2

He didn’t want to feel this way, not at all - not in the least - but he was no longer sure how to stop it.

He heard the motorcycle - he was sure he had - but it sounded like the engine had stopped on the road. If it had broken down, it picked a convenient point. Scott waited in the dining room off the main kitchen, his cup of tea cooling before him, sitting in the dark, staring down at a table top he could only partially see. There was a faint light on in the hall, bleeding through the open doorway, but that was it - for some perverse reason, he didn’t want to turn on the lights. It was after two in the morning; it seemed like sacrilege to turn on the lights.

He should take some pills. He knew there was some in his bathroom cupboard, over the counter stuff, Nytol, stuff that couldn’t be that bad. But he didn’t like taking pills; the idea of willfully drugging himself up - better living through chemistry - was unappealing. Inuring yourself to chemicals, letting them screw around with your natural body chemistry, was a slippery slope. And he should know, because he was engaged to a doctor who could tell him all about it. (Was being the operative word.)

A doctor who filled up the medicine chest with Nytol and Excedrin, Sudafed and Midol, Comtrex and Robitussin. He was sure there was some joke in there, but he didn’t have the strength to find it.

He heard the back door open, and heard footsteps, surprisingly quiet for a man wearing boots. But then again, he had decided that, for an incredibly heavy man (all that metal), he could be exceedingly graceful and stealthy when he put his mind to it. Considering that had to have been learned, it added to the general mystery of who he was.

Of course, he knew now didn’t he? A mutant killing machine who happened to have been some sort of multi-lingual commando during World War Two. He tried very hard to draw a logical through line between those two things, and couldn’t. All he could think was that, considering the time he was in Europe’s war zone, there was a possibility - albeit a small one - that Logan had encountered a young Magneto, before he was Magneto. And Logan was older than Lensherr - holy cripes, how hard a concept was that to grasp?

The Professor told him, in confidence, that he thought it was likely that Logan was one hundred years old (!), but he quickly added that he shouldn’t mention that to anyone, especially not Logan. Scott couldn’t figure out why at first, but now he supposed it made a certain kind of sense. How would he feel if someone told him he was a centenarian when his face reflected only a quarter of that, and his memory had maybe a sixteenth of that? It was probably bad enough knowing someone constructed you to kill your own kind; add to that the fact that they erased roughly ninety years of your life, and … wow. Freak out was probably not a strong enough term.

After Xavier gave him the information they had received about his “past life” as Lingo, Logan did his disappearing act again, and Scott was secretly relieved, figuring they wouldn’t see him for at least another month. But he came back in about two and a half weeks, and when he did, he heard the Professor say to Logan, as an aside, “Stay for the funeral?” He didn’t understand that at first, but then he figured out that guy, the one in the photograph who was still living (besides Logan), Logan must have gone to see him. And the guy must have packed it in. No surprise, considering how old he must have been, and he wasn’t even a mutant. He wondered if he was able to tell Logan anything about the guy he used to be, or if he was too ill or fragile to do so. Logan - being Logan - would probably never say.

This was another feeling he hated - feeling pity for Logan. But he did, in spite of himself; the guy really had been dealt a pretty shitty hand. Wasn’t enough to make him like him though. And it was even more difficult to trust him now, knowing someone had programmed him to slaughter any mutant he met.

The footsteps paused, and Scott found himself torn. On the one hand, he just wanted him to move on; on the other, he just wanted him to get his stupid, hairy ass in here already.

Finally a Logan shaped shadow appeared in the doorway, and he said, in an appropriately low voice, “Waitin’ up for me, dad?”

Scott flashed him a middle finger, although it was arguable whether he saw it in the dark or not. Still, Logan chuckled like he had, took a step in the room, and then paused. Just the cant of his head suggested he found something curious. “What smells like Jean?”

