TITLE: Time Will Tell

AUTHOR: The She Devil

CATEGORY: Drama

RATING: M for language, sexuality, violence, the usual.

SPOILERS: Takes place after X2.

ARCHIVE: Please ask first.

DISCLAIMER: I do not own anything.

SUMMARY: A mutant with similar powers to Rogue comes to the school after Jean's death. When Scott begins to develop a relationship with this new mutant, and Rogue begins to look to him as a mentor, is Logan just jealous, or is there more to this interloper than meets the eye?

AUTHOR'S NOTES: While I do prefer the movie Bobby, Warren is still an original X-Man in my universe. And there may or may not be references to events that have happened in various comics and the novelizations of the movies. I'll try to stay as movie canon as possible, minus X3 because ew.

It was innocent at first. Logan flirted with Jean because he liked getting under the Boy Scout's skin. Here Scott was, the son of a billionaire, leader of a vigilante mutant army, model gorgeous with shoes that were more expensive than Logan's entire wardrobe – and he got to have a hot girlfriend? It just wasn't fair to have everything handed to you like that. Logan had to put him through some grief.

Plus it was the only way to get a reaction out of the guy; the only time that pretty face showed anything other than impassive stoicism and impossible restraint. It became a game, to see how far he had to push before that perfect mouth formed a prissy little frown or when that chiseled jaw clenched so hard Logan was sure the kid's teeth would turn to calcium dust.

And then he did something stupid. He fell in love with her. How could he not? God, that gorgeous red hair, those sparkling eyes, legs that went on for miles. And not only looks! She was smart too, successful, and tough as nails to boot, a real fighter. Every man's wet dream – more than that. Every man's fantasy woman, the kind of girl you'd marry.

Of course, the ol' Boy Scout had beaten him to that punchline. But maybe that's why Logan had fallen for her in the first place. It was safe. Safe to fall for a good girl that had a good boy already attached to her. It meant it would never go anywhere. It meant he didn't have to stick around this place and develop relationships with broken kids that were way too delicate for someone with sharp metal claws and a short temper to handle. It meant he didn't have to hang around adults and form some kind of friendship with them, do annoying friend things like give them rides to the airport or have a conversation with them.

The Wolverine didn't need friends. He didn't need a family. Certainly, he didn't need a lover. That just wasn't who he was. Maybe it was who he used to be, but he couldn't really remember further back than fifteen years ago. He just knew the kind of guy that wanted a wife, a best friend, children, connections, roots – that wasn't the same guy that woke up in a fish tank from Hell, weighing a hundred extra pounds and eviscerating everyone that stood in his way of the exit.

Sure, he had loved her. But not like Scott had. Not in that undying-everlasting-eternally-true-love kind of way, the kind you hear about in Righteous Brothers' songs while making out at Lover's Lane in the back of your boyfriend's father's Cadillac after he asked you to go steady. Not the kind of love that makes you think of sunsets or rainbows or hearts carved in trees with initials inside of them or any other myriad number of sickeningly sweet, vomit-inducing Disney representations.

So if it was hard for Logan to walk these halls, to be constantly surrounded by memories and reminders of Jeannie, he couldn't even begin to imagine how it was for Scott. He knew Scott wasn't sleeping in their – his – room. It would've been hard for Logan to sleep there too. Well, it was hard for him to sleep anywhere, considering the nightmares, but to have to sleep in a bed that was once shared with a woman he'd loved for…Logan didn't even know how many years Scott and Jean had been together – forever, if you asked the kids – well…okay, he got it. It was tough. He'd probably be wandering the school at night too, walking aimlessly through the gardens, or riding his motorcycle up and down back roads for hours. Anything to stay out of that room, out of his own head.

Still didn't mean it was healthy. Especially when Logan would find Scott sleeping in a lawn chair in the morning by the leisure pool, or on one of the park benches out back, or curled up on the couch in Jean's office, sometimes sprawled in a living room armchair with the TV on low volume, or slumped over the kitchen table. Embarrassing really, especially on those mornings the kids found him first and Rogue or Jubilee would come knocking on Logan's door to gather the kid up and drag him up to his room and force him into the shower.

