The scene on the X-Jet had thoroughly embarrassed Logan, now that he thought back to it. At the time he was too wrapped up in grief and loss and pure pain to really care about what a fucking baby Scott was being about the whole thing. They all cried, but Scott was blubbering, slobbering and hanging all over Logan, completely unable to control himself. It had been two weeks by now, and the two of them had avoided each other like the plague since then. For reasons neither wanted to explore, they couldn't even look at each other. But Scott was spiraling deeper into his pathetic depression everyday. No one knew what to do. Scott wouldn't let the Professor help him, and everyone just felt so damn sorry for him. It only made Logan angry though. And by now he was so angry with Scott, he didn't care how awkward this talk was going to be. He was gonna snap Scott out of it, smack some sense into him, anything to get him to stop, to grow the hell up. To stop looking so fucking sad and breaking Logan's heart all over again every time he laid eyes on the guy, though obviously Logan wouldn't admit this to anyone.
Logan looked everywhere he could think of in the mansion for Scott, this kid he both pitied and envied for all the wrong reasons. Couldn't fucking find him anywhere, God damn it. Where the hell could he be? Not in the library, the kitchen, not even the damn bathroom. Logan eventually gave up and headed back to his room, swearing to himself. All of the kids in the wing where he slept were away on some field trip for the weekend, thank God or whoever for that. It was quiet for once in this hall, peaceful. If he couldn't have it out with Summers, then at least he could try to get a good night's rest.
But something made Logan stop short. The smell, the lovely sweet smell of something he hadn't had in way too long. Whiskey. He sniffed the air again longingly. Cheap maybe, but it was whiskey all the same. Who the hell was down here drinking and not sharing? He followed the smell until it brought him right to his own bedroom door. Who should he find but Scott fucking Summers himself, sitting there apparently waiting for him, looking like a lost puppy.
"Where the fuck you been, Summers? I been lookin' all over for you."
"Drinking. Looking for you too. I knocked, but there was no answer and the door was locked. Couldn't go any further. Too drunk. Kept drinking. Decided to just wait for you here."
"Hmm." Logan looked him over. Scott was a complete fucking mess. "How much of that shit you got left?"
Scott held up the bottle to show that there was still a fair amount left.
"Well, you're just a fucking lightweight, aren't you?"
Scott looked bemused. "Guess so," he mumbled.
Logan reached down to help Scott to his feet. "Come on then. I ain't carryin' you all the way the hell back to your room. Come inside."
Scott let himself be hauled up roughly to stand all wobbly and precariously. Logan just knew Scott was giving him sad eyes behind those ruby-lensed glasses of his, and the thought made him groan inwardly in irritation while he unlocked the door.
"Why were you looking for me, Logan?"
"Just thought we should talk."
"About what?"
Logan dragged Scott inside and kicked the door closed behind them. He led Scott to the bed since it was closest and found he could not look Scott in the eye, even with those glasses old Cyclops always had to wear. He cleared his throat. "Well, why were you looking for me, Summers?"
"Same. Just wanted to talk. I've been…having some trouble."
"There's the understatement of the century for you."
"You've been having trouble too, Logan. Haven't you?"
"I don't wanna talk about this with you."
"Then what the hell do you wanna talk to me about?"
"Gimme some of that, will ya?" Logan seized the bottle hungrily from Scott who was too slow to resist. He took several long swigs and sighed contentedly, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "I didn't say that wasn't what we needed to talk about. I just said I don't wanna talk about it with you."
"Huh. Well, I don't really want to talk about it with you, either. But who else will understand?"
Logan grunted in agreement or lack of adequate words, whichever way Scott decided to take it. He sat down on the floor at the foot of his bed next to Scott's legs, which were hanging off the end. Scott reached for the bottle of whiskey, but Logan yanked it out of reach.
"Think you've had enough there, kid."
"Probably," Scott sighed.
"I don't need you throwing up in here or anything."
"I won't."
