by Jennie I recognized him the minute he walked in. No, I don't think I'd ever met
him, but I knew him just the same. A man like me. And not like me.
Not a mutant, at least, not so as I could tell. But, a killer of men. Like
me. A man who hadn't been capable of trusting humanity for years untold.
Like me. A man of high passions, one who'd also known the deepest pits of
despair.
Like me.
Not more than a minute passed before he became aware of my regard. Nothing
obvious, mind you. A slight shift of one shoulder, making the gun I could
smell on him more accessible. A minute tensing of his body. The smell of
distrust. An aura of combat-readiness.
Making no move, I waited for his wary gaze to find me. When, finally,
searing green eyes settled on me, I relaxed back into my chair and allowed a
mildly challenging expression to cross my face. One eyebrow raised at him, I
waited.
He studied me closely, then searched the sparsely-populated bar. When he
could find no obvious signs of a trap, his eyes returned to mine. I allowed
him to see the flame of desire within me before lowering my eyes to the
bottle of beer on my table. I took a deep swallow of the cold brew, then
pulled out a cigar, carefully prepping, then lighting it. During this
operation, I did not look at him again. My want had been made more than
clear. The decision was his now.
It took several interminable minutes for him to make up his mind. Normally,
I'm not a patient man. Not by any stretch of the imagination. But this
one... something told me that this one was well worth waiting for. I'd
started on my second beer and was just about half-way done with my cigar when
he climbed down from his barstool and walked over—make that stalked over—to my table.
"What do you want?" he demanded to know. That husky, gravelly voice of his
resonated in my gut.
"You," I answered, simply and honestly.
He waited with ill-concealed impatience for me to elaborate.
"I want to fuck. I want," I clarified, "for you to fuck me. Hard."
A short pause as he weighed my words. Then a nod. "Where?" he asked.
I shrugged. "Your choice."
That seemed to surprise him. He blinked at me slowly, chewing on the inside
of his lower lip. "How," he finally asked in a low tone, "do you know that I
won't—"
"Kill me?" I asked with a snort.
He nodded quite seriously.
I leaned closer to him. Captured and held his eyes. "We're the same, you and
me. We are killers. We know how to keep secrets. We survive. No matter what
life hits us with, we survive. And, we don't trust. Don't offer it, don't
ask for it. The fact that we can't trust each other means that we can
trust each other. Just for tonight," I warned him. "For tomorrow, I make no
promises. Don't expect any, either."
He still looked more than a little skeptical.
Okay. If I really wanted this... "I'm a mutant," I told him baldly. "One
of my powers is healing—hell, I've been known to recover from death itself.
The other—" I broke off my words and looked around the bar, making sure
that no one could see my hands. Once assured, I allowed my claws to emerge.
To his credit, little of his surprise was revealed in his expression. He
simply nodded. "I'm not a mutant. At least not in the sense that you are.
I did have an encounter—a close encounter—with an alien a couple of
years ago. As a result, I now have some kind of healing factor."
"So, wanna fuck?" I challenged.
"Yes," he answered, appearing more than a little bemused by his own response.
"Yes, I do."
I nodded and rose from my chair. As one, we turned and left the bar together.
He insisted on taking his own vehicle. Just as I'd expected. Still rather
suspicious of me, I was sure he couldn't help but think my motorcycle might
have a tracking device. Didn't take me to wherever he was staying. Nope, he
found a nice, secluded spot in a local wildlife refuge. Again, just as I'd
expected.
I was rather proud of him, actually.
Gathering 'supplies' from the glove compartment—and a blanket from the
trunk—he led me to a glade in the woods. As I walked along behind him, I
couldn't help but admire the way he moved. Damn, the man had just about the
finest ass I'd beheld in one hell of a long time.
The entire trip was silent. My kinda guy. Once we'd reached our
destination, he spread the blanket on the ground, carefully placed the
condoms and lube to one side, then turned to look at me. Expectantly.
Warily. And, surprisingly enough, hesitantly.
Hmmmm.
"I'm Logan," I offered, hoping to set his mind at ease—somewhat. After
all, I didn't want him too comfortable. Didn't want him to lose that edge.
