The thunderstorm had come on as quickly as only summer storms can. Ororo was sound asleep in her bed, so Logan knew her volatile moods had nothing to do with this one, it was just nature running its course. Ozone was almost tangible in the air to Logan’s acute senses, it tickled his nose. It was five in the morning, and Logan knew the rest of the Mansion was still asleep. Scott’s alarm clock would be going off in about an hour, but he’d have the mansion to himself until it did.
It was his favourite time of the day, the twilight hours between the night and dawn, when the halls were deserted, all students tucked safely in bed. Logan liked having the halls to himself, liked prowling around in the sense of peace that overcame the usually busy halls of the mansion. He finished his inspection of the halls and opened the door to his room.
The smell of soil, damp from the rain, came in through his open window and brought a twitching smile to Logan’s face. He folded himself in the Lotus position on the mat at the foot of his bed to meditate. Thunder rolling in the skies above was a background noise as Logan started to clear his mind, letting the thoughts and troubles fade from his consciousness.
The rumbling sound of an engine did not break his concentration. He registered the sound unconsciously as Gambit’s motorcycle, the Cajun returning home after a night of partying. The bike made it’s way up the driveway, stopping and idling for a moment at the garage door, before the motor was shut off. The garage door opened and closed, the gravel driveway crunching underfoot as Gambit pushed his bike inside before closing the door.
The first time the Cajun had gone partying he had crept back into the mansion as silently as a cat in the dead of night. Logan had had a particularly restless night that first time, and had been stalking the halls like an insomniac. His nose had alerted him of the Cajun’s presence, and the animal inside hadn’t been able to resist sneaking up on the thief. The adamantium lacing his skeleton had made it difficult to creep as silently as the Cajun could, difficult but not impossible.
Remy must have been sloshed, because he had not noticed the feral Canadian hiding underneath the stairs until it was too late. Logan had leapt out from underneath it, the beast enjoying the hunt too much for the man to control. A card shot into the Acadian’s hand but wasn’t thrown, as Remy realised the ‘monster under the stairs’ was in fact a teammember. That night had been the start of their friendship, and had sparked an unspoken understanding between the pair; do not sneak up on the other. Remy had made it a habit to close the garage-door just loudly enough to alert Logan to his presence. Logan did not prowl the halls after midnight silently when he smelled alcohol on the Cajun’s breath.
The Canadian stayed folded up on his mat, not meditating any longer. He strained his ears to pick up Remy’s silent footfalls as the younger man traversed the halls. Silence, as to be expected. But his nose caught the scent of the Cajun’s alluring, spicy scent as the kid passed by his door on the way to his room. Logan closed his eyes and savoured the unique spicyness of the Cajun. Spices, tobacco, bourbon and was that… blood?
A frown appeared on Logan’s forehead, now actively sniffing the air instead of the passive registering of scents. Remy’s scent was laced with blood, definitely blood, gasoline, motoroil and pain. Not a barfight then. Logan unfolded himself from the Lotus position, cursing himself inwardly for being so damn nosy, but headed towards his door anyway.
Sure enough, the smell of blood was stronger in the hallway, even though Gambit had already left the hall. A blackish, round stain on the parquet flooring caught Logan’s eye, the frown on his face deepening as he spotted it’s brother about a feet away. Closer examination revealed an entire trail of blood drops leading from the staircase to the kid’s door.
The smell of blood was starting to become overpowering, now that Logan had a visual. His animal instincts were warring with his rational mind, urging him to protect his packmates (packmate?). Urging him to shelter, protect and take away the pain, but his rational mind told him it would be better to alert Hank first.
Checking up on the kid himself before waking Hank wouldn’t harm anyone, Logan decided. It was an acceptable compromise. He followed the trail of bloodstains to the Cajun’s door, hesitating a little before raising his hand to knock. His soft rap on the door was met with silence. When he knocked again and still did not receive an answer, Logan opened the door a little and stuck his head inside.
“…Kid…?”
Remy’s curtains were open, the lights were off but the soft moonlight was enough to illuminate the room’s décor. Logan knew Remy’s eyes functioned perfectly with the bare minimum of light, and his own were able to pick out the pieces of furniture as well. There was light shining from underneath the bathroom door, but the Cajun had yet to make an appearance.
“Gambit?” Wolverine questioned, now walking a step forward into Remy’s room. The smell of blood was stronger here, telling him that Remy was indeed bleeding rather badly. The bathroom door opened a crack, familiar face peeking around the corner.
“Bonsoir, Logan.” Remy breathed, an air of nonchalance wrapped around him like a coat. The red on black eyes glowed in the dark like pieces of coal, giving the redhead an eerie look. Logan however, knew better than to fall for the Cajun’s deception. His nose never lied.
“Yer okay?” Logan gruffly questioned, pressing forward into the room with the intention to check up on his younger teammate. He took another whiff of air as Remy started to talk.
“Jus’ peachy, mon a--”
“Can it, Gumbo, you smell like a fuckin’ slaughterhouse!” Two steps and Logan had reached the bathroom door. Remy made a halfhearted attempt to close it before the Canadian reached it, but Wolverine grabbed the door and opened it further, further exposing the Cajun who had been hidden by it to his examining gaze.
The black clothes Remy was wearing and the backlighting from the bathroom turned the slender man into a near-silhouette. Logan couldn’t see any injuries, but his nose told him it was bad. The scent of Remy’s spicy blood was almost overpowering up close.
