Work Text:
Seventeenth verse: same as the first.
"I can't do this."
"Yes you can."
"It isn't fair to you."
Sigh. "It was my idea. Did you hit your head earlier?"
Wary pause. "Why?"
"Because you don't seem to be able to keep track of basic information
from one minute to the next." The edge of the words are blunted by
the handless caress that runs up and down his body. He gives up,
leans into it and relaxes, doesn't try to think again until she's
finished.
***
The first thing he can remember about Jean is her voice. In the dark,
oddly quiet eight months after his mutation manifested and the
Professor found him, he didn't open his eyes. He learned to read
braille. He learned his way around the mansion by touch, always
listening for the Professor's voice, ready to shift position if a
mental nudge came to warn him that he was in danger. The translucence
of his eyelids let him know when it was light, at least. Occasionally
he cried. Only at night, when he was alone, and tired enough that the
self-pity had an easy path to the surface. It occurred to him in
those moments that he was effectively blind. That he'd never be able
to use his eyes again. And it was worse because they were still
there, and they still worked, only now they came with a price he
wasn't prepared to pay.
Once the Professor came to find him in the midst of one of his crying
jags. Big, oddly soft hands stroked his hair, then pulled him gently
into a sitting position. Pulled him close, against the man's chest,
and held him there. Rocked him gently while his exhausted grief
poured out onto the wool bathrobe against his cheek. Then helped him
back to bed and petted his hair until he slept.
Sometime after that, another voice came into in the house. Female.
His spacial awareness was strong enough to let him know she was there
even before the Professor announced her, but he only had a quick scent
of body-warmth and little-girl perfume on which to build his mental
image of this new person. Later, he added her voice and her kindness.
In the half-dozen foster homes he'd lived in since the loss of his
parents, Scott had gained some idea of the kind of person who would
spend time with him. Awkward, nearly friendless girls who lived
mostly in book-built dreamworlds and for whose friendship he was
nonetheless pathetically grateful.
That was the image he had of Jean. Fourteen, like him, baby-fat and
bespectacled. He asked her, and she told him her hair was red, so he
imagined it in fat braids until the afternoon she bent over his hands
and he felt it falling loose onto his skin. After that, the image
included a wide, white plastic band holding back masses of bright
orange hair. Her nails were usually short, and sometimes she smelled
like nail polish. She told him the colours if he asked. Usually some
variant on pink, but occasionally novelty colours she found: green,
blue, purple, gold. He remembered her laughter when he picked up her
hands and sniffed the fingertips, trying to guess the colour for
himself before she told him.
He remembers the afternoon she walked through the house with his hand
on her shoulder and used her developing telepathy to let him see the
mansion for the first time, through her eyes.
She was already the cornerstone of his world the afternoon the
Professor wheeled in softly and called to him. He came over, careful
of the furniture, and the Professor laid heavy glasses on his face.
"Open your eyes, Scott."
"No."
Softly, "Scott, trust me. Have you ever known me to do anything that
would hurt you or anyone else?"
He shook his head and still refused.
Jean's voice came from just behind him, over his shoulder. "Scott,
I'm out of the way. So is Professor Xavier. Try. Please."
The red wash startled him. The beams left his eyes, but they only
flew as far as the ruby lens and then stopped. And he could see. The
Professor, who looked the way he was supposed to look: Old, gentle,
wiser than any human should be. Hurt, somewhere behind his eyes.
Lonely.
The atrium was the way it should be. He'd known it was brilliant; the
translucence of his eyelids had told him that much. And he'd been
able to imagine the plants, the parquet floor, the glass that
surrounded them.
Jean was different. Because she was beautiful, and he hadn't expected
that. But it was only a new detail to file away, because he already
loved her more than he'd loved anyone in his short life.
***
Eighteenth verse: theme variant.
"I can't. It's not fair to him."
"If he gets what he wants, how could it be unfair?"
"He wants *you*."
(Scott can sympathize with Logan in that, at least. He remembers the
first day he wanted Jean. They were two small people together in one
of the upper rooms of the house, facing each other on the window seat.
He couldn't see her. The book in his laps whispered to him through
his fingertips and the light pouring in the window pushed against his
eyelids. He wanted to see. He hadn't wanted to open his eyes in
months, but it was late winter, now, and there was real sunlight for
the first time in days and everything was brilliant and if he could
see, then maybe he could go outside, make a few snowballs, hurl them
at Jean and see the snow caught in her hair.