The only thing Logan hated more than being woken up before his alarm went off by worried students was babysitting, but he'd been unofficially assigned the task once it was apparent to everyone – specifically 'Ro – that Scott was not pulling himself up by his bootstraps about this. Kurt was too new and would only end up offering platitudes in the form of Bible verses, and that could always go two ways when one was grieving. Hank would only be able to comfort Scott if the poor kid had a dictionary and hours to kill while the furball lectured, and Logan was sure that would only end in Hank's death by Scott's hand, or Scott's death by Scott's own hand after being unable to stand listening to the good doctor drone on and on any longer.

So here Logan was, following Scott's scent out back, down a twisting trail of pavestones, past the crimson flowers of the Royalty crabapple trees, beyond the low-growing evergreens and chokeberry bushes. Scott always wore the same cologne, a mixture of lavender, clove, lime and cedar. It was more difficult to track him with all this damn fragrant foliage that 'Ro insisted on planting with the other Horticulture Club nerds, but the trail was fresh enough that Logan could still find him.

Jean had worn this perfume that smelled lightly of flowers like lilies and carnations, with strong hints of ginger and lemon and rose; powerful yet feminine, just like her. And underneath it all had been this light, delicate scent that was intrinsically Jean. Logan had always been attracted by scent more than beauty or personality or even gender, and before even opening his eyes down in the infirmary on first day in the mansion, he knew he was going to be attracted to Jeannie just by her smell.

Maddeningly but not unpredictably, she'd left that lovely scent on Scott's skin. It had been difficult to pick up unless Logan was in very close proximity to him; the first time he'd smelled it, he and Scott were cramped inside of a closet trying to fix one of the ancient water heaters in the school. Beneath the sweat and musk and cologne and aggravation invading Logan's sensitive nostrils, there it was: that alluring, intoxicating scent that hit him like a ton of bricks, conjuring sensations of soft skin and smooth, long lines, of warm breath and heavy breathing.

Sometimes, and Logan would never, ever admit this, but sometimes when he'd been feeling particularly lonely (or horny), when Jean hadn't been around and he'd missed her (and was horny), when he'd wanted to bring back those sensations that only that scent could induce, he'd stand just…a little bit…too close…to Scott. It was perverse, really, he knew this. It was wrong on so many levels, to get flush to a man so he could get a whiff of his girlfriend. Akin to stealing her panties, probably. But if he got just close enough – close enough to feel the heat of Scott's skin, close but not touching – he'd close his eyes and take a quiet, deep inhale, and…

Oh.

He could almost imagine it was Jeannie within reach. But he hadn't gotten close to Scott in months. Hadn't wanted to. It was bad enough smelling her when he passed her bedroom or her old office, the painful twist he'd feel in his gut. He had no desire to seek out that scent any longer. So he stayed away just long enough until he was sure that that lingering smell would have dissipated forever, and after that of course he had no reason to get close to Scott Summers.

Only a few days ago, when Logan and Scott were training in the Danger Room, when they got a little too competitive in front of a group of the younger kids, when Logan caught Scott in a grappling hold and smashed him face first into the floor, twisting his wrist painfully behind his back and pinning him with his significantly greater weight, did Logan realize that Scott smelled like sweat and anger and exhilaration and…there was that delightful little scent, right there. It went from his nose to his brain, shot right down his spine and straight to his groin.

It was the same moment he realized Jean had been dead for six months, and perhaps he had been hasty to assume the scent had been hers all this time.

He was quick to release the writhing, leather-clad young man from beneath him, roughly shoving him into the floor and storming out of the Danger Room without another glance back, his face and ears and neck flushed with what he'd call embarrassment and definitely not desire.

Now, he stood silently at the edge of the garden, too far away to catch any ill-advised sniffs of unwanted pheromones from the man sitting on one of the park benches. He watched him for a moment, waiting, until Scott tensed infinitesimally and turned his head. He regarded Logan only briefly before returning his attention to the sky. Logan casually lit a cigar, flicking the lighter closed and stuffing it into his jeans before coming around and settling down next to the young field leader. The bench groaned under the weight of flesh and bones and adamantium.

Scott was clutching a bottle of expensive Kentucky whiskey between his thighs, his ruby quartz gaze directed at the sky. The old mutant didn't think he'd ever seen the kid drink before, and wondered how bad of a sign this was; he didn't know Scott well enough to tell. Logan watched as Scott drank straight from the bottle, listening to him breathe, smelling the alcohol and pain and despair (and, God help him, that scent, and it was like his dick could smell it too).

Finally, indicating Scott's liquor, Logan asked, "You're not even going to offer me any?"

"No."

"You'd think in a school, they'd teach you about sharing."

