Word Count: 4,068
Rating: NC-17, like whoa
Summary: A prequel to Scattered Scars Like Constellations , answering the oft-asked question of how exactly Logan and Weevil got together. Angst and boysex and snark. Three great tastes, that taste great together. Believe it or not, this summary is the least dirty thing about the fic.
Spoilers: All aired episodes.
Author's Note: As always, my fabulous beta __tiana__ (or Iced-Ti, as she is known on the streets), was indispensable. While she was reading this, her underpants CAUGHT ON FIRE and yet she continued to edit like the trouper she is. I have no idea how I would even get dressed in the morning if it weren't for her constant input, which improves everything in my life on a regular basis. X-posted to fic_from_mars and veronicamarsfic.
This is Logan’s life.
The phone rings at 6am, and a gentle voice on the other end tells him that it’s time to wake up. He dries off with towels that someone else washed and folded, and while he gets dressed, his breakfast is wheeled in. His car is already idling by the valet stand when he walks out of the lobby and through the revolving door, and when he returns from school, someone’s waiting to take his keys. His bed is always made, and vacuum tracks still show in the plush carpet, so that when he gets back to the room, it’s like he’s never even been there before.
At 7pm, dinner arrives, and by 8:30 the maid is there to turn down the bed and put mints on his pillows. He knows everyone by face, but not by name. He sees them every day, and he couldn’t tell you the first thing about them.
When he lets himself think about it, he figures prison might be like the discount version of this, the photo negative. This is regimented structure cloaked in convenience.
Living in a hotel is simple, and that’s why Logan stays as long as he does. There’s not one other thing that’s easy about his life, so he might as well take what small consolation he can.
And anyway, Logan's learned it’s better just to stick with the status quo when the future is uncertain.
* * *
Suddenly, he has graduated from high school and pending murder charges, and he’s thinking he maybe could be ready to let go of the easy life. He talks with Beav, who hooks him up with a couple of smaller-scale realtors, and suddenly he’s a homeowner. It might be the first time in his life he’s sought out responsibility of any kind.
He goes to a furniture store and points at the things he wants, and when he’s finally cleared out of the suite with his paltry possessions, the furniture is waiting for him at his new place.
He sits on the couch, even though it’s still wrapped in plastic, because he sort of likes the newness of it all. He flips through the channels. He puts slices of the pizza he ordered on a new plate with the price sticker still on the bottom.
He doesn’t sleep. It’s lonelier than he thought. He wonders if he could hire that maid away from the hotel, if she would just come over if he paid her enough money, and fold down his sheets just so, and leave an extra chocolate mint on his pillow like she always used to.
He dismisses the notion out of hand. It would be pretty creepy, and while he has no trouble purchasing things to fill up his life, he doesn’t need to start buying people, too.
* * *
When Weevil turns up on his doorstep, it’s a fairly surprising turn of events. Logan had been expecting the Jehovah’s witnesses to come by. Again. Apparently they felt he was really in need of some saving.
“What are you doing here?” he asks – not rude even, just curious.
“I thought you might be missing room service right about now,” Weevil says, brandishing a bottle of tequila, and Logan stands aside to let him in.
Weevil takes in the sparsely furnished room, the furniture still plastic-protected, and raises his eyebrows.
“I’m still settling in,” Logan mutters, rummaging through the cupboards, trying to remember where he put his glasses. Weevil pulls a switchblade from somewhere and slices through the factory-wrap, exposing the fabric underneath.
Logan sits at one end of the couch, and Weevil sits at the other, cracking open the bottle of tequila and pouring two generous shots. He slides one down the coffee table, and Logan catches it and raises it in acknowledgement.
“What are we drinking to?” he asks, idly.
“Freedom, I guess,” Weevil shrugs, and they both down their glasses.
The tequila is the kind you can only get in Mexico, cheap but good. Logan can feel it in his belly, a slow, smooth burn going down.
“Nice place,” Weevil observes, looking around. Logan has a feeling he's just being polite. It's on the small side, and everything is still in boxes. His surfboard is propped against the wall. It's the one thing he's really used besides the TV and the bed since he moved in. It's the reason he had liked this house; he can roll out the back door the moment he wakes up and make his way through the soft sand to the roiling waves while he's still half-asleep. It's more refreshing than even the state-of-the-art showerheads at the Grand.
