DISCLAIMER: H o l o - G r a m m a t i c is sad to inform you that they own neither Harry Potter or the X-men franchise. They belong to their respective creators, producers, and publishers, none of which have any relation to H o l o – G r a m m a t i c.
Warning: This story contains shonen-ai - slash - m/m; whatever you want to call it. The probability of Lemons is minimal, however: if relationships involving two males bother you, H o l o – G r a m m a t i c asks that you kindly vacate the premises.
Thank-you.
Title: Hobo's Lullaby
Pairing: Logan/Wolverine/Harry
Rating: PG-13 / R
Summary: When an embittered Harry Potter and a pre-X-Men Logan Howlett meet by chance on a train, it marks the start of one of the oddest partnerships this world has ever seen.
Authour' Note: ummm… hey guys…. Thanks for all the reviews and alerts! Ummm… we might as well just put it out there. You're going to be so pissed. I know we promised you we'd worked out our plot issues, but- they kinda resurfaced… and the entire last chapter had to be scrapped. hides behind tree WE'RE REAALY SOORY! Hopefully, the extra long chapter will appease the wrath- we'd rather not be killed. And we promise not to let this happen again! really!
On another note, you'll be glad to hear that we've finally managed to agree on an overarching plot for this monster; now, it needs some tweaking and polishing, but it's a mixture of both original plot and the movie plot- hopefully it'll turn out okay! OK, so after that long AN, without further ado, I give you the chapter!
Chapter 4: In Which There is Much Yelling.
"Three hundred bucks? Are you fucking kidding me? There's no way I'm paying that much for just measly hand-job from a scrawny, half-pint little boy. Get out of here, you filthy gold-digging whore." The man yelling was older, in his late forties or fifties at least, and balding. A slight paunch was forming above his belt-line, clearly the product of too much leisure and too little exercise. His small, puffy eyes were squinched shut in anger, and Harry could see small specks of spittle flying from between his lips. All in all, Harry had seen better- but then, beggars can't be choosers, now can they?
The disguised mutant rolled his shoulders in a half-shrug at the fuming office-worker, his lips twitching into a smirk. "If you're sure," he drawled lazily, "it's your loss. If you happen to change your mind, I'll be here all night."
The would-be john growled angrily and stalked away, muttering to himself about uppity prostitutes and what was this world coming to. Harry rather wondered the same thing himself.
He'd skipped towns numerous times in the last few weeks, catching rides with various truckers and such; he was hoping to deter any passing thoughts that that Wolverine character might have in the neighborhood of bloody revenge.
Apparently, this particular town was full of up-tight business men with too much libido and too little time. And apparently, too little money. Harry cackled quietly. Even less, now. The middle-aged man's wallet was sitting cozily in one of his many pockets, the heavy weight of the leather and cloth square hanging comfortingly against his leg. The man hadn't even noticed Harry lifting it, too pre-occupied with what his other hand was doing.
He rubbed the fingers of that hand, grimacing slightly. He'd have to scrub it multiple times before he felt comfortable using it for anything now. No matter how many times he pulled that scam, the whole slut-for-hire thing had always made him just slightly uncomfortable. He may have no morals, but he drew the line at sleeping with strangers for money. Stealing, yes, even the occasional non-injurious mugging (he'd once snuck up behind a man, stuck him in the back of the neck with a bottle and convinced him it was a gun. He'd gotten a good five hundred dollars out of that scheme.), but selling himself was far too risky, in Harry's book- too many weirdoes looking for someone to cater to their kink, and too many STDs. But he was careful, at least- Harry always made sure to claim a price far above reasonable, and never picked a mark who looked like they might push things. Getting raped was way far down on his to-do list.
Harry absently stroked the soft skin of the stolen wallet with one hand, the smug satisfaction of a job well done rising up and quashing his lingering distaste. Double-checking that the wallet's real owner was well on his way, Harry smugly tugged the wallet from his pants, flipping it open and beginning to leaf through the bills inside.
