Instinct

Alex swings around the stairwell corner. He propels himself up the final flight before their apartment. Shrugging out of his jacket, damp with rain, he fishes for his keys in the left pocket. A swift twist, click, shove and he is inside.

Jacket and bag are tossed on the low corner table by the window.

Or…

Jacket and bag are picked up again and taken to his room. One too many ‘responsibility’ lectures. Besides, his dad was rocking some hard-core insomniac eyes this morning and he’s not a total asshole.

Alex drops his things at the foot of his bed, hearing the pronounced thud of his Chem textbook. Ugh. One more year. One more. He’s lost in all the numbers with this titration thing. Dad is good with numbers. He should probably ask. It’s one of their deals. Dad’s assigned therapist suggested clear ‘expectations’ would help set a new routine after Dad left hospital and in the years since it just stuck. Alex will ask for help when he needs it and Dad will do the same.

He toes the fraying cuff of his jacket. That’s the theory anyway.

Erik doesn’t often ask for help. He doesn’t do weakness. At least, not in front of Alex. Sure he has told Alex about the military. He has shared, in that quiet, measured voice, of the friendships, the terror and the history of each scar on his body.

But hearing the stifled sobs seep through the wall in the early hours of the morning still feels like a mystery he cannot solve. They belong to another man and another time. Not his Dad.

He is not naïve enough to think he can fix that. He cannot help but try.

Dinner. He can make dinner.

He heads out to the kitchen and grabs a well-worn saucepan from the cupboard, selecting a couple of potatoes from the bag on the bench.

Right. Executive decision, dinner is on him tonight. Maybe he can try that mushroom and caramelised onion sauce. Dad seems to be a fan. Though he is usually the one making it.

Mushrooms. First things first. He pulls the fridge door open. Mushrooms come in bags right? Jackpot.

Wood splinters. Metal screams. The window flies open.

A man hurtles inside.

Alex slams the fridge shut. He lunges for the entrance to the kitchen. Get somewhere safe. Somewhere with a door. Somewhere…

The intruder is upon him. Blocking his path. Trapping him.

He stumbles backwards, scrambling to grab onto the bench and keep his feet beneath him. His hand closes on the saucepan handle. The man lunges forward. There is no time. He swings.

He swings hard.

The pan connects with a jaw and flies out of his hand. He does not stop to see where it lands. He is away. Hurtling into the lounge room. In a panic, he is lost in his own home. Left? Right? He turns left. Too late.

A hand clamps down on his shoulder and he is torn backwards. He is thrown off balance and topples down. Thud. His hip hits the ground. Hard. He sees a leg stepping towards him and lashes out. A fist to the side of the knee. A harsh grunt. The leg buckles before him and he scrambles, crawls, drags himself away.

Door. Front door. Get up. Get up. Go.

He is on his feet. Reaching for the doorknob.

Hands grab his shirt and he finds his voice.

“No!” He screams. “Hel…”

His breath catches as he is jerked backwards.

The hands grip his upper arms, bruising, numbing and he is flipped around to face his attacker.

His eyes are level with a dark brown beard.

That is all he sees before he is thrown against the wall.

His knee throbs and he slams his jaw shut against the pain. The pain is irrelevant. This is his job. He leaps after the fleeing figure and latches on before he can reach the door.

He starts to yell. Not going to happen.

Logan spins the target around. Best put a stop to that quickly. He propels him bodily towards the lounge room wall. The kid’s eyes widen in terror.

Kid.

Damn it.

He jams his arm between the kid’s head and the wall just before impact. Plaster buckles under his forearm. A spidery halo forms behind the boy’s head.

The kid’s neck is warm on his wrist. Still in one piece. Good.

A kid. The hell is he meant to do with this?

“You Lehnsherr?”

Crack. The kid elbows him in the chest. Hands grapple against Logan’s shirt, shoving him away.

“Hel…!”

No way. Logan snarls. Strikes. One hand closes around the boy’s throat.

The kid chokes out a cry, head arching back against the wall.

He looks down at his other hand. Metal claws are jutting out of his knuckles, pressing under the kid’s chin.

Damn.

Well. This is not going to plan.

He looks back up at the kid.

Sheer terror stares back up at him. The boy’s jaw clenches in response to the blades. His shallow panting ruffles the hair on Logan’s wrist. Frost. She knew. She has to. She does not get things wrong. This is still his mission.

“Look kid,” he starts, “I’m here for Lehnsherr. If you can tell me who I’m looking for it would help us both out a hell of a lot.”

A hand latches onto his wrist.

“I don’t know who you’re…talking about,” the kid whispers. He cringes away from the blades.

“No, I’m pretty damn sure you do kid.”

He begins to struggle under Logan’s hand, tugging on his wrist. Kicking at his shins. Logan sighs. He tightens his grip on the boy’s neck.

“Do not make me hurt you kid,” he grits out. 

The boy gasps against his palm. Tears of pain form in the corners of his eyes.

Logan closes his eyes. It’s a kid. He can’t.

A kid.

But he can’t fail. Failure is pain and drowning and black and…a kid.

“Come on,” he growls.

A key turns in the door.