"Adults don't have to follow the rules," he retorted bitterly, his words slow and deliberate, and if the smell hadn't alerted Logan to the fact that Scott was as drunk as a skunk, the way he spoke sure did. Despite Scott's obvious slur, he considered the young man's words, wondering if he was referring to Jean's death or Logan's obvious plays for her or if he was just being a miserable prick tonight. The older mutant didn't respond, just reached for the bag he'd brought out with him and pulled out a large bottle of Canadian whiskey, twice the size of Scott's – and twice the taste, if you asked Logan. Scott eyed it dubiously.

"What?" Logan asked, twisting off the cap. "Like it's so surprising mine would be bigger than yours?"

It surprised a bark of laughter out of Scott, the first time Logan had heard him laugh in weeks. It was a nice sound. A nice sight too, to see that smile. The kid had a killer smile, crooked and charming and – Jesus Christ, what was happening to him? Next thing he knew, that ache in his chest wasn't going to be from the cigar smoke. He could see it now: complaining of chest pain, Hank doing some kind of x-ray and hanging up the image on a light box, and right in the center would be his heart, which would've miraculously grown three sizes that day and Christmas would be saved and –

"Do you mind not making me laugh?" Scott asked him, his voice light as his gaze returned to the gardens around them. "I'm trying to mourn here."

"Sorry." He took a swig of whiskey, swallowing down the harsh taste, enjoying the burn as it went down. "You know I'm usually the epitome of consideration. I don't know what got into me."

"I'll let it slide this time," the younger man assured him. They fell into silence, both men drinking their whiskeys and Logan enjoying his cigar. He'd sneak one here and there in his room, but to be honest, he didn't really appreciate his bedroom smelling like a bar either. It was nice to be outside at this late hour, a cool breeze drifting by and blessed silence gracing the estate; such a stark contrast compared to the chaos this place endured during the daytime when it was full of rambunctious kids.

"It's quiet now," Scott murmured, almost to himself.

"Yeah, it's a nice night," Logan agreed.

"No, I mean…" The young man leaned forward, his elbows resting on his knees, glass bottle dangling from long, dexterous fingers. He tapped his forehead with his other hand. "In here. It's quiet now. I used to…I used to hear her. But now she's gone and it's just…quiet."

"What do you mean?" he asked gruffly, frowning. "You heard voices? You losin' it, Slim?"

Scott tossed an amused smile at him from over his shoulder. "No, Logan. We shared a telepathic link. Since we were teenagers. And I wouldn't hear her so much as I would feel her. She was just like this presence in the back of my mind. When she wanted to check up on me, when she missed me or thought about me, I could feel this…brush across my mind and it was her, making sure I was okay."

Logan balked at the idea of being so intertwined with someone that you could feel their presence in your own head 24 hours a day. If he had ever thought he stood even a remote chance of stealing Scott Summers' girl, the rug had just been pulled out from under him indefinitely. There's no way he could've competed with two people that loved and trusted each other so implicitly they shared a goddamn telepathic link.

"I tried, Logan, I swear I tried," he continued, his voice wavering. His breath hitched in his throat, a delicate tear escaping from his visor before he wiped it away angrily. "I was screaming at her in my mind. She was trying to talk to me and I couldn't hear her, I was screaming so loud. She had to – she had to use Charles, because I wouldn't listen." He scoffed bitterly, and Logan wondered if he was thinking about all the things they could've – should've – said, if he hadn't been losing it on that jet. "I felt it, you know. When the water hit her. When it was over. I felt it. I felt her…"

Die.

"Jesus," Logan whispered. He couldn't even imagine the kind of pain one experienced when having to helplessly watch their fiancé die, but to have to feel her go? To feel the instant soul left body, the instant everything just…stopped?

Scott leaned back once more, resting his back against the bench. "Logan, my life started when I came here. Jean's always been here with me. Here and," – he tapped his forehead again – "here. And now…now it's just me. And I don't know what to do. God, Logan, what do I do?"

And then he was crying. Really crying, like he had been on that plane when he must've felt Jean let go. Logan shifted uncomfortably, the wooden bench protesting noisily. He was not good at this, this whole heart-to-heart, mushy-feely thing, and he hadn't really anticipated it anyway, so he was definitely not prepared. This poor kid was lost. Lost and broken and all he wanted was someone to tell him that everything was going to be okay. To ask Logan of this might've been foolish, but he'd been rolling with the punches his whole life (at least the parts he could remember), he could do this.