“What?” He thought he was taunting him for a moment, but before his anger could really get going, he realized he must have meant the Sleepytime tea that was turning to ice in in the mug before him. It was Jean’s, and she swore by it, although Scott was starting to strongly suspect she always used it to wash down a genuine sleeping pill. “Oh, it’s … it’s her tea. You could smell it on her?” He never could - it wasn’t like she bathed in it - but he had no idea how Logan could scent what he did, or parse those smells with the expertise of a coroner performing an autopsy. Sometimes he thought he was making some of it up, but he never had any proof of that.

Besides, what an awful mutation was that to have? People generally didn’t smell very good, unless they worked really hard at it. He wondered if Logan had ever been in proximity of a bus station men’s room without passing out.

Logan shrugged, entering the dining room. “Kinda. What people eat and drink helps determine how they smell. Also, I think she rinsed her hair with it.”

“You’re making that up.”

“No. She did sometimes. Probably made her hair shiny or somethin’. Women generally know lots of weird tricks like that. Me, personally, I’d have gone with beer.”

“I bet you would.” After a pause, he added, “Aren’t you supposed to teach a class tomorrow? It’s almost three in the morning.”

He snorted derisively. “Don’t worry, principal, I’ll be up for it. Ya know I don’t sleep well.” Well, Scott couldn’t argue with that. “Guess you can’t either.”

Scott shrugged, and stirred the tea he had no intention of drinking. Logan had just made him realize he had made himself a cup simply because the smell reminded him - vaguely - of Jean. “I had caffeine too late, I suppose.”

“Yer a wild man.”

Scott scowled at him, and wondered if Logan could see it. Yeah, he probably could - vision was a sense that was enhanced, right? “Why didn’t I hear the motorcycle in the driveway? Is it all right?”

“Fine. I cut the engine and walked it up the drive. Kids are sleepin’, right?”

He hadn’t expected Logan to be that reasonable. “You just didn’t want anyone to hear you.”

Scott figured he shrugged. He was just inside the room, to the far right of the doorway, where there was no ambient light. He was just an odd shaped shadow among the others; a deeper darkness.

The silence just hung there, Logan making no effort to fill it, and finally, unable to take the awkwardness of it anymore, Scott blurted out, “She’s done with me, isn’t she?”

“What?”

Well, it was out of the bag now. “Jean. I remind her too much of her old life, don’t I? She’s beyond me now.”

Logan sighed, and it seemed like he threw his hands out at his side. “It’s not like that, okay? When you … when you experience a god’s energy, especially a god like Camaxtli, it can’t help but change you. Even someone like Jean.”

It sounded like a convenient excuse. “You’ve experienced god energy, haven’t you? Why aren’t you changed?”

“Bob … I’m not sure Bob counts. He’s kind of minor. Ever heard of a god named Bob?”

He had a point there. But it still could be a major cop out. “Ororo never told me what happened, you know. In that other dimension? She won’t tell me about Jean. She claims it was all “just a blur”, but I know she’s lying. And Piotr’s afraid to contradict her, so he’s not saying anything either.”

After a moment, Logan offered, “I could tell ya what Angel told me.”

Wow. How screwed up was life when vampires existed, and one of them - with the improbable name of Angel - was a friend of Logan’s. And it was even more screwed up that he was a so called “good” vampire. How could anything that fed on the blood of living creatures and was technically dead (how did that work?) be any good? “What did he say?” He sighed. Maybe a vampire report was better than nothing.

“He said she really didn’t really stay; she simply came and went. She manifested with a flaming aura, wiped out every inhuman thing - almost him, but he said she recognized him from my memories and managed to spare him - and then disappeared. The collapsing of that particular universe helped spit them out into this world again.”

“A flaming aura?”

“Camaxtli was a fire god as well as a war god. Fire is as much a part of his power as blood.”

“Blood?” Did he want to hear this?

“As gods go … Camaxtli was a sadist. That doesn’t mean Jean is; she’s not. But when you touch evil like that … it’s hard not be affected.”