"Ten, twenty, forty…" he muttered, counting up his earnings. The final tally was 180 dollars, and a couple of credit cards Harry figured he could squeeze a few hundred out of, if he worked fast and could figure out the PIN number. All in all, he decided, not too shabby. It should last him at least a week, maybe more.
And first things first, he knew exactly what he was going to do with his illicit gains.
Humming slightly to himself, Harry sauntered to the mouth of his dark alleyway and back out onto more respectable streets. There was a fish-market the next block over that was calling his name.
0o0oo00oo0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0
"Whiskey. Straight up, no ice."
The young bartender gratefully scrambled away from the small crowd of admirers who'd been trying to chat her up to get down the bottle of Jack Daniels, a clear look of relief on her pretty face. The assorted truckers and general sleaze-balls gave Logan the hairy-eyeball, and he shrugged casually.
What can you do?
The young woman slipped, her high heeled shoes skidding in a small puddle of alcohol that Logan knew for a fact she had spilled not five minutes earlier, and been too frazzled to clear up. Logan got the feeling that this was a new job for her. He watched in carefully hidden amusement as the girl stumbled her way through the simple steps of pouring the shot. She was pretty, he decided; not gorgeous, or anything, but- well. His eyes tried to wander to the two large, soft looking appendages that graced her chest. Busty was probably the best way to put it. The young woman dropped a glass, barely managing to keep it from falling off the counter, and Logan twitched a smile. The woman was also very clumsy. When she at last got her act together and, blushing furiously, placed his shot before him, Logan offered her a small nod of thanks. "Thanks, missy. It gets easier with practice, you know," he offered, "Just relax and don't let the assholes bother you."
Her eyes widened. "That obvious?" she whispered, and Logan nodded wryly.
She turned an even brighter crimson, if that was possible, and slumped down on the counter. "I keep trying to tell Earl that I'm not suited for this job, but you know men- they'll use anything to draw in customers, and this," she gestured deprecatingly to her rather large breasts, "is a pretty good draw. At least till I start dropping their drinks on them."
Logan smirked, and tossed back his shot. "A lap full of sour beer is the least most of these dicks deserve. Get me another one?"
She flashed a shy grin at him and left to fetch him another drink.
Logan sighed in content, grateful for the small comforts of the bar. He was getting really tired of chasing this kid all over the country. In the last week alone, he'd tracked the wallet thief –both by scent and more conventional means –through three towns and over four hundred miles of back roads and highways. The feral mutant was pretty sure that his ass was permanently numb by now.
Logan kicked grumpily at the edge of the counter, huffing under his breath. When he caught up with Kit, the teen was so going to regret ever messing with him.
Logan drummed his fingers on the stained, worn wood. He didn't take well to being scammed, and even worse to having his —severely out of tune— heart-strings played upon like they were the kid's own personal lute.
He still couldn't believe that he'd been well and truly taken in by Kit's fake sob story. He must be losing his touch.
A body abruptly slid onto the stool next to him, startling Logan from his brooding.
"Bourbon," the man snapped. "No ice, bit of lime in it. And make it snappy."
Logan gazed down at the few drops remaining in his glass. He wondered if he could drain them out of it, or if they would just stick there until the shot glass was rinsed out.
"Hey girlie, where's my drink?" the newcomer griped impatiently. The bartender squeaked. "Sorry, sorry; I'll get right on it!"
The rude man growled. "Stupid, incompetent bint." He rapped loudly on the counter-top, and the bartender jumped, nearly dropping the bottle she was holding. The man snickered vindictively.
Logan rolled his eyes. "What's your problem, Bub? Why don't you just let the lady do her job?"
The other laughed, high and thin and reedy. "Listen, muscles," he whined, "I'm not telling you what to do; so why don't you mind your own business, and I'll mind mine?"
Logan turned to fully face the man for the first time, allowing the other to take in his intimidating figure. "Sure thing," he said amiably, "so long as 'your business' don't involve hecklin' that girl over there."