Brusquely, Logan draped an arm across Scott's shoulders and crushed him to his side. He felt the younger man tense up, the breath escaping his lungs as Logan inadvertently squeezed a little too hard.

"What are you…?" Scott began, confusion lacing his voice, and then seemed to startle with realization. He looked at the older mutant with clear surprise from behind ruby quartz lenses, their faces close together. Logan had never realized until right now how bright the glow of Scott's optic beams were, and if he looked very carefully, he could see it dim when Scott blinked. "Logan, are you hugging me?"

"Yeah, I think so. But don't go spreading it around. Then everybody's gonna want one."

Scott smiled again, that wry smile that Logan didn't get to see nearly enough. He wondered what he could do to make it last longer, to appear more often. He wondered if that smile reached the younger man's eyes, what color they were, and if the full effect would be just as deadly as those optic blasts.

"You're secret's safe with me," Scott said quietly, their faces still close. Close enough for Logan to smell the whiskey on Scott's tongue, the salt of tears on his cheeks. Close enough to see the crisp autumn wind gently caress the silky tendrils of Scott's hair. Close enough to feel the heat of Scott's long, lithe body pressed against his side. Close enough for Logan to hear Scott's heartbeat suddenly quicken and flutter, to hear a startled breath release so softly from Scott's lips.

Close enough – so close, right on the edge – that for one breath-stealing, time-freezing moment, Logan could almost, almost believe that if he decided to lean forward and kiss the young field leader, it would be the first time that Scott would agree with anything Logan decided to do. And he wanted to – God, he wanted to. But Scott was hurting, lonely, vulnerable, and drunk. If Logan ever did decide to kiss him, to press his lips right against Scott's, to taste whiskey and lick away the salt of his tears from his cheek, it was going to be because he was sure Scott wanted him, and not because he was grieving and looking for a distraction.

Scott blushed. This very becoming rosy flush rising into delicately sculpted cheekbones that was equally endearing as it was sexy. He laughed then, suddenly, almost a giggle, and Logan was sure if he ever told anyone that he had witnessed Scott Summers, Assistant Headmaster to Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters – had witnessed Cyclops, field leader of the X-Men giggle, no one would believe him.

Shaking his head almost at himself, Scott turned away. The moment lost, Logan was about to pull his arm from around Scott's shoulders when he felt the young man lean closer into his side, melting against Logan and resting his head on the older mutant's shoulder. Logan tensed for the briefest of moments before he smiled softly, relaxing against the park bench as he allowed himself to enjoy the comfortable and warm rare display of affection between them.

Scott began speaking again, his voice carrying gently over the cool night air:

"Time is

Too slow for those who Wait,

Too swift for those who Fear,

Too long for those who Grieve

Too short for those who Rejoice,

But for those who Love,

Time is not."

"Is that like a poem or some shit?" Logan asked.

"Yes," Scott responded, and Logan could practically hear him rolling his eyes behind the dark lenses of his glasses. "I teach it in my senior lit class every year, but it's never meant as much to me as it does now." The young man suddenly lifted his head, speaking as if the thought just occurred to him. "You should take my lit class. You might learn something."

"I'll consider it if I'm ever trying to take a nap and can't fall asleep."

"I bet you don't know one poem."

"Sure I do. There once was a man from Nantucket – "

"Logan!"

Scott shifted in his seat, pulling away from Logan who pretended not to mourn the loss of the lean figure against his side. He thought for a moment he might have offended the young man and nearly blurted out an apology – anything to get that warmth back – but Scott was compressing a smile. To Logan's surprise, the other mutant turned towards him and folded one of his long legs on the bench seat, pressing his shin against Logan's thigh. One elbow jutted over the back of the park bench, his fingertips pulling at the loose threads in the seam of Logan's jean jacket by his shoulder. The gestures were so casual it held an intimacy that Logan hadn't known in a long time, and he felt that ache in his chest again. Damn heart.

"So what's it called?" Logan asked.

"The poem?" Scott ducked his head, and Logan could see from the angle of the red glow that the young man was peeking up at him from beneath dark eyelashes. "Time Is, by Henry Van Dyke."

Logan grunted pensively. "And what about for somebody like me? Somebody who's got all the time in the world?"

Scott shrugged much more elegantly than a drunk man had any right to, the corner of his mouth quirking up. "I guess time will tell."

To be continued... Feedback is love!