(And Jean had looked at him. He always knew when she did; the
electric currents on his skin reversed themselves under her eyes. She
said, "Hey. This is what it looks like." Touched his mind and opened
her eyes for him. Showed him the room -- dusty and Edwardian, like a
mansion in a children's book -- and the outdoors, where all the trees
were loaded down with heavy, wet snow. And then showed him himself.
Just a thin, dark boy wrapped in an oversize sweater that the
Professor had given him earlier that winter, when he'd been shivering
constantly. Slightly messy hair that he hadn't been able to part
straight without his eyes to guide him. Too-pointed face with the
eyes lightly closed. She showed him the blood vessels that just
barely showed through the skin of his eyelids and the flare of lashes
against his cheekbones. That he had cheekbones, which he'd never
noticed before, particularly.
(That was the first moment he wanted to kiss her. Or anyone, really.
Before then, even a touch of lips had never been a possibility. His
family had touched him, once, but his parents were dead and his
brother was gone. His guardians, sometimes in orphanages, sometimes
in foster homes, had kept him clean and fed and left him alone; such
friends as he'd had had offered little more than afternoons reading
comics together or an occasional ball game.
(He'd reached out with both hands and caught her face. Smoothed his
fingers over her cheeks and down to her lips. Up over her brows.
Deep into the hollows of her eyes. Learned the textures of her skin
and the shape of her cheeks.)
"He wants you too."
"I shouldn't. It isn't right."
"Do you want to?"
Silence.
"Scott. Do you want to?"
"Yes."
***
Nineteenth verse: new melody line.
"I love you."
"I know."
"I mean, only you. Ever."
"Poor Scott. You've never been in lust before?"
"No." He doesn't ask, *with who?*, but the question lingers between
them. When they were children, there was only the two of them, and
the Professor. Later, the others came. Hank and Warren, both of whom
have since fled to other climes. Bobby, so much younger than they
were that they treated him like a baby. Ororo, whose otherworldliness
somehow fails to disappear even when she's curled up on the couch in
soft pajamas. At university he was an odd bird, always hidden behind
his glasses, and people rarely spoke to him outside class. And by
then there was Jean. Fully and completely his.
"Do you want him?"
"I already told you that. Which one of us is supposed to have been
hit on the head?"
"Do you?"
"Yes."
"Me too. That's why I'm asking."
***
He remembers the first night he made love to her. His bedroom, in the
mansion. They were both seventeen. He'd spent weeks researching
women's bodies, digging through every book in existence to find out
what would make her happy. What felt best. He'd searched the
Internet, grateful for the first time that the Professor allowed them
the freedom to investigate sites that a regular school would have kept
him away from, and found a little that was useful, and a lot that was
alien and useless. He'd padded softly into the room where Hank was
settled with his medical studies and asked as many questions as he
could manage without blushing. He didn't always understand the
answers, but he was grateful for Henry's lack of teasing.
He'd found Warren and spent an hour working up the courage to ask him.
Endured the heartless mockery that followed, as calmly as he could
manage in the face of Warren's contempt. And then Warren had stopped,
and looked at him. Taken him by the wrist and dragged him upstairs to
the attic, where they spent the rest of an enlightening afternoon.
His own inexperience and Warren's occasional muddles had led the other
boy to strip off Scott's shirt, finally, and demonstrate the right
touches on his body.
That instant, with Warren pressed against his back and Warren's
fingers tracing down from his nipples, Scott had been suddenly afraid.
The old mirror against the wall reflected them both. Warren was
looking in the mirror, but he was looking at *him*. Scott knew that
he'd only have to smile and Warren would slide those hands down below
his waistband, and then they'd be somewhere he didn't want to go.
So instead he nodded and asked the next question, clinically. Warren
had pulled himself together and shaken like a wet bird for a second,
and then laughed and told him things Scott wouldn't have dared
believe.
Jean must have known. She knew everything about him. She'd been
keeping tabs on when he jerked off in the shower for most of a year.
But she didn't say anything. Only curled her body around his and
kissed him, stripped off his shirt and licked his neck and followed
his arch back so that they were lying tangled together, and kissed
again, very seriously.
He spent most of that night curled up between her knees, licking her.