"Whatever," the man muttered; he glared, but subsided. Logan eyed him—mid-forties, thinning gray hair, and a sour expression gracing an unremarkable face. Typical idiot normie; not worth his time. The mutant shook his head and turned back to contemplation of his drink.
One half hour and several shots of alcohol later, his neighbor spoke again, this time to complain.
"I mean…wha' the… th' hell, man? Who charges…tha' much?"
Logan studiously ignored the drunk. He himself, though having consumed far more whiskey, was only slightly buzzed. His mutation messed with his metabolism and made it damn hard to get properly drunk.
"Stupid whore… god, I mean… three hunnerd bucks…fer' a han'-job? jeezus… 's jus not worth 't"
Logan sighed. It just figured that his unwelcome drinking buddy would be a talkative drink. He really wasn't in the mood to hear about this dick's sexual exploits—or lack there-of. The lady bartender, just coming back from further down the bar and bearing yet another bourbon and a whiskey for the mutant, looked decidedly uncomfortable with the topic of conversation. And it only got worse.
" 's like… kids these days, ye know? No res… reps… no 'spect fer their elders. Tha' boy wuz jus' beggin' fer a good fuck. Three hunnred bucks, my ass." He trailed off into a brooding silence, and Logan felt his stomach roil. A kid- who ever this dick next to him was going on about, they had been a kid, selling themselves on the street. That was just messed up. He glanced at the young bartender; she looked horrified, and slightly green around the gills. Though that might have been caused by the drunkenly speculative look the creep was now giving her.
"I don' s'pose tha' you'd like t' give a suffrin' man some comfert, hey missy?" he crooned in what Logan guessed he thought was a seductive purr; it sounded rather more like a wounded giraffe bellowing out its death cry, but each to his own, Logan supposed.
The young woman cringed as the man's putrid breath, practically its own entity, invaded her personal space.
"as –charming, really –as your offer is, I'm going to have to decline, sir," she murmured, taking refuge in icy politeness in the face of his staring, glassy gaze. The patron slumped dejectedly.
"yer so cold, wumman… what, d' you wan' my fortune too? Cuz' lemme tell ya'—I got's nothin'. Naaaaaada." He drew the syllable out long and whiny. "Sshhtupid cunt lif'd my wa—my wull…. Yeh know… the thingy- with money in."
Logan snapped back to attention at that. The prostitute had stolen his wallet?
"Wait- you mean to tell me that you've just drunk about 80 dollars worth of liquor and you're broke?" the barmaid exclaimed angrily. "What the hell!"
"Sh'fine," he slurred morosely, "It'sh all fine, girlie. Cos… 'cos I… am… awesome!" He trailed off into a very off-key, ear-bleed inducing rendition of 'Last Train to Awesome Town'. Logan shuddered. It was already a truly terrible song, and this guy's singing talent was only making it worse.
But he had other things to think about. Logan pretty much figured anyone this stupid and this obnoxious was pretty much asking for their wallet to get stolen, but it wasn't so much the theft itself as the thief's MO that drew his attention.
"This hooker- they were a dude, right?" he questioned abruptly, cutting off the terrible din in the middle of the verse about nachos. Logan couldn't say he was too upset about the loss.
The drunk flapped a hand carelessly, nearly braining Logan with his half empty shot-glass. "Boy, shmoy… hard t' say, yeah? He was kinda like…" he waved his hands again "ye know. Pretty. 'E said he was a guy, though… I figger 'e'd know bettr'n me…"
The feral mutant felt his blood singing in his veins. It was a stretch, sure, but- a scam like that sounded right up the brat's alley—and the description, garbled as it was, fit as well.
After weeks following only a scent and various angry accounts of a small, black haired scam artist, this, finally, was something solid. There was only one thing left to confirm.