He looked more that a little stunned at that. I could tell that he somehow
knew I was telling the truth. "Krycek," he returned gruffly. "Alex," he
added.
I could smell the truth on him—and, was gratified by that. "Logan is the
only name I recall—don't know if it's my first, last, or even true name.
It feels right, though. Comfortable, ya know?"
Silence reigned for several moments. Finally, he nodded then glanced down at
the blanket. Back up to me. Cleared his throat, then straightened up and
met my eyes defiantly. "You said something about me fucking you?"
I nodded.
"Then strip," he ordered softly.
Without a word, I did as he asked. Ordered, that is. He needed my
compliance. I don't know what told me just how important this was to him—the desperate need I could sense, maybe? Or, perhaps his well-hidden lack of
confidence? Whatever it was, I wanted him, craved him, badly enough to give
him what he wanted. I shed my clothing, then stood there waiting.
Slowly, he removed his boots, socks, jacket (leather—oh yeah!), jeans and
briefs. Started to pull off his sweater, then paused.
"I know, Alex," I told him. "Trained to notice such things. And, I can
smell it—the prosthesis. It don't matter. Seen worse. Keep the sweater
on, take it off. Same goes for the arm." I shrugged, trying to tell him
with my eyes that it really didn't make any difference to me. "I just want
you. Want you to fuck me. The sooner, the better," I added with an
encouraging grin.
Fuck! Where was this softer, kinder Logan coming from? I sure as hell
didn't know him. Never seen him before. Oh well, it—he—worked. Alex
pulled his top off, then removed the prosthesis and set it carefully atop his
clothing.
"I want you," I growled when he stood there silent and hesitant. "Now."
That confidence returned to his eyes at my words, and he stepped closer,
searing me with his heat. "On your hands and knees," he ordered.
Yes! My heartbeat quickened and my breath grew labored as I complied.
Holy fucking shit! He proved to be everything I'd hoped for. Took my word
that condoms weren't needed—opened me carefully before giving me the
fucking of my life. Actually made me yell—yes, yell with pleasure. I
loved every minute—every nanosecond. As did he. Oh, he didn't yell. He
purred. He growled. And he came with a choked whimper that told me it'd
been a long damned time since he'd been with anyone like this.
I was damn well proud of myself. Not to mention satisfied. Sated. Actually
happy.
I am not a happy person by nature, in case you hadn't caught on to that fact.
We lay there in companionable silence for some time before he sighed deeply,
rose to his feet, and dressed. Mirroring him, I did the same. He gathered
the 'supplies', meticulously folded the blanket, then turned a curiously
blank look on me.
"I'll give you a ride back to your 'cycle'."
"You're a real gentleman, ain't ya, bub?" I responded sardonically. Couldn't
have him thinking I'd lost my edge—become a wuss, or something.
Now to convince myself of that...
Back at the bar, he turned at looked at me guardedly. "Well... " he said
with what I knew was uncharacteristic shyness.
I smiled cockily. "We will meet again, Alex."
A momentary glare. Then, a frown. "Yeah?" Sounding a little bit
belligerent there.
"Yes," I informed him in no uncertain terms. "We will. And, I expect us to
be just as fucking amazing together next time."
With that, I climbed out of his car and waited for him to pull away.
He hesitated. Leaned over and spoke to me through the open passenger side
window. "Where—"
"Xavier's School," I surprised myself by saying. "Westchester, New York."
He nodded. Without comment, he put the car in gear and left.
Whatever we'd started, however it developed, I knew—just knew—that it
would continue. Wouldn't be the romance of the century. But, we were alike.
We could have something. Together.
They—whoever the hell 'they' are—say that like calls to like.
I rode home, the words of Robert Service running through my mind:
There's a race of men that don't fit in,
—The Men That Don't Fit In
The Men That Don't Fit In
A race that can't stay still;
So they break the hearts of kith and kin,
And they roam the world at will.
They range the field and they rove the flood,
And they climb the mountain's crest;
Theirs is the curse of the gypsy blood,
And they don't know how to rest.
—by Robert W. Service