He knew they'd have sex, the way most people seemed to have it,
eventually, but first he needed her to feel good, and to know how much
he loved her. Loved her mind, loved her heart, loved her body. Loved
the taste of her and her smell. Loved the soft sounds she made while
he pushed his tongue up inside her or sucked gently at her clit.
And he was surprised. Because everything everyone had told him about
sex said that he should be desperate for her. And he supposed to a
certain extent he was. But it was less for the final goal of pushing
up inside her and riding that unexpectedly beautiful body than it was
to be with her, touch her, make her love him so fully that she
wouldn't ever leave him.
***
He thinks about the safety of the room he shares with Jean. How they
rearranged all the furniture one afternoon a week ago so that the bed
was against the wall, the way his bed had been before they shared a
room. It means there's no ownership of 'sides' of the bed; last one
in is on the outside. As an arrangement, it probably won't last,
long-term, but he loves it at the moment. The window hangs over them;
it threw light on Jean's hair earlier today while she was stretched
out beside him, close but not touching, her head by his feet. While
he lay on his back with his eyes closed and his glasses off, more
naked in front of her than he'd been for anyone else. Warmth on his
belly when she kissed his navel and whispered plans in his ear.
She explained to him most of what he needed to do. Sometimes
demonstrated touches on his body. Part of him wondered how and why
she knew and the rest of him was only grateful that he didn't have to
excavate all this information himself.
Her voice. "You know it won't be like this. I can't make my touch
like a man's."
"I know."
"I love you that you'd do this for me. I can't. Ever. He'd never
let me go."
"Love you." Doing it for her and not for her, but she knew that, as
she knew nearly everything, and she'd forgiven him before this
started, had to have, or she'd never have admitted to wanting Logan
herself.
He's still aware of her touch now, while he pads through the house in
his sweats and undershirt with a six-pack half-hidden under his arm.
All the intelligence he has from Jean is that Wolverine -- Logan --
wants him, but possibly hasn't figured that out yet. That he watches
Scott at least as often as he watches Jean, but his look is different.
More violent. Hungry.
It's not as though Scott's motives are entirely selfish on this
venture. The Professor made him promise that he'd sort things out
with Logan, and he's starting to see that maybe the Professor has a
point. Not necessarily because they need to work together -- if
Logan's set on going back to Canada, it's a non-issue -- but because
he isn't gone yet, and he and Scott strike sparks every time they're
in the same room. Which makes life miserable for telepaths, the
Professor and Jean principally among them. The Professor's already
brittle around the eyes, has been since Magneto's imprisonment.
Scott wonders if he should tell the Professor than he and Jean figured
it out about the Prof and Magneto a lot of years ago. One of their
warm-and-fuzzy afternoons, during which rather a lot of things were
made clear to him.
Though not as much as was made clear the afternoon he spent in the
infirmary, ostensibly sitting with the Professor, and actually not-
very-covertly watching the half-naked Wolverine in the next bed.
Letting his eyes run down that belly, through the fur, to the rather
interesting things that lay underneath his sweats. Which he already
knew about, since he'd been there while Logan poured himself into one
of Scott's uniforms. Too tight. Too leather. He'd looked like
walking sex.
Or the afternoon that he felt Jean look past him to Logan, and then
look back to him, and he could feel something like psychic pain at the
back of his skull. When she decided to ask her lover to fuck this man
for her.
What she said to him later was yes, she found Logan attractive. She
didn't love him, but that was beside the point. She couldn't sleep
with him, because he'd never give her up, and she didn't want him
forever, only for a night. Pressed up to Scott's back in bed while
she said it. But he could do it. Meaning Scott. He should, maybe.
One of them should.
Which was how the argument began. Fifty-six hours of it, off and on.
Until he crawled on top of her and into her and in the middle of the
fourteenth kiss and the thirty-fifth stroke, he said he'd do it. If
she was with him in his head, at least.
Scott wishes he was wearing the cardigan the Professor gave him years
ago. He's taken care of it, and it's still respectable. Sort of.
But he saw Logan look at it that first day and sneer, and for a second
he saw through those other, feral eyes how he was prematurely old
while he wore it. And he put it away.
He spent a very satisfying afternoon, before they had to rescue Rogue,
imagining ways to dispose of Logan. All healing factors aside. Just
really satisfying violence of the sort he didn't actually ever get to
indulge in. Gun. Knife. Poison. Octopus.
