extent | duplicitynet

you don't, it's real sweet. see you soon

( uncharacteristically, nick isn't high or drunk when he turns up. he just looks tired, mostly, made worse by the fact that he doesn't mask the flat look on his face either. it takes longer than it should have for him to get to the garage, but he doesn't make any excuses when he arrives, just spins his device idly between two fingers as he sticks his head inside. )

You know, I can't drive.

( he offers up the information conversationally as he peers about the space, mildly curious. he's still messing with the device distractedly between his hands, but if the screen lights up with notifications he ignores it for the time being. )

Hey.

[ When he gets there, he'll find Logan sitting on an upturned plastic crate, a heavy bike chain in his hands. He's carefully scrubbing at it with an old toothbrush. The motorcycle next to him is in a state of partial disassembly, various small parts scattered around it on newspapers on the floor. Another motorcycle, this one with a red color scheme, is parked in the garage, along with various bits of gym equipment and broken furniture stacked haphazardly in the corners and along the back wall.

There's a half-empty sixer by Logan's boot and a radio playing a country song with particularly filthy lyrics.

Logan glances up as Nick arrives, though he'd been aware of his approach well before he appeared in the doorway. ]

Hey.

( there's more than enough littered around to catch nick's flighty attention, eyes flickering along the walls as he walks inside, but he's not actually here because he has any interest in the garage decor. he heads quickly to logan's side, reaches with one hand to scoop up one of those beers, and the other spreads out over his shoulder blade, palm flat on his back.

he wants to say something, but it's still knotted up somewhere painful and he doesn't quite know how to press on the spot without getting upset. so instead nick just leans in closer, gesturing vaguely at one of the complicated looking parts laid out on the newspaper. )

What does that do?

[ It's the kind of casually sweet and familiar they don't usually do. Logan's still not quite used to it, all the more aware of that fact thanks to the conversation they've been having; for a beat he tenses up under Nick's touch, then he forces himself to relax and follows his gesture. ]

Helps the engine run without catchin' fire. Those are spares, I'm still tryin' to find some decent parts. Here, you wanna be useful -- [ He holds up the toothbrush he's been using to clean the chain for Nick to take. It's not exactly clean. ]

Use this and the rag over there on the parts where the chain was wrapped around. Carefully. Ridin' around in this goddamn humidity is gluin' it up with all kinds of crap. Tell me if you see any rust in there.

( he feels the tension, of course he does, but he doesn't know what to do with that either, so nick just--drops his hand at the earliest convenience, cracks the beer instead. maybe being drunk would be a better idea — but a beer won't really cut it anyway.

he takes the toothbrush though, actually looks unreasonably pleased at the idea of scrubbing off a greasy bike chain. it's something productive, useful in a way he distinctly doesn't feel right now, and he doesn't really mind getting dirty. )

How did you learn this sort of thing? ( he asks the question to the rag in his hands, wiping away at the scrubbed spots carefully and pausing for quick sips of the beer in between. ) Did someone teach you, or did you just like...pick it up along the way?

[ Rather than going back to his own task or picking up another one, Logan just folds his oil-smeared hands between his knees and watches Nick, studying the back and side of his head like he's trying to commit the sight to memory. When Nick pauses and glances back over at him, he leans down as if he's just fetching a drink, tugging a beer out of the sixer. ]

Picked it up, most of it. Learned some of it in the service. Spent some time ridin' through Italy in the 40's once we helped kick the Germans out. [ He shrugs a bit and snaps his beer open, sucking some of the froth off his thumb when it bubbles over. ] It helps to have somethin' to do. Machines make sense. Most of the time.

( honestly, it's not like nick to focus on a task for any real length of time. even in places like work, even when it's something he's actively trying to stay fixed on one point, he's flighty, distracted at best, disruptive at worst. it's working here though, mostly because he's--tired. drained, is probably more accurate. )

It's kind of cool. I never really bothered to learn anything like this. Didn't have to. ( perks of being rich, perks of living in a small town, perks of being twenty years old with nowhere important to go and no schedule to keep.

he pushes his hair back out of his face, vaguely aware that the gesture leaves a grease smear with it, but he doesn't pay that any mind. for now he's just zeroed in on the task — scrub, wipe, scrub, drink, repeat. he's stuck into a patch of something particularly stubborn and sticky, but that's not really why he sounds frustrated when he talks. ) I don't do anything, you know. Back home. I dropped out of school like, five years ago, and all I've done since then is get high, sell weed and fuck the people that come through town to work on their PhDs.