“Yeah,” Logan acknowledges halfheartedly. “It’s nothing special, but, you know. It’s good to have a place of my own.”
“It’s funny. I figured you’d hightail it out of town before your cap even hit the ground,” Weevil says, pouring another round.
“Why bother?” Logan asks, with a bitter twist to his lip. “Any place I’d end up, I’d still be there. I have a feeling bad luck would just end up following me around. Anyway. I know it’s fucked-up, but out of all the places I’ve lived, Neptune sort of feels the most like home.”
“Yeah, well, if you’re used to fucked-up, then I guess this town would have some homelike qualities.”
“I’ll drink to that,” Logan says, draining his glass and reaching for the bottle again. “So, how did you know where to find me, anyway?”
“Asked around,” Weevil says cryptically. “Veronica mentioned you moved. I figured my invitation to the housewarming party got lost in the mail.”
“She’s still around?” Logan asks casually. “I figured she’d already be at Stanford, pretending that Neptune doesn’t exist.”
“Last I heard, she decided to go to Hearst, instead,” Weevil replies, and maybe it's Logan’s imagination, but he could swear Weevil is looking at him more intently than usual.
“Guess I didn’t get the memo,” Logan mumbles, knocking back another shot.
“So, no college for you?” Weevil asks, pulling the tequila bottle out of Logan’s hand to fill up his own glass.
“Nah. I figured I’d do the idle rich thing for awhile.”
“Must be nice.”
“It’s not exactly like you’re jetting off to Harvard,” Logan snorts. “I’m actually surprised you’re not off knocking over convenience stores or scaring old ladies, or whatever it is you biker-types do.”
“I’m done with the club,” Weevil replies, taking another drink.
“Huh. I figured now that the mutineers have been dispensed with, you’d be the big cheese again.”
“It’s over,” Weevil says shortly. “I’m a free agent now. My grandma’s trying to convince me to enroll over at the community college. I might do it. I could get a degree, maybe a nice white-collar job. Hell, in fifty years, I could retire and get a little place on the beach and be a lazy asshole all day.”
He pours another round and hands Logan back his glass.
“Well, good for you,” Logan says, raising it to his lips. “It’s nice to have goals.”
They drink in silence for a while, taking turns pouring the shots. Logan had left the back sliding door open, and the breeze coming off the water is chilly. The wind shifts a little, and he can taste the tang of salt in the back of his throat.
Weevil changes positions on the couch, propping one leg up on the coffee table. The inner seam of his jeans is thin and frayed, and there's a tiny rip high up on the thigh. Logan has a feeling it had taken years of erosion for them to get to that point, unlike his own jeans, which he had bought pre-distressed a few weeks earlier.
“So, you’ve been hanging out with Veronica, then?” Logan asks.
“We don’t really socialize much,” Weevil says evasively, tipping the half-empty bottle of tequila back and forth and watching the liquid slosh around. “We have a business arrangement. We provide information for one another, when necessary. I’m not banging her, if that’s what you’re getting at.”
“I wasn’t asking that,” Logan says automatically, and Weevil smiles lazily, like he knows otherwise but is too polite to say.
“I don’t think you have any worries on that end,” he continues, as if he hadn’t been interrupted. “She tends to go for you preppy white boys. I’m not wearing argyle, no matter how hot she is in bed. She is hot in bed, right? You can just tell.”
There are two reasons why Logan doesn’t punch Weevil’s face clear off his head. For one thing, he figures Weevil is just trying to get a rise out of him. For another, it's suddenly occurring to him how very drunk he is. He tries to remember how many shots he’s had in the last hour. He's pretty sure he is getting close to double digits.
When he doesn’t say anything, Weevil smirks.
“Well, now I don’t feel as bad about not banging her, since you obviously haven’t either.”
“What, you don’t want to pick up my sloppy seconds again?” Logan says snidely.
Oh yeah. He's definitely drunk.
“Don’t talk about Lilly like that,” Weevil says quietly, setting his empty glass down on the coffee table.
“I’m sorry. Are you going to defend the honor of the girl who you fucked around with while she was dating me? If you’re trying chivalry on for size, you might want to make sure the recipient is worthy.”