Waitaminute. Octopus?
Never mind.
Wooden door in front of him that he's been through before. Came
through it like a bat out of hell. Found impalements and death and
other horrors, the upshot of which is that Rogue now has bedtime
gloves in addition to her daytime gloves. Logan isn't asleep, or if
he is, he isn't dreaming, because it's quiet. Scott knocks.
"What the hell do you want?"
"I'm told we have issues to sort out. I brought beer."
Logan tries to shut the door. Scott puts himself in the doorway.
He's aware of a low-grade burn somewhere just south of his navel.
He's aware of how close to naked he is, wearing only these nearly-
pajamas. Logan must be able to see through his shirt. Must be able
to smell him, standing here nervous and lusting. Because he is. He's
very aware of the power of the compact body standing almost across
him.
Logan snorts. "What the hell. C'mon in."
Inside, the room is still anonymously bare. Logan came to them with
nothing, and he seems determined leave that way. There's a book on
the dresser, but it's one Scott recognizes from the library
downstairs. Big, heavy boots half-shoved under the bed, jeans in the
closet. He's back in his Academy sweats, bare-chested. Glint of
dogtags against his chest hair.
God those arms are huge. Ripped.
Logan stands in a way that purposely takes up enormous amounts of
space. He's into Scott's personal space almost instantly, forcing him
back into the chair. He sits, keeping his eyes up. On Logan's all
the time he's moving down. Then puts one foot up on the bed and holds
out the beer.
He has to steal one back, which is a feat in and of itself, in that he
manages it without ever standing up straight. And when Logan turns to
threaten him, he's already back in his chair, one foot up, beer open
and on his knee.
He lets Logan watch him drink. Watch him snake his tongue out into
the neck of the bottle, just for a second.
"So," he says, finally. "Issues."
"Hate at first sight's an issue?" Logan's somewhere just a little off
his line of sight. He's moving, though, and Scott can feel him.
Electric presence in the room.
"I think my kicking your ass at the whole alpha-male thing didn't
help." Said to get under his skin. He imagines being locked there,
under Logan's skin, when that mutant healing-factor kicks in. Warm,
blood-pulsing jail where he can slide between oddly delicate flesh and
adamantium-lined bone.
Logan snorts, but can't leave it at that. "When'd you do that,
exactly?"
"You hate the idea of me being in charge of things. That I make the
rules and they work. That Jeannie loves me." Warning growl. It's an
animal sound. Dangerous. He leaves that one. "It bugs you that I
get to fly the plane." Grins and tilts his bottle back and lets the
almost-cold rip of the beer run down his throat. "It bugs you that I
saved your life."
"I saved yours in the Statue."
"Yeah, you did. Thanks." And grins harder, because that time he
really did score. Gratitude is high on the short list of things Logan
absolutely can't take. Right up there with guilt, responsibility, and
conversations of more than a hundred words. Which means that Scott's
probably more than exhausted his ration. So he sits and drinks and
lets Wolverine pace.
Animal behind him, moving through the spatial buzz that Scott's kept
from his almost-a-year of blindness. It crawls up from his groin to
the rest of his body. So much energy he almost can't sit still. And
stays sitting still anyway, because Logan can't, and if they stop
competing for space they won't have any common ground at all.
Growl. Scott tilts his head back and meets the hazel eyes. Wonders
whether Logan can tell, or whether he's just caught his own reflection
in the ruby quartz, the way people always seem to for the first weeks,
the first months.
"Cyke. You want something?"
Deep breath. "Fuck me."
And a long, long silence. During which he realizes that Logan has
concluded that this is some statement of incredulity rather than a
request.
Scott reaches into the soft Jean-touch at the back of his mind and
mentally kisses it first, for luck. Feels a brush back, feels it
giving him the spine he sometimes forgets he has, companion to the
rod he's rumoured to have up his ass. Snorts in silent laugher and
has to swallow it because Logan's looking at him very strangely
indeed.
Swallows the last of his beer, puts the bottle down, gets up and paces
over to Logan. Who's standing in fact just left of the window,
watching the door. Very warrior-ly of him. Scott leans in hard and
fast and kisses him, stays there until Logan's lips give just a little
and he can make a seal between them and pass the last mouthful of beer
over.
