Spin the Bottle

Summary: Logan wants to forget it happened. Or does he?

Remy woke up naked. Nothing new.

His head throbbed fit to bust, and his mouth tasted like hell.

Someone thoughtfully left his shades drawn and his door closed. He heard the muted thumps of footsteps in the hall, but at least they were slightly muffled. Just about any noise felt like a thousand sledgehammers right about now.

He scrubbed his face with his palm and stared at his surroundings. Same old room.

His clothes from the night before were neatly folded on top of his laundry hamper. He was sweating tequila from his pores. Cheap tequila. Remy groaned in disgust. Never again. Oh, never again…

Wait.

When the hell did he walk himself upstairs to bed?

He rolled gradually to sit up, wincing at the pain that even caused him. He stretched langorously and listened to his joints pop. The temperature of his room was moderate, but he was still burning up.

Remy padded into the shower and turned the water to a lukewarm setting, then eventually to cold, and he soaped away as much of the morning-after funk as he could with his Old Spice soap. His groan echoed off the shower walls as he washed his hair, scraping his fingernails over his scalp to clear his head.

Man, was he messed up.

He rewound the previous night’s events, starting at the beginning.

The trip out to the liquor store with Summers. Warren climbing back out of the Jeep when he saw that Remy was accompanying them, saying he had things to do. Pfft… Remy grunted. No love lost there, but it still left him with a pang.

Listening to the women in the house squeal and shriek over the variety of drinks as they pawed through the paper bags. Gathering in the den. Arguing over which movie to watch before all their chatter drowned out the set.

That empty bottle. Music. More laughter.

A kiss between Drake and Blue that made him wish he had his digicam. Priceless.

Moodiness. Feeling slightly…off.

Heavy footsteps.

Molson beer.

And then…

And then…

Bruising lips. Sharp canines grazing his skin. Groans of need. Distinctively masculine flavors tinged with beer and cigar smoke.

Remy dropped the soap bar with a thunk.

“Shit.”


*

Jean was downstairs, making the rounds with the ibuprofen.

“Why didn’t you tell me not to mix?”

“I did, Katya.”

“Then why didn’t you STOP me?”

“You promised me that you’d phase out my left kidney if I didn’t let go of the tequila bottle.”

“Oh. Right. Heh.” Piotr rolled his eyes, held up the pills Jean offered him and muttered “Bottoms up.” She dutifully opened her mouth. He crammed them inside and shoved her a bottle of water.

“Scott’s lucky,” Anna Marie remarked.

“Why?” He was about to tuck into a stack of pancakes.

“Even if yer eyes are all bloodshot, ya can’t tell.”

“Lucky me,” he snorted. “Once I hurled, I felt fine.”

“Please don’t say that,” Bobby moaned from his place at the other end of the table. His forehead was pressed against the cool wood and he’d spent the last twenty minutes making noises like a wounded sperm whale.

“Haven’t seen Remy yet this morning,” Betsy pointed out.

“Leave him under his rock.” Warren rattled the paper and took a bite of his bagel, tearing off a huge chunk with his teeth. He chewed noisily while Betsy rolled her eyes.

“I thought I heard someone up last night after I went upstairs.”

“I didn’t leave the music on, Jubi,” Anna Marie told her.

“Thought I heard it.” She cracked her gum and poured some orange juice.

“Don’t say ‘music’ right now.” Bobby was adamant.

“Oh, just open up already,” Jean snapped, nudging him with her fistful of Motrin.

Ororo sailed into the room, looking fresh as a daisy. “Where’s Logan?”

“Dunno. He’s kept himself out of sight.”

“All morning? I didn’t hear him leave.”

“Half the time, we don’t. He’s good at making a speedy exit,” Jean shrugged.

“That’s fine, I suppose. I wanted to add a few things to his honey-do list.”

“Geez. I can’t even move right now,” Bobby complained. “Keep me off the list.”

“Me, too,” Anna, Jubes and Kitty chorused.


*


Later that night:


Logan made a clean break, scattering billiards across the green felt. Not too bad. He’d done worse.

He felt relieved to be home, such as it was, even if he’d been keeping himself scarce.

What the fuck could he even say?

Hey, Cajun, I know things got a little hot and heavy last night, but would ya mind forgettin’ how I almost throttled ya death with my family jewels? Logan winced.

He didn’t know if Remy’s reaction came before they “got to the good stuff”, or “just in the nick of time…”

Logan couldn’t even blame the alcohol. He had himself for that.

He spent the day out and about, buying some parts to restore an old bike and taking a few of his things to be dry cleaned. Ororo nagged him a couple of times via his mobile phone, which gave him the excuse to avoid coming home for another hour or two.

What could he even say? The question dogged him again as he chalked up his cue and took his next shot.

He’d already cleared the CD carriage of the girls’ chick music and loaded a few of his favorite discs instead. He peered around through the CDs lined up neatly – alphabetized – on the shelf of the entertainment unit, but he couldn’t find the Johnny Cash. Must have been part of the Cajun’s secret stash. Logan settled for Eric Clapton.

He heard the front door shut quietly and someone hung up their coat.

He smelled him before he came into the den.

Remy stood in the doorway, peering around the edge of the frame. Watching him. Reading him.

“Hey.”

“Hey.”

“Ain’t seen ya.”

“Been out an’ about.”

“Eh.”