[ It's interesting to see him like this, not just because he's actually working on something, but because it's almost unguarded, stripped away of some of the energy that's always struck Logan as a kind of anxiousness. Logan watches him thoughtfully as he sips his beer. ]

Sounds familiar. [ He offers that opinion with a self-deprecating grunt. ] Swap out the dope for whiskey and that's how I spent a good couple decades. Drifted around, lived rough. I didn't join up on purpose. It was just somethin' to do, somethin' I felt I be useful at and a way to get rid of some of the shit that was buildin' up inside my head, the grief and the anger. I ran out of options.

[ He looks down at his hands loosely curled around the beer can between them, then back at Nick, watching him scratch away at the gunge behind the sprocket. ]

You've got time to learn all this stuff if you want to.

Yeah, people keep saying that. No one has to have their life figured out at twenty.

( he doesn't sound particularly comforted by that, more like he's reciting the line he's heard an awful lot today. he doesn't blame anyone, he's not in the place of begrudging people for caring about him, nick is just awfully skeptical. being here, in this city, has made nick quite probably the most productive he's ever been in his life. he learns, studies, tries.

and it all feels very distinctly not real, right now. what's the point in growth that's only going to be tossed in the garbage if he ever gets out of here? )

Did it help? ( nick slows a little, still wiping idly away with the rag, but he's mostly just--listening. still staring into his lap and not at logan, but his eyes flicker in his direction, brief glances here and there. ) Did it actually, you know, get rid of any of it?

Goin' to war? Nah.

[ Logan catches those little glances out of the corner of his eye, but he doesn't return them, leaning forward with his elbows planted on his thighs, looking down at the beer in his hands. The track of the conversation has him feeling every one of his years, gathered up in his bones like the gunk Nick's cleaning off the bike. He helps himself to a swallow of beer before continuing. ]

It just made it worse. All it did was show me what people are truly capable of when it comes to hurtin' each other. And sometimes saving each other, sometimes there were moments of grace, but mostly it was just mud and blood. No glory in that. [ He lifts a shoulder in a vague shrug. ] I wouldn't recommend it.

I'm not gonna try it, don't worry.

( this is apparently a very funny joke to nick "i'm a pacifist" o'broin, because he actually smiles vaguely at the notion. not for long, and it sours into something unpleasant again, but for a moment at least he looked amused. a brief break, from just really fucking sad.

he keeps the chain in his hand even when he abandons the scrubbing efforts to drink more, squinting at the beer can and wondering if there isn't anything that can't be done to make it stronger. there's spells, but with where his head is at, he's probably just as likely to poison himself as get drunk. )

I'm pretty sure I've convinced you all into thinking I'm a good person. Like, worthy of the attention people give me. ( he says finally, draining the beer as is and setting it down next to him. ) And now I just feel like--someone's exposed me for what I really am, and everyone's going to figure it out and run for the fucking hills.

[ It's all too familiar for Logan, but not just because of the kinds of conversations he's had with Nick before that have nudged up against the borders of these feelings, but also because it's the kind of thing he's heard echoing inside his own head too many times to count. Those words have driven him away from the X-Men, from his friends and family, sent him halfway across the globe or down into the bottom of every bottle in sight. Having Nick echo them feels like being kicked in the ribs.

His gaze ticks up from the floor halfway through the short speech. He watches the younger man in silence, thinking about what he'd done in Nick's situation, what he wanted people to do for him. What he'd needed and what he'd denied himself as he ran away from everyone he was so sure he was going to hurt someday.

He lets the silence ring out for a moment or two, then he tips back his own beer and drains it in a few long swallows. Then he sets the empty on the floor and pushes himself to his feet, scraping back the plastic crate. A couple of steps takes him over to Nick. ]

Hey. C'mere. Stand up. [ He doesn't give him much choice about it, reaching down to snag him under one bicep and try to haul him up, pulling him roughly into his arms. ]

( honestly, nick can't really tell if he wants to get up, but he goes with the gesture anyway, and it becomes quite quickly apparent with logan's arms around him that he probably needs this, just a little. nick exhales and it clips off as a shudder, one that he's careful not to let become tears, even if the lump that forms in his throat hurts. from there isn't only a moment before he winds his own arms around logan, latches on tight.

he's been doing well, lately, is the frustrating thing. there's always going to be hiccups, but nick has put more effort into his own state of mind in the last few months than he has his entire life, and it was starting to work. and he knows his therapist would call it catastrophising, but nick really does feel right now, like all of that work has just been tossed out of the window. )

Surprise. ( nick laughs into logan's shoulder. it isn't funny, and it sounds suspiciously wet for someone determined not to cry. ) I was fucked up long before this place got to me.