“How do you know?”

“What?”

“Camaxtli was a sadist. How do you know? That’s not mentioned in any of the books I’ve found.”

Logan paused for a suspicious amount of time, then said, “I met him, before he died. He was an unbelievably evil fuck.”

“You met him?”

“It’s a long story.”

He bet it was. Did he want to know it? “Was she … was it before ..?”

Logan shifted uncomfortably, and Scott guessed he was leaning against the wall. “No, after, but … I tried to save her, I did. I was just a day late and a dollar short. Story of my life.”

“What do you mean? Did Bob power you up or something? I didn’t think people could kill gods.”

“With help they can. I didn’t try and kill ‘im, though, I just offered to take her place. But Camaxtli was dying at the time and didn’t have the strength to usurp someone else’s avatar, so it was a wasted effort. Oh, that reminds me, ya might want to warn Xavier I got some lingering energy in my head - Bob left it behind - so he may not wanna attempt telepathic contact unless he’s really into pain.”

Scott was too busy processing what Logan said before to really pay much attention to that. Take her place? He offered to become the new vessel for Camaxtli? Why the fuck would he do something like that? “You offered to take her place? But … why? Did you think you could beat him or something?”

“No. I figured if Bob couldn’t save my ass, you’d have less problems taking me out.”

“I don’t understand.” But he did, didn’t he? It was just hard - impossible - to believe. Logan couldn’t be … no, no.

“Oh, come on. If you had to pull the trigger on someone, would it be easier with me or with Jean? It’s kinda self-explanatory, isn’t it?”

Logan was naturally self-destructive, mainly because he was arrogant enough to think he could survive anything. (Well, if he was one hundred or so, he may have had a point.) He almost killed himself saving Rogue because he figured he wouldn’t die; it must have been the same in this case. It couldn’t be because he actually cared for Jean in some fashion (beyond lust, which was understandable … if sickening). He didn’t think Logan was capable of loving anything, and dating a vampire probably proved the point. (But he just admitted he knew he was probably throwing his life away by making the offer … and Scott knew damn well Logan wouldn’t offer to sell his soul to the devil for just anyone … so … no, he couldn’t believe it. )

It was then a loud noise in the hall made him jump - it sounded like someone hitting one of the side tables. “Oh, you idiot,” Logan grumbled, not at all surprised. For a second, Scott thought he was talking to him, but Logan leaned out the doorway, and continued talking. “I woulda let ya sneak past if you didn’t slam into the table.”

“Sorr …y. I rilly didn’t see it.”

Scott stood up, taking a moment to match that obviously impaired, slurring voice to something familiar. Oh shit, was that Brendan?

It was; Logan hauled him into the silver of light coming through the doorway, although it looked like Logan was holding him up more than anything else. Brendan was quite a sight; his short black hair was messy, his red eyes so bloodshot it looked like they were glowing, and within several feet, he could smell him. “Ugh,” he said, taking a step back. “Have you been showering in beer?”

“It’s not beer,” Logan corrected him. “It’s malt liquor.”

“Spilled some,” Brendan said, holding out the bottom of his oversized orange t-shirt, which had a big black bio-hazard symbol in the center. The shirt was so wrinkled, Scott couldn’t tell if there was a stain on it or not.

“Who the hell would sell you beer?” Scott exclaimed, torn between anger and disgust. Brendan was so drunk it looked like he was actually weaving while standing still. Logan kept a hand clamped on his shoulder, and he suspected he was indeed keeping him on his feet.

Logan made a tsking noise at him. “Oh, c’mon, he’s seventeen.”

“That’s not the legal drinking age.”

“It probably oughta be,” Logan shot back, and before Scott could argue that point, Logan asked Brendan, “Where’s Matt?”

Oh shit, he was right. Brendan probably wouldn’t have gone out alone; in fact, it was probably Matt’s idea to sneak out and drink. That boy was nothing but trouble.

