Hate To Love You, Love To Hate You
There’s a prickle at the back of Scott’s neck that itches at him, makes him half-crazy because it’s not his hair or a tag at the back of his shirt, but it’s still there in a phantom sensation that tugs at his thoughts. It’s been there all day, but Jean looked at him like he was insane when he told her, and even after she poked around in his head and told him it was nothing but his imagination, he can still feel it.
It doesn’t make sense, at least, not until the most Alpha guy he’s ever seen walks through the door and automatically takes over the room in a rush of pheromones and attention-drawing scent that wafts in from the force of the door slamming. He can smell salt, beer, smoke – everything that sends his hindbrain into overdrive. Alpha pheromones, much like the other ones, don’t have a specific smell to them; this scent is just waves of here, I’m here, leader of the pack.
Next to him, Jean sits up straighter, and he can see her nose flaring and eyes widening. On his other side, Bobby whispers, “Holy fucking hell” and Jean nods slowly in agreement. Scott wants to do the same, but he clamps hard on his swooning hormones. Holy fucking hell indeed. If he’s affected so much by the man, him, a low-level Beta, he can’t imagine what the poor Omegas are going through. The itch at his nape intensifies, the little hairs standing up at wary attention, then goes back to manageable levels, thankfully. He still rubs a hand over the spot, though, after the man’s gaze sweeps over the room, over him.
“Ah, Logan. Welcome. I knew that you would join us eventually.” The professor says, ignoring the fact that the room’s gone silent and the man – Logan – is tense enough to snap in two.
“Yeah, well, that made one of us, bub. I’ve been scoutin’ out this place for a bit, and I gotta ask what made you think it’d be a good idea to mix me in with a buncha school kids.” The man’s voice is rough, a growl swimming in the undercurrents – low and deep like a slow-moving, rumbling earthquake.
“There is no danger here, Logan, and certainly none because of you. Perhaps you should take a seat, and I will speak with you after this meeting concludes.” Charles’ tone is warm, treating the stranger like an esteemed guest rather than an intruder who just barged in unexpectedly.
There’s a brush of mental attention from the professor that makes his suspicion subside a bit. The stranger scowls, but after more silence than Scott is comfortable with, he sprawls out as much as the dwarfed chair will allow. The stranger is silent, a brooding, unforgettable presence in the corner; Scott and what he thinks is half the room keeps an eye on him.
They finish discussing how to handle the new student, a girl they picked up from Sabretooth and Associates a few days prior, and Scott can barely focus on the flow of conversation, his hindbrain dead set on evaluating the newcomer. Before he leaves in the shuffle of people leaving, he takes a glance at the stranger. Unmoving, authoritative, Alpha. He has to shake off the automatic sneer that fights to make itself known. He doesn’t know if the Beta inside him is making a show of dominance, or if it’s scared of its willingness to bend.
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“Gambit.”
The Cajun looks up lazily from the strange French movie playing. “Yes, O fearless leader?”
“What’s the deal with the new guy?”
Gambit blinks innocently, but the self-satisfied smirk gives him away. “Who says I know anything?”
“Come off it. You’ve got your fingers in so many pies your toes have started in on it too.”
The smirk deepens. “Such a high opinion of Remy.” Scott’s unimpressed, ruby stare works wonders for little effort.
“Fine. Okay. I know a little bit.” He props himself up on his elbow and holds his index finger and thumb a centimeter apart for emphasis. “Guy’s named Logan. Apparently, Prof came across him years ago and offered to help out the guy. Don’t know why he’s here now. Part of his mutation is super-fast healing. Could be plenty of fun if it works the way I hope.” And there’s the eyebrow waggle. Typical.
“Was that so hard?” Immediately, Scott regrets his word choice when the other eyebrow rises to meet the first. “Never mind. Go take a cold shower, Remy.”
“Va te faire foutre.” Gambit says cheerfully, going back to his movie.
“Keep your ears close to the ground. Come to me if there’s anything suspicious.”