[ He'd told Dick before, back during what only one of them had labelled a break up, that part of his problem with -- and attraction to -- Nick was because he saw himself in him, his own faults and hurts echoed in his pain, his own mistakes happening again right in front of him. It was, and still is, almost too much, but like any addict he can't persuade himself to stop.

He keeps his own head up as Nick buries his face into his shoulder, turning only a little bit to nudge his nose up against the curve of his skull, inhaling the earthy smells of his magic and shampoo and weary grief. Nick clings to him and his own grip is nearly as hard, like he's afraid Nick will fall if he doesn't hold him up. One hand settles over the back of Nick's neck, holding him close.

When he speaks, his own voice is a little tight around the usual gravel roughness, caught up in that reflected ache. ]

That makes two of us, sweetheart.

Well don't we make a pair.

( it helps. all of it helps, the steady, solid presence around him, the security of the hand on the back of his neck. he's tired of hurting over comments made by a person that doesn't care about him, but it's not as simple as just deciding not to care any more. it's never as simple as that.

but he tries, at least, to focus on the comments that matter. on that's never been how i see you and you're doing so much better and there's plenty of time for you to do more. it's harder, with these old wounds and scars that run far deeper than this city, but nick tries anyway. )

For what it's worth, ( nick mumbles the words, muffled into his shoulder because he's not willing to pull back enough to be any clearer. ) I think you're pretty fucking excellent. Even all fucked up.

[ That gets an amused noise out of him, almost a chuckle on a soft exhale into Nick's curls, breaking some of the tension that's been building up in his shoulders. He shifts his embrace a little bit, but only to get comfortable, not even attempting to let go just yet. ]

Don't think you need to go that far. [ But he appreciates it all the same, even if his gratitude goes unspoken. His free hand slides over Nick's back, stroking him in small movements as he tries to figure out what to say, whether it would be the same thing that he wants to hear. ]

Be better for you if I wasn't all fucked up. [ He turns his head a bit to kiss the curve of Nick's ear, pulling him in tighter, muttering his words into the side of his skull. ] I love you, kid. I'm sorry it ain't easy for either of us. But I don't regret gettin' to know you.

It'd be better for you. It's not about me.

( it sort of is about nick, a lot of the time, and he's more acutely aware of that now than ever. and it's not like nick doesn't adore attention, but the kind he wants is the silly, frivolous, light-hearted stuff. not an aching heart and being held up again, because all that work he's tried to do to be better has gotten flushed down the toilet, again.

and it's not like people don't tell nick that they love him. he hears it a lot, just about daily these days, and that's one hell of a change from the life he's leading back home — from the one he was living six months ago, even. but nick has always felt--less sure, of whatever this situation is with logan. on the good days, it's just an undefined thing and that's all it needs to be. on the bad days, it's nick fighting to convince himself that it's not all one-sided, that the feelings there are mutual, that it's something tangible and not just misery compounded.

so it's significant, to say the least, that logan says it first. )

I'd rather it be hard and still have you. ( he shrugs minutely, like the casual gesture will throw some of the weight off the sentence, and tips his face in towards logan's. enough that he can feel his lips against the side of his face.

he remembers the conversation after his memories came bleeding back into focus, and being so embarrassed at the idea of admitting to having feelings. he's too tired to be embarrassed now, just closes his eyes as he leans in. ) I love you. I'm pretty sure I have for a while. I just...all this shit, you know. I don't want you to feel obligated to fix me, because we got tangled up together.

I know.

[ Whether that's a response to Nick's admission of feelings or his regret, he'll leave it up to him to decide, since it's really both. He murmurs the words against the curve of Nick's jaw, tucking his head a little to take a breath of his scent right over his pulse point. Wolfish, the ultimate gesture of trust, teeth against another's bared throat where the smallest movement could spell disaster.

Logan stays there for a second or two, cataloguing the sensory memory, then lifts his head again, fingers stroking the downy hair on the nape of Nick's neck. ]

I don't wanna fix you. I don't think I could. [ There's sympathy in his tone that undercuts the harshness of his words, the voice of long experience. ] But I can be there while you try. Or when it doesn't go so well. If you want me to be.

Edited 2021-12-15 02:59 (UTC)

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