To their mutual surprise, Brendan teared up, and there was a new thickness to his voice. “’S all my fault,” he claimed, voice breaking in something that was half hiccup, half sob. “I couldn’t take him anymore, ya know? I mean, I love him, but I was hating him, ya know? I didn’ mean to hurt ‘im …”

“You hurt him?” Scott interrupted. Not that he could blame him precisely.

“You break up with him?” Logan guessed.

Brendan nodded and tears started trickling down his face. “Oh, I fucked it up. I was gonna - I wasn’t gonna let him down hard … but he got me so mad, he made fun of … he got to me, an’ I hurt him.”

“By telling him to go to hell, or by physically hurting him?” Scott wondered. It was hard to tell where this drunken ramble was going. The way he kept sobbing and apologizing, it sounded like he accidentally killed him.

Brendan nodded. “Both. I just … it was an accident, I didn’t mean …”

“How’d ya hurt him?” Logan asked. “Did ya hit him?”

"Yeah. Just a ... justa slap, but ... I demoned out. I didn't mean ... I wasn't trying ... but he made me so mad ..."

"But he's okay?" Scott asked, just for clarification. Brendan's "other half" made him stronger than your average Human, but precisely how strong wasn't clear; not exactly Logan/Piotr metalled out strong, as far as he could tell.

He sniffed and wiped the tears away with the back of his forearm, nearly sending himself toppling over, but Logan still had a grip on him, and kept him upright. "I think so. He stormed off, the drama queen, and I don't know where he is. Wha - what if he never comes back? It's my fault ..."

"Do you really think he'd leave all his clothes behind?" Logan interrupted, showing more knowledge of Matt than Scott thought possible. Well, how often had he been here lately?

That question made Brendan pause, even in his crying. "Well ... no, prob'ly not."

"So he'll be back for them. Now come on, get to bed before you pass out."

"Maybe I should make some coffee," Scott offered.

Logan shook his head. "That's bullshit. It doesn't sober anyone up, it just gives you a wide awake drunk." Far be it from him to question Logan on alcohol; he seemed to be the king of it. "Where's his room?"

“Three doors down and to the right of Rogue's room."

He nodded, and then started to pull Brendan along. He must have realized there was no way in hell he'd be able to make it there on his own. Well, at least not while walking upright. "C'mon, let's get you up there. And don't worry, Scott, I'll make sure he's on his side."

Scott wasn't immediately sure why he said that, but as he thought about it, he realized he'd have to be on his side, so if he vomited in his sleep, he wouldn't choke on it. Oh joy, what a pleasant thought.

Brendan kept droning on as Logan helped him off - "I wanted to break up with him, y'know, but not like that ..."- and even though he knew violence was never to be condoned, he couldn't blame him for smacking him. He'd wanted to smack Matt himself on several occasions; he was arrogant and oftentimes rude, just provocative to make himself the star of the show. Scott had secretly hoped Matt and Logan would have a run in, just so Logan could sucker punch him. Not that it would teach him anything - again, violence was no answer - and yet … in his darkest moments, Scott himself had thought about blasting him across the state line. He just seemed to live to torment him. Yet, Matt was just a kid; a bratty kid, but a kid nevertheless.

If they'd both been out drinking, that wasn't good. He could be out there angry and drunk, and his natural belligerence and his power were always volatile at the best of times. Matt could cause a whole lot of damage if he set his mind to it.

Scott considered going out to find Matt, but he wasn't even sure where to start looking.

****

You know, it was probably always bad to come to chained to a wall.

In theory, it could be kinky fun, but not now. Matt still felt amazingly groggy, and he knew he hadn't drank enough to feel this way. Someone drugged him? Maybe. Oh, yeah, there was that guy ...

“Sorry to be so inhospitable," the guy said. "But I know about your power, and I wanted you to listen before getting mad at me."