“Like you were completely faithful to her,” Weevil snorts.
“Haven’t you seen the magazines? She fucked my father,” Logan spits out.
“So?” Weevil says, with an eloquent shrug. “You were fooling around on her with her brother.”
“Where did you hear that?”
“Lilly told me. She walked in on you once. It didn’t even bother her. She thought it was hot.”
Weevil takes a pull directly from the tequila bottle and hands it over. Logan accepts it dazedly.
“I wasn’t with her at the time,” he says, not really thinking about what he is admitting to. “It wasn’t cheating.”
“It was her brother. That’s still pretty fucking dysfunctional,” Weevil points out.
“Wait,” Logan remembers, the bottle halfway to his lips. “She thought it was hot?”
“She used to talk about it sometimes,” Weevil says with a wry smirk. “I wasn’t going to be her dirty little secret forever. Lilly thought that eventually, she might get the three of us in bed together. Thought you’d be up for it.”
“Oh,” Logan replies faintly, taking long swallows of the tequila until he feels that dull burn moving though his system again. He isn’t sure if he's more bothered by the fact that Lilly had shared secrets he didn’t even know she knew with Weevil, or the fact that Weevil seems so unconcerned about them.
“You know,” Weevil says casually. “You’re nothing like I thought you’d be. Back when Lilly used to talk about you. I just figured you were another generic pretty boy jackass.”
“But you’ve seen the error of your ways, and you’ll never again judge a book by its cover?” Logan asks, raising an eyebrow.
“Right. For instance, I see now that you are a very specific pretty boy jackass.”
“Is that supposed to be a compliment?” Logan complains, letting himself half-smile.
“No, hear me out, though,” Weevil says.
His voice is one long slur, no break in the cadence, and Logan is pretty sure Weevil is drunk, too. Apparently, Veronica's not the only one in town with detective skills.
“I’m listening,” Logan prompts, when he trails off. Weevil blinks at him, then seems to remember what he had been about to say.
“You and me, Echolls,” he says seriously. “We’re a lot alike.”
“What, we’re both drunk?”
“That too. But there’s more. My old man went to jail for manslaughter.”
Weevil changes position again, moving closer to reach the bottle, which Logan has set on the coffee table. Logan can feel Weevil’s leg against his, flesh hot enough to scorch even through two layers of denim. His mouth goes a little dry.
“How long?” Logan asks, not really sure what track the conversation is taking.
“He went away when I was six, and he got shanked a few years ago, right before he was supposed to be paroled. I guess it’s not really the same though, since I never really knew him.”
“Yeah, well, you can count yourself lucky,” Logan mutters. If Weevil hears him, he has the good grace not to say so.
“I just remembered something else,” Logan continues, quickly changing the subject. “We both have a tendency to hand our balls straight over to troublemaking blonde girls.”
“Speak for yourself,” Weevil says, affronted. “I’ve still got my balls here and intact. Wanna see?”
“I’ll take your word for it,” Logan demurs, but before he knows what is happening, Weevil has grabbed his hand and pressed it against him. Logan feels the chill cut of the metal zipper against the flesh of his palm, and the shifting hardness underneath the fabric, and realizes he is already half-hard himself.
Neither of them speaks or moves for a long moment. The only sounds in the room are the distant crashing of the waves and the far-off thrum of the refrigerator and their exhalations cycling opposite one another in hot, harsh gasps.
Weevil turns his face and pressed it into Logan’s neck, and Logan gasps at the feel of coarse stubble against sensitive skin. Encouraged, Weevil bites down hard at the juncture between shoulder and neck, teeth sinking into muscle and flesh, and Logan lets out a hiss as he scrambles to blindly unbuckle and unsnap Weevil’s jeans. He slides his hand in, shoving the zipper down, and wraps his hand around a column of heated flesh. Weevil makes a muffled noise against his neck, and Logan feels the vibrations of it all through his body.
Weevil’s cock jumps under Logan’s fingers, and Logan struggles to get a better grip. He finally reaches around with his other hand to yank down boxers and jeans so he won’t have to relinquish his hold, and Weevil cants his hips up in assistance before moving his own hands around to return the favor.
“Fuck,” Weevil exhales shakily as Logan begins to stroke him furiously with the better angle, and Logan lets out a broken moan as Weevil finally wraps a calloused hand around him.