Logan grabbed the man by the shirt collar, pulling him right up against his chest. The drunk squealed like a pig, flailing wildly. "Oi- pu' me down, ye huge beashtie! I din do nuthin'!"
Said 'huge beastie' ignored the man's protests and tugged the collar right up to his face, inhaling deeply. Tuning out the indignant wails of "what the hell, man?", Logan sifted through the scents on the shirt.
Booze- no surprise there. Cigarettes- again, can we say shock and awe. No, really. We're astounded. Sweat, sperm, and perfume, probably from a different hooker, or some other encounter.
And there, underneath it all, was the scent of cream and cinnamon, and a tiny hint of some exotic floral scent. Jasmine, maybe, or orchids.
Logan breathed out. That was it- the scent he'd been chasing after.
A fleshy fist made glancing contact with his abdomen, and Logan dropped the man in disgust. "You son of a bitch," he growled to no one in particular, "You're so dead when I catch up with you."
The sprawling drunkard on the stained floor of the bar wailed. "But I din' do nuthin! Honest!"
Logan kicked him absently, then offered the wide-eyed barmaid a glowing smile. "If you'll excuse us, missy; this man an' I got some business to attend to."
He hauled the drunk to his feet by the scruff of his neck, where he stood, beet red in the face and swaying precariously. Logan kept a judicious hand on his collar, just in case.
He tossed a couple of twenties on the counter. "that's for my tab; and this," Logan grinned and slid the man's expensive watch from his limp wrist. "is for his. Have a nice night, missy."
He sauntered from the bar, dragging the terrified and bewildered office-worker behind him.
"But I din' do nuffin!" he wailed.
00o0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0
"This it then- you sure about that?"
The bedraggled man nodded frantically. "Sure is, cross my heart an' 'ope to die!"
Logan eyed the dark alleyway with suspicion. It didn't look to promising, all gloomy corners and shattered cobblestones, but then, it was a dark alleyway- Logan was fairly sure they were supposed to look this way.
"Right. Now shove off," he growled to his unwilling guide, "Try not to get hit by a car on your way out."
The mousy man nodded, and shot out of that alleyway so fast, Logan swore he heard the sound barrier breaking. Or maybe that was just a rock going through a nearby window; it was so hard to tell with these things.
He was so close; so close to catching the brat, he could taste it. And when he got his hands on him, he would—well, actually he'd never really planned that far. Mostly he'd been so focused on finding the kid to extract his bloody revenge, he hadn't actually thought much about how he was going to get said bloody revenge.
Logan set his jaw. Whatever it was, it was sure to be bloody, and….revenge-ful… and stuff.
Right.
Logan grinned, sharp edged. The feral animal inside of him was baying in pleasure, begging for its release. All things leading up to this moment had just been anticipation. Now, here, with the scent of his prey lingering in the still air; now, the hunt would begin.
Wiping his hands on his battered jeans to try and get the stench of human sweat off them, the feral shrugged deeper into his bomber jacket and slid, silent and deadly, into the mouth of the darkness.
O0o0o0o0o0o0o0o0
Harry burbled happily to himself, tail lashing, set free in the confines of his cosy little home. Said home consisted of a couple of cardboard boxes, a few magazines, and a crap-load of Duct Tape, but still- a home is a home, and Harry was damn well going to call it such.
And why shouldn't he be happy? His stomach was full of legally obtained fish, his skin was relatively clean after being scrubbed raw in a handy public shower he stumbled across, and he had a roof- of a sorts- over his ear adorned head. In Harry's world, this meant life was good. He snuggled down into his cement bed, curling up in contentment.
A few minutes later, just as Harry was drifting off into salmon scented dreams, the sound of a window breaking shattered the silence.
Or it could have been the sound of the sound barrier breaking; it was so hard to tell with these things…
Harry startled upright, looking for the source of the sound. It had sounded quite close.
"Dammit, McCaulay, are you trying to wake the whole neighborhood?"