Logan took another sip or five. He certainly felt like he hadn't had enough yet. Especially not when Scott slid down to the floor to sit next to him. They sat in still, awkward silence for what seemed like an eternity. Finally, Logan couldn't take this shit anymore and turned to Scott, ready to just begin this conversation neither of them wanted to have. Logan already knew what was wrong but didn't know what in the hell he could even say to this person he was barely even friends with. He was determined to try though, to maybe try to be his friend now. But as he looked at Scott, the words stopped short on the way to his lips, and his brain seized, momentarily unable to form a coherent thought. He stared at Scott in disbelief and a little bit of horror, so ready to smack him. Tears were rolling down Scott's face, leaving streaks shining on his skin in the moonlight that was streaming in from the window. Logan really could not take this shit.
"Are—are you crying again, Summers?" he finally spat out.
Scott sniffed and stared at the floor. "So what? I'm fucking sad and I'm fucking drunk. What the hell do you expect from me?"
"Well, I expect you to grieve, and you have. And you still can. I sure don't expect you to be all Mr. Sunshine again—not that you really ever were. But Jesus, Scott. You got people here counting on you, ya know. The kids, the Professor, Storm." Logan looked away, down at the almost empty bottle still in his hands. "Even me a little bit, I guess."
"You? What do you need me for?"
"I need you to buck the hell up so I don't have to keep covering your ass when you're supposed to be teaching. I need you to not be sitting on my floor at eleven o'clock at night, drunk and crying your fucking eyes out. I need you to pick up the slack a little so I can do some grieving of my own. I've barley had the time, man. I've been too busy running around, cleaning up your messes. Keeping busy is good, sure. But you need to keep a little more busy. And I'd like to keep a little less, if you don't mind."
Scott's face burned with shame, and he hung his head even lower. He felt like an ass, and didn't know what else to do but apologize lamely. "I'm sorry, Logan."
"Don't be sorry. Just…try."
"Yeah," Scott sniffed again. "Yeah, I will."
Logan drained the bottle. He felt warm and contented now. And luckily he was feeling a bit more tolerant too, because Scott had started fucking crying again. Instead of yelling this time, Logan just draped an arm loosely around Scott's shoulders and whispered, "I know." They sat for a while in somewhat companionable silence, while the flow of Scott's tears slowed. Then somehow Scott's head was on Logan's shoulder. And for some reason Logan had both of his arms wound tightly around Scott, and Scott's arms snaked around his waist. Scott was practically in his lap now, face buried in Logan's neck. And Logan was shushing him and whispering what he hoped passed for comforting things in his ear. And were they kissing now? They were definitely kissing now. Their shirts were on the floor, and Scott was fumbling with Logan's belt. Shoes were kicked off and sent flying across the room. Pants were discarded, and Scott was tossed easily onto the bed. More kissing, and then there was skin against skin. And Logan was on top, and it was warm and strange, but they tried not to think so much about what the hell are we doing. Logan cocked an eyebrow and gave a questioning look, and Scott nodded because he couldn't speak. And then Logan was inside, slowly, using spit to ease the way. Scott pulled at his hair, and the Wolverine snarled and smiled viciously.
"I fucking hate you," Logan growled hot and low in Scott's ear.
"Yeah? Well," Scott panted, "fucking hate me harder."
Scott untangled his hands from Logan's hair, which was getting too long, and gripped Logan's hips tightly instead, bringing Logan farther in. They both gasped, and Scott grinned slyly while Logan moaned loudly with pleasure. Who ever thought it'd be Scott fucking Summers making those sounds come out of him? Because he did fucking hate this guy. And he hated not being the one Jean chose when it came right down to it. Hated that he was now actually fucking the guy she did choose. Hated that he was grieving over someone he'd never truly had. And he really hated that the person who was helping him cope right now was the one who really did have her. And now the bastard had Logan too, literally had him by the balls. And Logan hated that he was enjoying this. Hated how just plain good this felt. But mostly he hated how he knew that no matter how long they kept this up, whether it was a one shot deal or a new drunken habit they'd started, neither of them would ever be able to replace Jean for the other.
But as he pushed into Scott, he pushed away those thoughts. He looked down at the man beneath him, now wishing he could crush those stupid glasses and look Scott in the eye. But that wasn't going to happen, so he shut his own eyes and kissed Scott, pushed into him harder and faster. Sweat and heavy breathing, moaning and swearing and the bed creaking, forever grateful that there was no one else in this wing all weekend. This, this he could deal with. He liked Scott so much better this way.