
Every hair up the back of his neck prickles with that strange tingle of anticipation when Wes scruffs him there. His grip curls around the edges of the sink as the blade splitting him threatens to deflate the breath in his lungs and he lets his chest burn fighting to keep it in. As if a little oxygen fuels the fire that blade ignites in his nerves. Letting it flare to dangerous heights until the sweet relief of all things dislodged from his skin extinguishes the flame.
After a time, a person learns to work around the flinches and outcries. To ignore desperate pleas and double down to get the job done. It's a kind of love, too, strange as it may seem. A willingness to inflict the kind of pain it takes to ensure healing in the end. To be the sadist and the punisher. Logan barely twitches. Wes has met a lot of hard men in his day, but it takes more than most are capable of to maintain composure under the hot blade of a knife. To stand sober and let someone tear their flesh from their muscle.
Rapture feels like a dream he can't quite recall, but the comfort with the blade is just the same. His hands are much steadier, but when the piece of glass stays lodged deeply, he pulls out drawers in search of a pair of tweezers. By the time he's located the tool and turned his sights to Logan's back once more, Wes is shocked to find the cut healed over. With a grumble of annoyance he opens him again, and peels the wet shard free. He drops everything into a bloody heap in the sink and curls his arms around Logan's middle, kissing his neck.
It's hard to describe it as pain really. Not because it doesn't hurt. It never doesn't hurt. But because once you've endured worse longer at the hands of people who intend to leave a mark the whole scale resets. You have live life finding new ways to define where hurt begins.
That's when the lines between opposites get blurry.
When it stops, he lets out a sigh rolls his shoulders, until they give a deep satisfying crunch. But Wes' chest at his back keeps him from going any farther. He's right there when the burning pain is still singing in his nerves. Applying kisses like a salve and mixing the hot sting of torment with the warm comfort of a firm body spooned against him.
His neck cranes around until Wes is at the end of his nose. Insisting with a nudge until his mouth can reach him. A half step back presses him closer into the tall blond and he drags Wes' hand off his stomach down the front of his pants.
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action;
It's the fourth of fifth of these walks he's made today when the nagging itch of something like a sliver in his back stops him. He examines a gash in the fabric of his pack and knowing the likley cause of the metaphorical thorn in his paw knows he'll have to dig it out. But something else someone told him comes to mind. Something about a stone.
Hey. Got a minute? If there's something suspicious about the way he looks around, there is. Should the transferrable properties of his healing factor be unaffected by that stone, he can imagine about everyone else in this cabin might take issue with him testing that out on one of only two human beings amongst them. Still, he likes Wes for this. He's seems... the least likely to complain about it if it doesn't work.
no subject
The first few days he rises only enough to walk from one room to another, followed from the very start by a strange black shadow. The little one-eyed cat stays to the corners of the room, tucking itself under furniture and ignoring all efforts to be coaxed either closer or further away. It watches, silent and unblinking, as the man makes himself a plate of eggs and promptly ignores them, and as he flips the pages of a book without doing much reading.
He's come to recognize each of the men by the weight of their footsteps, so Wes knows it's Logan before he even looks up. When the man urges his attention, though, he sets his book down without hesitation and unfurls himself from the couch. Sure. Wes's green eyes narrow as he looks the man over for any sign of obvious trouble. Takes stock against evidence of all the things he's come to expect from this place. What's up?
no subject
People been saying these things... fix whats' wrong with people powers. You know... like. Porting wouldn't hurt so much, if Kurt kept his on him.
no subject
Really? It sparks his interest immediately. It's already tough to keep their partner from trying his luck with his powers, despite the collar he's been known to wear. If a simple stone could change the damage, Wes wonders if adding his own might help doubly. Do you think it's possible?
no subject
He leaves that to sit with Wes a moment, suspecting the younger man is apt to reach the same conclusion without much more provocation and nods towards the washroom on the first floor of their cabin. Grab a pocket knife." He says, if you're willing.
no subject
For all that he owes Logan, he's sure this will be a small price to pay. He's rarely without a blade anymore, so he only has to reach into his pocket for the requested tool. Barefoot and still in his shorts, Wes pads across the cabin dutifully. Here, he offers, holding the hilt out to the man, expecting he's only needed as a warm body and not the aggressor.
