Fic: On Which Our Survival Depends (Scott/Logan; PG)
Title: On Which Our Survival Depends
Author: Hotel Montana
Disclaimers: Marvel blah blah blah etcetera.
Spoilers: General 616
Pairing/Characters: Scott/Logan in that squinty, head-tilty sort of way.
Rating: PG
Summary:
People say friends don’t destroy one another.
What do they know about friends?
Author’s Notes: Songfic, of course. The Mountain Goats - Game Shows Touch Our Lives.mp3
(everything that falls down)
Logan and Scott on the ground.
Rolled around. Grabbed at each other’s clothes. Clenched fists and clumsy punches. Angry faces. Gnashing teeth. Knuckles and blood and spite.
One said something to the other. Logan, probably. It usually was. Some snide comment. Sharp. Calculated. Meant to sting. Forgotten as soon as it was said.
Scott raised a hand. No hesitation. Blasted hard and fast. Full, like a scream. Loud and shrill. Brutal and strong. Not sorry. Never sorry. Still not enough. Never enough.
Logan’s skin smoked and stank. Concussion-roughed and lit by friction-fire. Felt like crisp bacon. He salivated. Healed. Ran and tackled. Grunted and fell. Threw punches like a brawler. No technique. No claws. Never claws. Never too much.
A fist to Scott’s cheek felt like a brick. Broke the skin. Took his breath away. He found leverage. Rolled over. Hard hips between knees.
A fist to Logan’s gut felt like a hammer. Broke his spleen. Took his breath away. He found leverage. Rolled over. Hard knees between hips.
Logan and Scott on the ground.
Rolled around. Pummeled with fists. Got dirty. Spat blood and sweated until exhausted and panting.
No one stepped between.
Best to let them have it out.
(eventually rises)
Scott on the sofa.
Legs stretched out. Face tender and bruised. The room was dark. Baseball on the television. Yankees murdered the Sox. Fights broke out. Dugouts emptied onto the field. Televised blood and sweat.
Logan was quiet, even in clomping cowboy boots. Floor creaked. Six pack clanked. Sofa sank under his weight. He pulled a can. Held it out. Watched the screen. Waited until he felt it lifted from his hand. Took another for himself. Tops popped with a snap-whiz-whoosh. Loud in the quiet.
Fumbling on the TV screen. Error. In-the-park homerun. The hardest kind. Cheering. Pretty girls in the stands. Heroes, the announcers say. Hometown heroes.
Logan and Scott on the sofa.
Black night suede-soft against their skin. The screen flashed across their faces like headlights on the highway.
No one stepped between.
Best to let them have it out.
Author: Hotel Montana
Disclaimers: Marvel blah blah blah etcetera.
Spoilers: General 616
Pairing/Characters: Scott/Logan in that squinty, head-tilty sort of way.
Rating: PG
Summary:
People say friends don’t destroy one another.
What do they know about friends?
Author’s Notes: Songfic, of course. The Mountain Goats - Game Shows Touch Our Lives.mp3
(everything that falls down)
Logan and Scott on the ground.
Rolled around. Grabbed at each other’s clothes. Clenched fists and clumsy punches. Angry faces. Gnashing teeth. Knuckles and blood and spite.
One said something to the other. Logan, probably. It usually was. Some snide comment. Sharp. Calculated. Meant to sting. Forgotten as soon as it was said.
Scott raised a hand. No hesitation. Blasted hard and fast. Full, like a scream. Loud and shrill. Brutal and strong. Not sorry. Never sorry. Still not enough. Never enough.
Logan’s skin smoked and stank. Concussion-roughed and lit by friction-fire. Felt like crisp bacon. He salivated. Healed. Ran and tackled. Grunted and fell. Threw punches like a brawler. No technique. No claws. Never claws. Never too much.
A fist to Scott’s cheek felt like a brick. Broke the skin. Took his breath away. He found leverage. Rolled over. Hard hips between knees.
A fist to Logan’s gut felt like a hammer. Broke his spleen. Took his breath away. He found leverage. Rolled over. Hard knees between hips.
Logan and Scott on the ground.
Rolled around. Pummeled with fists. Got dirty. Spat blood and sweated until exhausted and panting.
No one stepped between.
Best to let them have it out.
(eventually rises)
Scott on the sofa.
Legs stretched out. Face tender and bruised. The room was dark. Baseball on the television. Yankees murdered the Sox. Fights broke out. Dugouts emptied onto the field. Televised blood and sweat.
Logan was quiet, even in clomping cowboy boots. Floor creaked. Six pack clanked. Sofa sank under his weight. He pulled a can. Held it out. Watched the screen. Waited until he felt it lifted from his hand. Took another for himself. Tops popped with a snap-whiz-whoosh. Loud in the quiet.
Fumbling on the TV screen. Error. In-the-park homerun. The hardest kind. Cheering. Pretty girls in the stands. Heroes, the announcers say. Hometown heroes.
Logan and Scott on the sofa.
Black night suede-soft against their skin. The screen flashed across their faces like headlights on the highway.
No one stepped between.
Best to let them have it out.