Hazel startlement, then fast, animalistic, oddly joyful lust. Big
hands close on his ass and pull him very close, close enough to feel
another erection against his. The kiss is already hurting his mouth
-- the whisker burn isn't something he's used to -- and he makes a
mental note to make sure he's clean-shaven before he kisses Jean next
time. Because he's close to raw, aching and still kissing and wanting
this worse than he thought he did. Possibly even more than Jean
thought he did.
And it scares him, almost as much as the back of Logan's hand rubbing
at his groin. He keeps flashing on a line from some stupid movie,
*with a flick of my wrist I could change your religion.* It'd be easy
too, hard as he is.
He's still trying to figure out why that thought hasn't made his balls
crawl back up inside his body when Logan starts backing him towards
the bed. For a second, Scott's sure Logan will try to trip him up on
the way, just to make sure he's got the advantage, but he doesn't.
Steers him carefully, in fact, around anything resembling an obstacle
on the floor. Pushes him down on the bed and crawls on top of him.
Knees against his hips, so much huger than Jean. He thinks there
ought to be some special kind of virginity reserved for never-fucked-
anybody-big-enough-to-kill- you people, so he could lose his properly
now.
Then naked, or nearly. He gets a second to watch Logan stare at the
boxer-briefs he had on under the sweats and wonders manically why the
man would expect him to go commando. He's the guy who wears old-man
sweaters and teaches school. Logan, though . . . well, if Logan *had*
been wearing underwear, *then* he would have been shocked. But since
his hands are down the back of those black pants and gripping bare
skin, it's not an issue.
"Hold still."
Body-warm metal against his hip, and Logan cuts his boxers off him.
Scott wonders whether he looks scandalized. At the back of his mind,
Jean's laughing at him. Until Logan kisses him below his navel, when
he comes right off the bed towards that mouth, and she gets the full
force of it.
Logan animal-kisses his belly and thighs. Bites him softly in more
places than Scott would have judged he had. Makes him whimper, and
then cry, and then beg. Pathetic, like the boy Logan obviously thinks
he is, desperate for it and gasping *please please please* and
whipping his hips around like some kind of specially mutated slut.
It earns him a long lick down his cock, and another along his balls
and perineum. If he wasn't specially trained (though not for this),
he wouldn't be flexible enough to bend the way Logan has him. His
legs are in the air like a girl's, making him open for the first
finger, which is big, as big as two of Jean's together, and the
second, which sends him twisting almost off the bed. Logan's holding
his legs up now, which he supposes is good, because otherwise he'd try
to crawl --
-- well, where? Away? Onto the man? Back to Jean? Actually what he
does is pull fully open. His body to Logan and his mind to Jean, who
comes in through the back of his skull and becomes a red-warm tingle
all the way through his body. Helps him relax, reminds him how much
he wants this. Because he does. The first touch against his prostate
proved that, and Logan's been quite persuasive since then. Enough
that Scott's got hands hooked behind his knees to hold his own legs in
the air, too desperate to be self-conscious.
He doesn't expect it when Logan leaves him, if only because instead of
laying him out and fucking him into Sunday, Logan crawls up beside him
and kisses him. Long and slow and deep, just like Scott wasn't slick
and stretched and begging for it. Like they have all of their clothes
on and a whole afternoon to learn the taste of each other. Logan's
body against his shoulder is warm and alien-hairy. Good, if he's
honest. He lets his legs fall and wraps an arm around the back of
Logan's too-shaggy head and holds onto that contact.
Fingers stroke his belly and his cock, and they're still kissing.
Logan shifts gradually on top of him and lets them kiss and rub
together. Mouth on his mouth, his cheekbone, his throat, the palm of
his hand. The cock against his is wonderful -- strange but very, very
good. He spreads his knees to let the other man settle closer against
him, and then for a long time it's just this sex-play. He's going to
get tongued to death without having it touch him below his collarbone.
Jean at the back of his mind whimpers.
She's there, and she shows him how to spread his knees and angle his
hips to say he's ready. It's different from what a woman would do, in
that he's got an erection (two, if he counts Logan's) to content with,
and unless Logan's careful, his balls are going to be caught between
them. The same in that he's wet and open and very aware of this hole
in him that's aching vaguely.
"You sure, Cyke?" Hissed into his ear.
"Oh *fuck* yes. Only . . ."