“But Gambit is fine, mon ami, s’ just a lil’ scratch…” Remy placated, but Logan just growled low in his throat and pushed Remy into the bathroom, stepping inside himself. The drops of blood were more plentiful here, standing out starkly against the white tiled floor.
“Can smell a lie a mile away, remember that, Gumbo?” Logan growled, almost pinning the other man against the sink. “Yer not fine, now tell me what happened!” the shorter mutant demanded as he assessed Remy’s injuries. The clothes would have to come off before he could tell their real extent. Wasting no time, Logan started to push the duster off Gambit’s shoulders. The long coat was soaking wet and dirty, the right shoulder torn so badly that the sleeve was hanging on a few threads. The black, expensive looking shirt underneath the coat had not fared any better. Remy sucked in a breath as Logan prodded the roadrashed shoulder that peeked through the shirts torn material.
“Start talkin’.”
“De rain… Hasn’t rained in a while, so all de oil an’ rubber on de road slicked it up…” Remy explained, as Logan started to undo the buttons on the ruined shirt.
“Dis pick-up truck lost control, came into Remy’s side o’ de roa--” a hissed intake of breath as Logan peeled the shirt off, parts of the fabric sticking to the abraded shoulder.
“Managed not t’get hit, Logan.” Gambit breathed, not willing to explain further. They both knew the risks of riding a motorcycle very well, so there was no reason to explain. Logan knew how pavement could be after a long drought, especially when you were on two wheels. And nobody could survive a run-in with a pick-up on a motorcycle…
“So ya spun out.” The Canadian concluded with a frown on his face as he eyed the shoulder. The right clavicle appeared to be broken, the top of Remy’s shoulder and his elbow were one big abrasion, skin rubbed of by the asphalt like a giant cheese-grater. Logan knew the side of Remy’s right hip would be even worse, as it was likely to have been pinned underneath the Ducati’s weight.
“Oui” a nervous laugh escaped the Cajun, and Logan had the sudden urge to slap the younger man’s head. He settled for prodding at the injured elbow instead. There were loose bits of stone embedded in the flesh, they would have to come out, or it would become one giant infection. Logan reckoned the lab-shy Acadian wouldn’t like having the grit picked out, but he would just have to suck it up and deal with it. But first, he wanted to assess all the damage, to see if it would warrant pulling Hank from his bed or if this could wait until the morning. It did not surprise Logan when Remy drew back as the Canadian reached for the buttons on the Cajun’s leather pants.
“They’re ruined anyway, Gumbo.” Logan admonished. Trust the Cajun to be a fashion-victim even after a motorcycle crash. Logan watched silently as Remy turned his back on him, undoing the buttons himself before shimmying out of the sinfully tight pants. He could not help but admire the sight of the broad, muscled shoulders tapering into a slim waist, and the creamy pale backside that was being exposed to his eyes as the leather pants were taken off. It didn’t surprise Logan that Remy wore no underwear, he figured it wouldn’t fit underneath those painted-on pants anyway.
“Merde…” the quiet cursing tore Logan from his musings. Remy’s right hip was tattered, most of the skin of his hip and thigh one big red wound. A cut on his right knee was sluggishly dripping blood, probably the culprit of those quarter-sized blood drops in the halls. As with his shoulder, grit and dirt had been forced into the wound, but the leather from Remy’s pants had also been worked into the skin. It was just one big, raw, bleeding mess. Maybe it would be better to wake Hank. The kid looked positively miserable, though Logan knew he had a very high pain threshold. He’d seen him take a bullet without flinching.
“I’m gonna go and wake Hank up, kid.” Logan made up his mind, the X-men’s doctor was far more qualified to deal with this. But Remy gave him a look over his shoulder, the Cajun’s variety of puppy eyes, demon-like glow in his eyes giving it a whole new twist.
“Non, mon ami, Gambit take care o’ hisself, oui?” the thief placated, turning the tap on and wetting a washcloth. He was cradling his right arm to his chest, the broken clavicle bone making him work one handed. He didn’t seem concerned about his nudity at all, and not a sigh escaped him as he started patting the abrasion on his right hip gently with the washcloth, cleaning away the worst of the blood. Logan silently watched the stream of water turn red as Remy rinsed the cloth, a seed of something he would not acknowledge growing deep inside him… Lust.
“You need to let Hank take a look, Gumbo.” he insisted, but Remy could be just as stubborn.
“It’s fine… jus’… help dis poor boy clean it?” Damn that Cajun and his tougher-than-nails attitude, Logan cursed inwardly, but he took the offered washcloth from Remy’s fingers.
“Takin’ ya to see Hank, kid, whether ya like it or not!” Logan growled, his instincts warring inside him, the smell of a teammate’s blood pushing them into overdrive. Their eyes met in the mirror, a battle of stares and wills lasting seconds that felt like hours. Remy’s pout shifted into a smirk, which shifted into a pained expression, and Logan realised that Hank was not the problem. Hank’s preferred workspace was. He caved in.
“Okay. We’ll clean ya up, then I’ll get Hank to come up here.”
“D’accord.”
Remy’s relief was almost tangible in the air, and he visibly relaxed. The long, slender legs kicked the leather pants that were still pooled around his ankles off carefully, hands seeking support on the sink. He widened his stance a little so he was stable and Logan could start cleaning up his hip. The devil like eyes closed, breaking their gaze in the mirror, which Logan took as an affirmitive. The Canadian let himself sink onto one knee, and stuck the washcloth under the stream again. When the cloth was nice and wet, he pressed it to the bleeding cut on Remy’s knee.