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Logan slings his bag over his shoulder. There's not much packed in it beyond a few changes of clothes and basic toiletries. Even when he finds a decent job willing to pay cash and look the other way when he doesn't have a scrap of ID, he doesn't stay in one place for long. There's a feeling that he can't shake, like he's missing a whole lot more than who he used to be. Wherever he lays his head, his bed seems empty and no one he's found to fill it has made up for that.
He's given up on looking to fill up all the blank spots yawning in his memory. There's no sense in it, when the years have turned all the trails cold and everything about what'd happened at Three Mile had cover up stamped all over it. Government is something Logan had known right away he didn't want to tangle with, and the first time he found knives springing out between his knuckles he knew he'd made the right choice.
"Where you headed?"
Logan looks at the guy who's been taking up most of the bench at the stop for a good ten minutes. The nape of his neck had been prickling since the guy had shown up and sat down, his big arms stretched wide over the back, casual but somehow threatening. A wickedly curved claw--mutant, just like Logan--picks at the grain of the wood as Logan sizes the guy up proper.
"Who's asking."
A smile then, sharp as the claws, and Logan's treated to an odd twinge low in his guts. The smile disappears and the guy shrugs, casual, dismissive. "Someone who might be headed in the same direction. I could offer you a lift, maybe save you a few bucks. Name's Victor."
Logan drops his bag back to the curb in case it turns out he'll need his hands free. He does his best to stay out of trouble, but trouble has a way of cropping up. "You don't quite look like the charitable sort, Victor."
"No, don't suppose I do," he says in a deep purr that just burrows right into Logan's skin, gnaws through his bones to resonate in the marrow. It's familiar, hauntingly so, and Logan can't shake off the feeling any more than he can ignore the coppery scent of danger in the air.
In the end, he goes, and if he'd anticipated that in following he'd be treated to the feel of those claws on his skin, he hadn't expected this. They press light against his sides, tips spreading wide as the heat of Victor's palms curve around the span of his ribs. Victor's mouth brushes against the slope of Logan's neck, and a shivering threat of a bite turns to a wide lick that wets a span up to Logan's ear.
"Not the charitable sort at all," Victor murmurs, nipping a path back down as his hands skim down Logan's front and takes over undoing Logan's belt. Logan fights the hard kick of lust but doesn't fight the kick of Victor's boot on his to force his stance wide. There's an odd sense of right that he hasn't felt since the first time he wrapped a hand around a beer, or woke up to smell dawn after sleeping outside on the bare ground. Logan's not sure what this says about him, that he likes it when Victor's hand slips down his pants and roughly grabs his cock, but he goes with the punches, and reaches back to fumble at Victor's fly and return the favour.
His hands curl to fists when Victor hauls back to spit straight on skin. Logan forces his fingers to relax as Victor slicks the wetness all along the crease of his ass. "This mean I don't need to give you money for gas?" Logan asks, his words slurring a little as a moan tries to push through.
Victor offers a quiet laugh instead of an answer, and lays the hot weight of his dick against Logan's skin. "This means whatever you want it to," he says, and pushes.