“Um.

“Game?” Logan tossed him the pool cue before he could protest. He began racking up the balls. “I call solids.” Remy swallowed hard, trying not to look him directly in the face.

Hello, awkward.

They played in near silence, occasionally reminding each other whose turn it was and whether either of them wanted a drink. Both of them stuck with beer. Logan drank his thirstily, as was his wont; Remy only sipped.

He reached for it again, then stared at it for a second, forgetting what he was going to do with it. This was driving him nuts.

The bottle hit the table’s edge with a thunk.

“Don’t spill that on the felt.”

“Fuck de table. We need t’talk about dis.”

“Ya scratched the last shot. Ain’t that complex. Ya lost a turn.”

“Don’ gimme dat shit.”

“What shit? Ya came ta play eight-ball, so we’re playin’ eight-ball.”

“Den just tell me dis: Who took my naked ass t’bed?” Logan looked up at him just before his cue hit the ball, throwing it off-center. He scratched, watching dumbfounded as the cue ball rolled into the side pocket, then scowled. Logan straightened up, and his voice was resigned.

“What is there ta say? Ya were naked before we even got up the stairs. And don’t blame that on me, Gumbo, ya took off yer clothes yerself.” Remy’s face turned beet red.

“Den…maybe ya wanna remind me how I got dis.” He peeled aside the collar of his shirt, a charcoal gray one this time, and revealed a large purple bruise.

Oooh. Logan winced.

“That. Yeah. Um. I, uh, didn’t know ya… bruised so easy.” After a beat, “Sorry.”

“Are ya sorry, homme?”

“Just said I was. Are ya done?”

“Looks like everyt’in’ stopped before we were done, mec. Remy’s a l’il fuzzy about how it ended, but he remembers all kinds’a shit ‘bout how it started.”

“It was a game. We were playin’ a game. And Drake made me a bet. Okay. That’s it. Ya happy?”

“Would be, if dat wuz it. But dat ain’t all.”

“What else is there?”

“Ya kissed me. And ya kissed me like ya meant it, mec.”

“So what if I did!” Logan blurted. He flung down his pool cue and shoved himself back from the table. Remy shivered. Logan’s nostrils were flared as he threw up his hands in a broad, angry gesture. “It was a game! What’d ya expect? Everybody was kissin’ everybody else! Ya egged me on…”

“Naw. Remy was behavin’ himself, jus’ sittin’ on de couch, waitin’ his turn.” Then again, Remy admitted to himself, maybe he wasn’t behaving himself that well.

“Ya kept on…givin’ me that look.”

“What look?” Remy wrinkled his brow.

“That look. Ya make that face all the fuckin’ time. Whenever yer playin’ with people, charmin’ ‘em.” Remy shook his head incredulously.

“Dat what ya t’ink, mec?”

“Cajun, I dunno where yer mouth’s been.” Remy reacted as though he’d punched him in the balls.

“Fuck you.” Remy charged the pool cue, feeling crackling yellow energy channel through his hand, engulfing the enameled wood. Before he could stop himself, he hurled it straight for the Canadian’s head.

SNIKT! Logan’s reflexes were quick, and his claws cut the stick into neat segments as he deflected it, but he snarled in pain as the charged pieces hit him anyway, scorching his cheek.

“Whaddya think I’m havin’ a problem with right now, Rem? I DID try ta fuck ya last night, and it’s drivin’ me nuts! One fuckin’ second, yer talkin’ shit and gettin’ sloppy drunk – and ya’d had enough, and wouldn’t listen ta me, either, ya little shit – and the next…and the next ya just…” His tirade drifted off to a low mumble.

“Den I what?”

“Then…I…grabbed ya.” Logan’s knuckles itched. He resheathed his claws and turned away, raking his hand through his hair.

“Oui. Ya did.” Remy’s recollections of the night before were coming at him hard and fast. Not unlike how Logan had come at him, now that he thought about it.

“Shouldn’t have happened.”

“Whatever, Logan. Dat what ya want, ta act like it didn’ ‘appen?”

“Would’ve been better if it didn’t.”

“Dat ain’t what Remy asked. Do ya wish it hadn’t happened?” Remy’s jaw was set and hard, and fire blazed from his red-on-black eyes.

“It’s the same thing.”

“Naw, it ain’t. And let me ‘splain somet’in’ to ya, mon ami. Remy don’ regret it. Wuz what it wuz. Might’ve jus’ stopped before I wanted it to, but y’act like ya dodged a bullet.”

“It ain’t like ya would’ve been all over me before –“

“Excuse de fuck outta Remy, den.”

“…before last night. Admit it. Last thing ya’ve ever thought about is us goin’ at it.”

“Ain’t gonna lie. Didn’ see dat one comin’, Logan, but y’know what? I t’ink ya liked it.” Remy picked up his beer bottle and shrugged, charging it. It blew up, evaporating the liquid inside. He was finished. “Funny t’in’ is, I liked it, too. Came outta nowhere, but ya made me hot an’ bothered. Yer mouth did wild things t’me, mec. Felt how hard ya got. Tell me ya didn’ mean it when dat happened.”

“Remy…”

“Don’ ‘Remy’ me. G’wan an’ play.”

“Ya ain’t taken yer turn yet.”

“Remy’s finished.” He swept out of the den, trotting up the steps. Logan snarled and kicked the couch.