The words were spoken in a hushed whisper, but the night breeze carried sound farther than one might think in the narrow corridors of the back streets, and Harry had chosen his spot carefully. Even a quiet whisper as far away as the next street was audible from this alcove—and Harry's ears were sharper than most.
"Thrice-cursed scum," a second voice muttered, "can't believe we got stuck with this job."
"Yeah, well maybe if you could learn to keep your mouth shut about the Minister, we wouldn't be perpetually on punishment duty. Honestly, Andre, even you should know better than to call him incompetent to his face- you can't have imagined that would go over well."
"Well it's the truth," the other complained, "I mean, honestly! The man tried to offer the Mermish Ambassador dolphin steaks. How Fudge ever got the job, I have no idea."
Harry cringed. Aurors; newbies from the sound of it, but nonetheless he had been rather hoping to avoid the Minister's lackeys in this country.
After he'd shot out of England all engines firing, things had gone to seed like a spring dandelion: swiftly, silently, and with widespread consequences. Harry hadn't exactly been following it, nor had he exactly had time while on the run to sit down and think of dear old England, but from what he'd gleaned from the occasional newspaper and overheard conversations, the situation back 'home' was rapidly approaching an all out, no holds barred, war. Voldemort had yet to regain a corporeal body, but with the Harry's abrupt departure the Light was in a shambles. Lucius Malfoy, shark-like as always in his ability to sense blood in the water, had seized to opportunity to muster the Dark Lord's remaining followers and set about taking Wizarding Britain right back to where it was fourteen years before, during the height of the First War. Harry wasn't particularly surprised by the swift deterioration; the few times he'd met Lucius, the older man had been calculating and pristinely logical- rather like a reptile. While a deplorable quality in a general sense, for a commander of a terrorist group, Lucius' cold mentality was a great advantage.
The rest of the Wizarding World was doing its best to contain the situation, but beyond setting up a perimeter around the island and essentially quarantining the whole nation, there wasn't much they could do. No one wanted to get involved in the internal affairs of another nation, especially not without knowing who would come out on top.
Inside Britain itself, the Ministry was scrambling, desperately trying to confront Lucius' forces while at the same time controlling the panicked populace. Harry's information was pretty sketchy, but from what he'd heard, Minister Fudge (Harry was guessing on Dumbledore's behest) had declared the entire country to be under Martial Law, complete with military checkpoints, mandatory identification cards- the whole she-bang.
Harry was glad he was well out of it. Frankly, it sounded rather far up on the suck-age scale. Unfortunately, the Minister still needed him- something about a prophecy, or some such rot- and Harry's polite (or not-so-polite, as it were) refusals weren't having much affect. Hence the reason he was still constantly moving, even after four years on the run. (Well, that and the whole cat thing. But honestly, Harry would have settled down in some convenient forest to become a hermit by now if that were the only issue.) Somehow, the Unspeakables were using his magic to track him all across the world. If he refrained from using it, it usually took the Department of Mysteries upwards of week to get a fix on him, but it made staying in any one place for longer than that problematic.
Apparently, he'd overstayed his welcome this time. Damn.
The cat-boy rolled silently to his feet in the alcove, careful not to let any part of himself become visible. Hopefully the Aurors were just here on some sort of routine business and would pass by without noticing him, but Harry rather doubted that. Aside from the fact that the Auror Corps had no reason to be here outside of searching him, in Harry's experience, fate was a bitch with a vendetta, and boy could she hold a grudge.
O0o0o0o0o00oo0
Logan heard the whispers well before the people in question resolved themselves into definite figures.
"Are you sure the researchers said he would be here? It doesn't really seem like the kind of place the destined savior of our world would hang out in."
On surprisingly soft feet, Logan padded through the shadows towards the speaker. He wasn't sure what the man was talking about, but words like 'destined savior of the world' were definitely on his list of phrases to pay attention to.
"Merlin, Finchley, don't you ever listen at briefings? Our 'beloved savior' has been on the run for the last four years. I doubt he's been living it up at the Hilton all this time."