They don’t speak, don’t kiss, just fumble blindly, faces against one another’s shoulders. It's like a competition to get the other one off first, and Logan manages to hold on a little longer. Weevil comes first, biting down on Logan’s shoulder in the same spot as before, and the sharp sting of pain and the feel of Weevil hot and sticky on his fingers is enough to push Logan over the edge, too.
They stay like that for a moment, pulses and breath slowing down, and then Logan pulls far enough away to strip off his t-shirt. He wipes his hands off on it, then hands it over to Weevil.
‘You’ve done that before,” Logan says. It isn’t a question.
“There’s a reason Lilly thought I’d be game for that little threeway idea of hers,” Weevil replies, shrugging noncommittally.
“Well, not that I don’t appreciate the housewarming present, but most people would have just brought over a casserole.”
“Yeah, well, I’m trying to maintain my girlish figure,” Weevil rejoins, patting his gut, and Logan has to smile at that.
“Look, I’m going to crash,” Logan yawns, as the tequila buzz and post-orgasm fatigue hit him all at once. “I’ve only got the one bed, but you know, you shouldn’t drive anywhere tonight.”
“Couch is fine for me,” Weevil says, stretching out as Logan rises.
“Okay then,” Logan says, a little awkwardly. “Good night.”
“’Night,” Weevil mumbles, eyes already drifting closed.
When Logan wakes up in the morning, Weevil is gone, and if it weren’t for the mostly-empty bottle of tequila still on the coffee table, he’d be convinced he imagined the whole thing.
* * *
Two weeks later, Dick suggests they go slumming at one of the seedier bars on the outskirts of town. Logan says yes, because, what the hell. It’s not like they have anything better going on.
He suggests a bar that he heard Weevil mention one time when they were trying to puzzle out the whole Felix thing, but it’s not because he’s hoping he’ll be there or anything. Not really.
Two hours in, and Dick’s got his tongue hiked down the throat of the only broad in California who hasn’t had a facelift. The ironic thing is, she actually needs it.
Logan’s not paying too much attention to that, though, because he’d really like to not revisit his dinner. Plus, Weevil showed up an hour ago, and Logan’s surreptitiously checking out his ass as he bends low across the pool table to sink another shot.
They haven’t spoken since that night, and the trend continues, though Weevil shot him a look as he came in, eyes heavy-lidded and inscrutable.
Dick peels off his new friend with a resounding smack and signals the bartender for another round. Logan throws some money down on the bar.
“I’m out, man,” he says. “You and your beer goggles have fun.”
“Hey, older chicks are totally hot,” Dick says blithely, knocking back another shot.
“Sure. Some of them,” Logan says pointedly, but he knows that Dick’s not going to actually hear anything he says, not with the chick’s hand back on his lap. Dick’s never been good at multi-tasking.
Logan hasn’t had too many drinks, so focusing on the road home is pretty easy. Though, he does get distracted a few times by the single motorcycle headlight trailing along behind him.
He’s barely got his keys in his front door when Weevil steps in close behind him, catching the hem of his shirt and twisting it. They stumble in together, and Weevil’s got him pressed against the wall in the dark, mouth against his, hands still pulling tight in the fabric, fingers brushing against bare skin.
“I guess you missed me,” Logan smirks against Weevil’s lips.
Weevil pulls back a little, but Logan can’t read his face in the dark room.
“I’m not the one running out to your part of town,” he pointed out.
“Uh, yeah you are,” Logan says, gesturing around his foyer.
“Point taken. But you started it,” Weevil reminds him, catching his mouth again, hard enough to bruise.
Logan manages to push Weevil’s jacket off his shoulders and get his hands halfway underneath his shirt, scratching at the warm skin beneath with blunt nails, before Weevil sinks to his knees and begins pulling at Logan’s belt. When he takes Logan’s cock down in one hot, wet swallow, Logan’s head falls back against the wall with a resounding thud.
“Fuck,” he hisses, digging his fingers into Weevil’s shoulders, urging him along, and he feels like he should try to savor the moment, but it’s been weeks, and he’s a teenage boy for chrissake, and he should be embarrassed by how fast he comes, but it hits him like a bullet train, and it feels way too fucking good.