He doesn't finish it, but Logan's already reached between them to
shift Scott's balls out of the way. Gives them a gentle rub before
reaching again to bring himself to Scott's opening.
He's scared and oh god it hurts and he's more naked than he can really
take. Hurts hurts hurts it hurts. Jean in him whimpering with him,
wanting to get away and wanting Wolverine and it's good, suddenly.
Thick in him, hot and rubbing against a spot that he definitely wants
to learn more about.
The angle's bad, but Logan fucks him carefully. Scott drags his knees
up, wraps a leg around the other man's waist to bring them closer
together, rubs the back of one hairy calf with the other foot.
Breathes in time to the thrusts into him. Gets fucked and kissed
both. Warm hands on his ribs and warm presence in his mind ecstatic.
"Oh *Christ* Cyke." Logan speeds up until he's thrusting unreasonably
fast, then goes in hard and groans. Hot in him, and a cool dribble
that follows Logan's cock out of him. Which is less important than
the mouth that's currently locked on his cock, sucking him in a way
that shouldn't be possible with Logan's body so wrapped around him.
But *good*, and warm and wet, and *right* in a way that a blow job
from a girl is never going to be, because even a telepath doesn't know
your cock like a man does.
When he comes, he's ready to scream. Accepts the hand Logan stuffs in
his mouth in the spirit in which it was intended: don't wake the
children. Don't scare Jean, who's warm and loving and whimpering
pleasure just under the surface of his skin. In those last seconds
before orgasm, he was the perfectly blended entity ScottandJean that
he's only been a half-dozen times in his life. He doesn't begrudge it
to her. Couldn't.
Logan crawls back up him and wraps Scott up in big arms, drops his
head to Scott's chest. Licks gently across both nipples. Licks his
throat and his jawline. His face, gently.
The sheer limpness of his body somehow doesn't keep him from shivering
convulsively. It was good -- *really* good, if he's honest -- but
he's aching raw inside, and resentful of the hurt. Wonders if this is
a tiny taste of what rape victims feel. He pushes Logan off him and
scoots to the head of the bed, wraps his arms around his knees and
buries in face in the shelter he's made.
Wolverine's quiet for a minute. Then says, "That was your first."
He doesn't answer. If he can get really still inside, he'll calm
down, and be able to finish this properly.
"C'mere." Logan stretches his arms out, but it doesn't sound like a
cuddle-request, and he must be in a submissive move, because his
muscles respond to the alpha-male command before he thinks about it.
Logan lays him out on his belly. Rubs warms hands along him from
shoulder to knee. Then smells him. Beard stubble begins at his
shoulder and grazes random patches of him until Logan's face is there
at the base of his spine, sniffing. Quiet breath while Scott tries
not to think about it.
"You'll be OK," Wolverine pronounces. And pulls him back up into a
full-body hug. "You did good."
Scott nods and rolls both of them over so that he's on top.
"Anything different?" he asks.
"Maybe." Logan grins at him. "I'm still gonna fight you, ya know."
Scott smirks. "Somehow I'm not surprised."
"And I'm not staying."
"Didn't ask you to."
One more sniff. "When you came, you smelled like Jeannie. Why was
that?"
Scott looks hard at him. Wonders if Logan can tell that Jean was with
him. He gets a flash of incisor in return and isn't sure whether it's
a grin or a threat.
Logan says, "I'm still gonna get her away from you, Cyke."
"Better men than you have tried."
A big hand closes around his throat. In his current position, he
can't fight it off, so he waits. Until Logan drops it and lets him
go.
His clothes are on the floor. The boxers are a write-off, which he
pretty much expected, so he leaves them. Logan can keep them as a
souvenir or something. Pulls on his sweats and tee and walks to the
door.
There's just a second of warmth against his neck before Logan pins him
to the walls and kisses him hard. Rubs against him, naked against the
fleece. Smell-marking him, Scott thinks suddenly.
Logan whispers, "You'll be OK." Kisses him once more and steps away.
Lets him leave without another touch.
Outside, Scott folds in on himself and slides down to sit on the
floor. He shouldn't, not really. This is the kids' wing; anyone
could come along and see him like this. But he isn't sure he can
move. And if he waits here long enough, Jean will come find him.
She'll rock him for a few minutes, until he's ready to get up, and the
animal-smell all over him will only make her love him more.