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After that illuminating conversation with Gambit, Scott looks harder at the school’s new ghost. The man – Logan – refused a room at the school, and as far as he can tell, is roughing it in the surrounding woods. He almost never comes inside, and when he does, it’s only to talk to Charles. A few of the students are making bets on whether or not he actually exists, or if he’s an urban legend recently sprung to life. Scott tried to tail him a few times, but that led to chasing shadows and trees with their bark shredded. It’s clear to Scott that he’s a risk, an unknown variable, but when he mentions this to Storm, she shakes her head at him. Of course, Storm has always been a touch more feral than everyone else, so it stands to reason that she’d be more accepting of someone who looks and acts like he’s been dragged through a hedge backwards. Jean, when he asks her to rummage around a bit, frowns at him and reminds him that the professor vouched for him. Almost everyone thinks Scott’s wariness is insane, and he wants to snarl at the Alpha pheromones have addled all their brains.
It’s when the newest student, Rogue, comes to the stranger’s defense, that surprises him the most.
“You need to stop raggin’ on Logan all the time.” She says to him, out-of-the-blue when he’s grading papers in his office.
“Logan? You’re on a first-name basis with him?”
She flushes a little, and tugs at her white forelock. “Yeah.” She rallies. “But that’s not the point!”
She almost pokes his chest, but snatches her hand back with a pained frown. “He’s nice! And you keep grumblin’ to anyone who will listen that he’s a spy, or a Brother, or somethin’ horrible! People listen to you, and you’ve been sproutin’ nothin’ but gossip and insults.”
He sets down his pen as one does with serious conversations. “We know nothing about him. He could be a deranged murder recently escaped from a mental hospital.”
“Have you heard about any recent murderous escapees lately?”
No, but he’s not about to concede. “Why are you defending him? Just how well do you know him?”
“I talk to him!” Her jaw is set stubbornly.
“Just like that?” He can’t help the incredulous edge that slips out from under his control.
“Just like that. I ran into him in the hallways when I was late for a class. I accidentally touched his arm, and he keeled over like a sack of potatoes. And I saw his memories. He’s been hurt a lot, he’s alone, and he wants answers. And when I started cryin’ and apologizin’, he said there was no need to. He touched my gloves. No one does that after …” She breaks off, faltering.
She blinks heavily, gulps, and gathers herself together. “Well, I just thought I should tell you to lay off him a bit. He seems like a good person and a good person doesn’t deserve to be questioned at every turn.”
“… I’ll think about it.”
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He tries not to think about it, he really does, but then his careful machinations fell apart when faceless soldiers stormed the school. There had been no warning, no alarms, no thwip-thwip of helicopter rotors. There was a silent, normal night, and then there was a kid’s scream splitting the air. He had stumbled from bed, panicked and adrenaline-rushed, certain he would have to count the bodies before the night was out; he was right, but it wasn’t children’s corpses he’d have to number.
Scott’s room was on the ground floor, the closest to the main entrance, so he was the first one to respond. He’d seen the boy – Bryce, six years old, able to change his hair color – being pulled along by a guy in riot gear. Hesitating, he had raised a hand to his visor, but didn’t take the shot yet, too scared of hitting the boy. He didn’t need to.
Barely a second later, there was a feral snarl, utterly animalistic and completely terrifying. It reminded him of times when Hank had a bad day; not as feline as Hank, but more … more. His hindbrain had kicked in and frozen him to the spot like a baby rabbit hearing the cry of a hawk. Before he could break out of his weak impulses, the snarl cut off and was replaced with the rasping rattles of a dead man, apparently induced by the three metal claws that found themselves sticking out of the soldier’s chest. And there was the son-of-a-bitch, blood-splattered and radiating angry pheromones like he was a strobe light of pissed-off Alpha. The bastard had crouched down and soothed the sobbing kid, rubbing circles into the shuddering back wiping away tears like a natural. Of course, he had to be perfect at the one thing Scott was talentless at.
He didn’t realize that the stranger knew he was there until a gruff voice spoke up. “That’s the last of ‘em, Slim. I already got the rest.”
“Don’t call me that.”
A shrug. “Don’t know your name.”
He ground his teeth. Oh, yeah. Embarrassing. “Scott.”
“Nice to meet you. Slim.” A flash of teeth and what Jean showed him to be goldenish eyes.
Yep. Bastard all right. And to top it off, a deadly and useful one. Fuck.