“Jesus,” he manages to say, still shuddering a little, and he thinks he would have fallen if Weevil hadn’t kept a hand on one of his hips as he rose again.
“Bedroom,” Weevil says, dragging the back of his hand across his mouth, and Logan manages to stumble down the hallway ahead of him, leading the way.
Weevil closes the bedroom door behind them, and Logan wants to make a joke out of it. Like anyone’s going to walk in. Like anyone gives a fuck what either of them does anymore. He bites back the words though, and pushes Weevil against the door, and he can taste himself on Weevil’s tongue, and he’s already hard again, and he’s never been more fucking thankful for Dick’s stupid ideas.
“Take off your clothes,” Weevil manages to say, and Logan doesn’t have to be told twice. He’s out of his shirt in two seconds flat. The pants take a little longer, because he forgot about his shoes.
Weevil’s laughing at him a little, but he’s undoing his pants too, so Logan can’t get too upset about it.
Logan can’t dwell too hard on the fact that they’re both completely naked all of a sudden (and how the fuck is this even happening?) because Weevil’s got him shoved down on the bed, and for such a short guy, he’s surprisingly strong. He’s got one arm wrapped around Logan’s chest, so tight he’s practically strangling him, and Logan can hear a sucking sound, and then Weevil’s sliding a wet finger inside of him, and holy shit he wasn’t expecting that.
“Nightstand,” he manages to choke out, and he can feel Weevil smile against the back of his neck.
“First time?” he asks casually, moving his finger gently.
“On this side of it, yeah,” Logan asserts.
“I’ll be gentle,” Weevil says, belying his words with a sharp bite to the back of Logan’s neck. He withdraws, and Logan whimpers a little.
When Weevil returns with the bottle of lube, he maneuvers Logan gently, so he’s up on his hands and knees. He feels ungainly, too long-limbed for this position, but the awkwardness fades when Weevil slides a slick finger back in, and then another. Weevil twists his fingers experimentally, and then he’s hitting this spot, and there’s pain, but it comes with this sense of acuity, of clarity, and Logan’s legs almost give out from under him as he feels a hot pressure spreading through his belly and up his spine.
Then Weevil’s fingers leave him, and Logan almost cries out with the frustration, but he hears Weevil fumbling with a condom wrapper, and so he grinds his teeth together instead and moves his hand down to give a few relieving strokes to his achingly hard cock.
And Weevil’s pressing his cock in now, hard and slippery smooth, and Logan’s got one hand wrapped around the slats in the headboard and his face buried in a pillow, and his other hand is still on his cock, but he can’t even remember to move it, and so Weevil reaches a hand around, and their fingers tangle together as they stroke clumsily in tandem. Logan turns his head to the side to gasp for breath, and the change in angle pushes Weevil a little deeper.
“Fuck,” Weevil says, his voice strained, and Logan can tell he’s trying to hold back, so he moves his hand faster, trapping Weevil’s slippery fingers beneath his as he jerks at his cock, and Weevil thrusts hard and hits that spot again, three times, then four, and there’s an explosion of color behind Logan’s eyes, like a firework finale. He’s still coming against their fingers, sticky and hot, when he feels Weevil shudder inside him and then collapse across his back.
Logan’s not sure how long they stay like that – he might even have blacked out for a minute, he’ll realize in retrospect – but finally, Weevil peels his sweat-sticky body up and staggers to the bathroom. Logan can hear the flush of the toilet and the running of the faucet, and he manages to turn himself around the right way on the bed. It takes all of his energy to reach over and push open the window, and he sighs in relief as the cool breeze filters through the screen.
He’s got his eyes closed when Weevil comes back, but he can sense him in he doorway.
“You gonna stay?” he mumbles, flinging his arm over his eyes.
“Sure,” Weevil says, and Logan can feel the opposite side of the bed dip down a little as Weevil crawls back in.
“You know,” he says drowsily. “You don’t have to take off in the morning. I won’t make you talk about your feelings.”
“Don’t be such a girl,” Weevil says gently, and Logan manages to guess that’s Weevil’s way of saying he won’t be sticking around, just before sleep hits him.
But when he wakes up in the morning, Weevil’s still there, and if you’d ask Logan later, he’d say that’s really when the whole thing began.