no subject
Looking at the knife, Logan shakes his head and his palm presses Wes' hand back towards him. There's glass in my back he says. I can feel it. But I don't know how big. Or how deep. Turning towards the sink he stops part way to add, if your back starts to hurt. Stop.
no subject
Wes gazes at Logan's reflection in the mirror in front of them, then smoothes his hand along the man's shoulder. For a moment he lets his grip steady his nerves, then reaches to pull Logan's shirt up his back and over his head, revealing the broad swath of sunbaked skin underneath. I see it, he signs into the mirror. Wes spreads his thumb and index finger and presses the two into the side of the man's back, a few inches from the impact point, to give him a sense of the size of the injury.
He's done worse things to softer men. He's opened Grady up plenty of times, too, fishing for a slug or giving an infection a little breathing room until they can make it to the next safehouse. There's something instinctual about doing it, and Wes rarely founds cause to be sorry. He's usually quick, efficient, and as brutal as he needs to be to get the effect he wants. But he can't dismiss the irony, or shake the feeling of the last time he sliced a blade into Logan's unsuspecting flesh. He steadies himself with a few audible breaths, heartbeat thrumming in his chest, and then makes the first slice.
If the sensation bounces, there's too much adrenaline in him to realize. Wes cuts further, shocked to see how quickly the man's skin starts to close around the fresh wounds. He doesn't have time to be gentle or thoughtful. Wes cuts deep, and when he's given himself enough space, he pulls out the jagged, bloody piece.
no subject
Their private admissions and words of exoneration aside, Logan knows well when someone’s treading lightly around him. Taking care not to overstep in a particular direction. But how much forgiveness can one tap from a conversation alone if neither one of them are the type to put much stock in words.
He stifles a grunt when the blade gets just deep enough to start being unignorably comfortable. Involuntarily the muscles in his back jump, twitching like a horses hide, as the foreign object twists and rocks until Wes can walk it backward. Wriggling its corners like barbs from his flesh until it lets go of him. That moment of relief is like a little drop of euphoria that makes pain feel more like anticipation in hindsight.
That it? he asks the blond in the mirror.
no subject
Now, he can't help but watch. It seems miraculous, the way skin and sinew emerge anew and stitch over the proof of what he's done. Wes thumbs the area almost disbelievingly, but finds the skin there as even as the rest of Logan. When their eyes meet in the mirror, he passes the breadth of his hand over the man's back and shakes his head.
I don't think so. Fingertips graze across an uneven bump to the left of the older man's lower spine. This one is entirely encased, though, and he grits his teeth and presses thoughtfully. Feel that? Something's under there. It's all the way in. He grips the back of Logan's neck reassuringly, then urges the man's head to bow. With another little breath Wes steels himself, and slips the blade of the knife in.
no subject
Every hair up the back of his neck prickles with that strange tingle of anticipation when Wes scruffs him there. His grip curls around the edges of the sink as the blade splitting him threatens to deflate the breath in his lungs and he lets his chest burn fighting to keep it in. As if a little oxygen fuels the fire that blade ignites in his nerves. Letting it flare to dangerous heights until the sweet relief of all things dislodged from his skin extinguishes the flame.
no subject
Rapture feels like a dream he can't quite recall, but the comfort with the blade is just the same. His hands are much steadier, but when the piece of glass stays lodged deeply, he pulls out drawers in search of a pair of tweezers. By the time he's located the tool and turned his sights to Logan's back once more, Wes is shocked to find the cut healed over. With a grumble of annoyance he opens him again, and peels the wet shard free. He drops everything into a bloody heap in the sink and curls his arms around Logan's middle, kissing his neck.
cw: sex
That's when the lines between opposites get blurry.
When it stops, he lets out a sigh rolls his shoulders, until they give a deep satisfying crunch. But Wes' chest at his back keeps him from going any farther. He's right there when the burning pain is still singing in his nerves. Applying kisses like a salve and mixing the hot sting of torment with the warm comfort of a firm body spooned against him.
His neck cranes around until Wes is at the end of his nose. Insisting with a nudge until his mouth can reach him. A half step back presses him closer into the tall blond and he drags Wes' hand off his stomach down the front of his pants.