The voices were distinctly British sounding; Logan wondered absently as he crept closer what on earth a couple of British dudes were doing in Canada.
The two men were standing- more like lurking- at the mouth of yet a smaller alleyway, the murky gloom of the night around them disrupted by a circle of soft amber light that extended for several feet in all directions. Logan, crouched behind a handy dumpster, squinted his eyes against the glare. He'd grown accustomed to the dimness, his pupils expanding to catch all available light, and the sudden change was disorienting.
"I know that, Herrickson," the first speaker- Finchley, was it?- whined, "but this is just too much; it's creepy and wet and there is no one here. Why can't we just meet up with McCauley and Jeffrys and call it a night?"
Herrickson slapped Finchley upside the head. "Because, dimwit, the Unspeakables said he would be here, and they don't make mistakes. So quit your whinging!"
The complainer grumbled. "I don't see why we need 'im so bad anyways. He's just a kid—how's he supposed to defeat the Dark Lord?"
Herrickson let out an explosive sigh. "You got me there, Finchley. That sort of thing's above my pay-grade. But I can tell you this—whatever it is that's going over here, it's ruffling some feathers among the higher ups. I reckon something big's about to go down in the Colonies, something that could make or break this war for us. And whatever it is, they need Potter for it. That's why the Minister's stepped up the search for him, not this whole 'for his own protection' spiel they're selling the media."
Logan was officially confused. These guys were talking about wars and Dark Lords and child saviors? "Messed up shit happens in Britain," Logan muttered to himself, "Messed. Up. Shit."
"I don't know, mate. The commander never tells us anything anymore. I mean, do we even know why Potter ran off four years ago? Cuz last I heard, he was like thirteen when it happened and the most normal, well adjusted kid you could hope for. What made him take off like that, d'you think?"
Herrickson sighed, clapped the other man on the back. Logan gave up on understanding anything the two were saying. "I got no idea, Georgie. No idea. Tell you what- why don't you go get us a couple of sandwiches. Whatever made him take off like that, I doubt Potter'll be running out of that alleyway any time soon. It's like two in the morning; nothing gonna happen for at least four hours."
The other man, Finchley, laughed and started walking away from his friend –partner? Logan crouched down lower and stilled his breathing as the man walked right past his hiding place. But Finchley hardly even paused as he strode past the dumpster, mind clearly more on getting some food than on his surroundings. Logan watched his back fade into the gloom, still completely mystified as to what the hell had just happened.
O0o00o0oo00oo0o0o0oo0o0
Oh yeah. Fate was definitely a bitch.
Harry cursed, scrambling his feet underneath him and taking off down the narrow street like a cat out of hell. Rather an apt description, come to think of it.
"Damnit, get back here!" the Auror called after him. The red beam of a stunner splashed off the pavement inches from his foot, and Harry picked up the pace.
"Can't catch me!" he taunted, "You run like a girl!"
Maybe not the best idea to antagonize the man chasing you, but Harry had always had a problem with mouthing off under pressure. His pursuer growled angrily, his heavy footsteps quickening.
Yeah, definitely not the best idea. Harry wasn't too worried, though. So long as one of those spells didn't hit him, he figured he could outrun this goon no problem. Most wizards were total slackers; with the advantages magic gave them, not many bothered with physical training. Their magic kept them relatively healthy, eliminating obesity and such, but not even magic could mimic the results of a good workout. Already, the Auror was panting heavily, his gasps echoing loudly in Harry's triangle ears.
The mutant giggled breathlessly as the end of the alleyway neared. Just another few feet, and then he could lost this bugger in the maze of twisting walls. Ten feet… five feet… two… one…
Less than a foot away from his goal, a giant black silhouette stepped right into Harry's pathway. Already careening at a frantic pace, Harry stumbled, unable to stop, and with the angry shouts of the rookie Auror ringing in his ears, the mutant ran full tilt into a firm, muscled chest.