“Too late." The room was almost totally dark; just a single candle on a table threw illumination on the scene. It was the table the man was seated beside, looking like a sleek patch of darkness given form. He still looked really good, but since he had also chained his wrists to the cool cement wall behind him, he no longer found him that attractive. If he could just get one of his gloves off - halfway off even, not necessarily all the way - he could bust out of here. But the shackles were pretty tight. The guy did know his power. (How?)

The man chuckled, the sound throaty and low, and he didn't so much stand up as uncoil; his movements were strangely delicate and fluid, almost supernatural. “I really do have an offer for you, Matt.”

“Offer? How do you offer anything to anyone you have chained to a fucking wall?”

The guy laughed again, as if that was genuinely funny, and Matt decided, no matter how hot the guy was, he absolutely fucking hated him. His eyes glittered in the candlelight like wet glass. “Very true. But most people can’t shatter your skull like an eggshell with the mere touch of their hand, can they?”

He didn’t want to admit it - oh shit no - but he supposed, if he was charitable, the guy had a point. “How do you know me?”

Did he have a stalker? He always thought he’d actually have to get an acting gig before he got a genuine stalker.

“In a way, we’re kindred souls you and I -”

“Yeah, I know, I’m a mutant too, blah blah blah. So fucking what? You get ugly. So does my ex-boyfriend.”

“I don’t just get ugly, my friend. But for years I’ve labored beneath my potential, and I’d hate to see such a talented boy as you suffer the same fate. That’s quite a gift you have there - why don’t you use it?”

He’d heard, occasionally, of some freak occasionally abducting women and keeping them chained up in the basement as a sex slave, but he’d never heard of it happening to a dude. Why did he have to be the first one? “’Cause you got my hands chained to the fucking wall, shit for brains.”

“No, boy, not this second - ever. You can break anything, yes? So why aren’t you cleaning out Fort Knox now? The U.S. Treasury? Every jewelry shop between here and the Heights?”

Oh man. This guy went to all this trouble just for cash? How hackneyed was that? “Why should I?” He wasn’t about to tell him that hadn’t really occurred to him; he’d been more worried about trying to be an actor and yet never being able to take off his gloves. It didn’t seem like the personality quirk one could get around, unless they were already a star. Or a deranged rich guy.

The man smiled broadly, but it seemed … off somehow. Self-satisfied yet cold, leering and amused. “You can fool yourself if you’d like, but you can’t fool me. You haven’t even started to live up to your potential.”

“But you can help me,” he replied, in the most bored voice he could summon. Inside he was fucking terrified, but there was no way he was letting this perve see it. “What, do you work with that weird old guy in the helmet and the cape?” He then snorted derisively. “God knows I’m never gonna put a fellow fabulous down, but that whole cape and headgear combo could not be more gay. I’m not one of those sweetie darling types, though; I really don’t go for that “Ooh, what a fairy” shit. So if he wants to swish, whatever, but does he have to tar the rest of us with his pansy brush?”

The guy just stared at him. “I have no idea who you’re talking about.”

“Oh.” He could be lying, but he didn’t think so; he seemed genuinely puzzled.

He shook his head, barely moving the dark fall of his hair, and said, “I want you to aspire to higher things, Matt, and I don’t want you to waste so many precious years waiting to learn just that.”

“Higher things? Knocking over a fucking liquor store? Pul-lease.”

He hissed through his teeth, and looked vaguely annoyed. Good. “I was using that simply as an example. Banks are mundane; money is nothing.”

“You must be rich.”

Tellingly, he didn’t answer that. He stalked closer, looking like he’d somehow blended into the shadows, and asked, “Have you ever thought what it would be like to own a world?”

Okay, why wasn’t this guy wearing a flashing neon sign that said “Psycho”? “Kinda expensive ain’t it, Chuckles? And don’t think I haven’t noticed you haven’t said how you know me.” His hands were sweaty, which was good - maybe now he could slide one of his gloves off, if he just kept working at it …

“I’ve made mutants a study of mine for some time now. There’s so much huge, untapped potential. I mean, if humanity can evolve, why not the rest of us?”

That made Matt pause. And holy fuck, how did the perve get so close to him? “The rest of us? What the fuck are you talking about?”

The pervert was just about kissing close to him now, and Matt could now see his skin was absolutely flawless. Wow, did he botox or what? “Have you ever considered immortality?” He purred - and it did, it sounded like he was purring - his cold breath caressing his face.

Wait - what breath?

“Just think,” the man continued to whisper, straight into his ear. “You can be this young and beautiful - and powerful - forever.”

“You’re a Scientologist, right?” It was getting harder to bluster. Something about this guy was sending chills down his spine, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end. You’d think, this close, he could feel body heat coming from his skin, but he didn’t; the guy seemed to be radiating cold, like an ice cube.

He ran a cold hand through his hair, and Matt felt a shudder course through his entire body. God, this guy was such a fucking creepazoid - where was the Xavier zoo crew when you needed them? And yet, in a strange way that he blamed completely on his traitorous body, he was kind of turned on. He’d have blamed the booze, but he never felt more sober in his life.

Finally, the guy pulled back, and said, “You have pluck, child. It’s a good thing I like that.” And then he did that face changing thing again; his forehead seemed to come forward, his eyes turned from midnight black to sunshine yellow, and his teeth … well, they grew; there was no other way to describe it.

“What the fuck -” he began, but didn’t get a chance to finish his question. The perve grabbed his hair in his fist and pulled his head over to one side as he -

- he sank his teeth in the side of his bared neck.

Oh holy fuck, what the hell was this? What did this pervert think he was, a freaking vampire?!

He got it in his mind to knee this fucker in the groin, to fight back as hard and as fast as he could, even though he was chained to the fucking wall … but he couldn’t. A strange warmth seemed to be spreading outward from his throat, sending an almost pleasurable weakness through his body. He didn’t want to fight; he no longer had the strength to even consider it. Cold now came in its wake, and he was suddenly, incredibly tired.

He really was drinking his blood, wasn’t he? Fast; amazingly fast. He couldn’t believe it - vampires actually existed? Or was this freakos mutation just very specifically weird?

The flickering light of the flame seemed to grow dimmer, grayer, until he could see nothing but thick black fog slowly claiming the remains of his vision. He was so cold he was actually numb, and he felt curiously detached from his own body. So this was what death was like, huh? He had no expectations, but it was still kind of disappointing.

He didn’t realize his head had dropped to his chest until the pervert lifted it by his hair, and looked him in the eyes, his yellow eyes so painfully bright they were like looking into twin suns. “Now you belong to me,” he said, blood glistening on his teeth, looking as black as ink.

The weirdo seemed to bite the inside of his free hand …. No, he punctured the inside of his wrist with a single fang, dragging it along, the skin splitting as easily as paper. He then held the bleeding cut to his mouth, forcing it between his lips, and not only was he too weak to fight it, but the guy still held him firmly by the hair.

“What did the Lord supposedly say?” The guy said, in his curiously gloating voice. “Drink of me, and live forever in my kingdom? Well, Matthew, drink of me, and we will build our own kingdom.”

His cold, disgusting blood filled his mouth, and he could feel the need to gag, to spit it out, but he had no strength, and now he was unable to breathe, his heart fluttering weakly in his ribcage like a dying bird. He didn’t want to be here; he wished now that he hadn’t stormed off. Oh god, he was never going to see Bren again, not even to kick his ass. He didn’t want to die; he was too young to die. Wasn’t anyone going to save him? Wasn’t this the part where the heroes rode in from the west and did the saving thing?

His tears felt impossibly hot against his skin as Matt closed his eyes and did the only thing he could - he swallowed the blood, and waited to die.