Archive of Our Own

His motorcycle breaks down right before he’s about to peel off onto the interstate. The fucking thing stalls as he’s accelerating and ends up skidding into a pine tree when he tries to steer it into the shoulder of the road. By the time he’s picked himself up and shaken out the needles from his hair, his motorcycle’s a dead lump with a mess of new, ugly scratches down the front fork.  

He kicks his bike a few times spitefully, annoyed when it doesn’t have the decency to helpfully sputter back to life. It’s sort of funny – he vaguely remembers something similar happening the last time he lived through 2012, although he’s pretty sure he was (is?) up in Ontario, not knee deep in fly-over country, USA. Fuck. If he thinks about this shit for longer than a few seconds he starts getting a migraine, and thanks to his lousy healing factor getting a second-wind since his almost-death, Advil does absolutely jackshit anymore. 

Just his luck – out of all the shitty little towns to be stuck in, this one would rank pretty fucking low on his list. But he supposed he and luck aren’t really on speaking terms right now, anyway. Lucky guys don’t get voluntold to get blasted back in time with nothing but a backpack full of cash and some weird artifact to bury in a desert. Lucky guys don’t wipe out in towns where the only thing to do for fun is get drunk and occasionally spin four-wheelers around in corn fields. 

It doesn’t really matter, in the grand scheme of things. He finished up his mission eight weeks ago; now he’s just killing time fucking around the Midwest until he eventually bites it. Not exactly the most glamorous way to pass the time, but booze and drugs are cheaper out this way. 

Women, too.

It takes 30 minutes to lug the thing back into town and then another 20 to find someone to point him to a mechanic. 

He’s sweating through his leather jacket and busy cursing the universe as he drags the bike to the shop, so he figures he can be forgiven for not noticing his stalker for a bit. He only clocks him when he takes a moment to catch his breath, and the kid – who’d probably been tailing him for a bit – awkwardly shuffles to a stop a few paces behind him.

He startles like a spooked rabbit when Logan turns and fixes him with a glare. “You gonna keep gawking or cut the shit and tell me what you want?” 

The kid bounces on his heels and Logan thinks he’s gonna dart off, but then he licks his lips and grins, adopting a passably-confident swagger as he saunters forward. 

Logan eyes him suspiciously, and he smiles a little wider, more adolescent sleaze than charm. He doesn’t look like much of a threat, at least: blond and skinny, although tall enough that he’ll fill out nicely in a few years. His face is fine-boned and pretty, and familiar in a way a lot of faces tend to be after two centuries and change of living. 

“That bike of yours looks like it’s in real bad shape,” the kid says. His drawl clips a little faster as he talks, like he’s been rehearsing this in his head. “Guess you takin’ it to our humble mechanic?” 

“What about it?” Logan snaps. 

“It’s a mighty fine ride, is all.” The kid whistles as he gives the motorcycle an appreciative look. “Be a damn shame to see Kurt butcher it. You know he couldn’t even fix Avery’s old pickup?” He snickers. “A pickup truck. From the fucking 90’s, too.”

Logan scowls. “Lemme guess: you got another option for me?”

The kid grins. “Sure do. And for a tenth of the price he’d charge you. Take it back to my garage. I’ll get you squared away.”

“How much?”

“Hundred,” the kid says, and then, when he sees Logan already reaching for his wallet, he quickly adds, “fifty. Hundred fifty.”

Logan raises an eyebrow. “That so.”

The kid lifts his shoulder in a lazy, one-armed shrug. “Inflation.” 

Logan’s decides he’s too fucking tired to care. Frankly, he doesn’t really give a shit who fixes his bike as long as they get it in drivable condition before this town starts making him too curious about what’ll happen if he sticks a shotgun in his mouth and pulls the trigger. 

Logan gets out the cash, and the kid snatches the money and stuffs it in his back pocket. “Don’t worry,” he says cheerfully. “My place is just a mile away.”

It’s more like two miles, but it’s made marginally more tolerable with the kid quieting down on the way there, maybe wising up to the fact that Logan isn’t exactly keen on conversation.

It’s a fucking relief when they finally stop, but he’s none too impressed by the place the kid’s brought him too. 

“You said you had a garage,” he says flatly. He points. “This is a fucking shed.” A pretty dilapidated one, too, even if he does have to admit it’s on the bigger end. He can smell the damp must of seeped-in wood rot, and some of the siding is noticeably buckling, warping and bulging out around the midsection and roof. A short distance away is a house that’s only holding up marginally better. 

“That’s just semantics,” the kid retorts brattily, and if he were any older Logan would be real tempted to shake some sense into him. The kid tugs on the handle of the shed door; it’s stuck, but with a grunt of effort he wrenches it open and glances back expectantly. Inside, Logan sees the metallic glint of tools and strewn-around parts. “Gonna help me get it inside?”

Logan ignores him, taking a moment to squint at the house. It’s dark – doesn’t look like there’s any lights on inside, but there’s just enough sun for him to spot the wilted flowers set on the windowsill, the crushed beer cans littering the porch. He inhales deeply; the breeze blowing in downwind from the house carries the kid’s scent on it, plus a few others. Not his place, then, although it’s clear he lives here.  

“You bring a lot of strange men back to your folks property, kid?” 

The kid’s lip curls. “What are you, my daddy or somethin’?” He scoffs. “Just get your bike inside. I’ll take a look at it after school tomorrow. You got a number?”

“No phone.”

The kid makes a face, but steps to the side as Logan lugs his motorcycle into the shed. “Where you stayin’?”

The kid doesn’t follow him in, and Logan raises his voice to be heard. “The motel by the gas station.” He narrowly avoids tripping over something that looks like a modified car jack. “Room 109.” At least, that’d been the room he was in before he checked out, but he doesn’t expect they’ve even changed the linens, much less gotten a new guest set up.

“That’s a three mile walk,” the kid informs him. “And that’s if you’re speedy.” He glances towards the darkening horizon. The sun’s starting to set, and the sky’s gone a pinkish mauve – the color of a fresh bruise. His cheek dimples as he chews on it. “Need a ride back? Mom’s staying with her sister for the week – left her car behind.”

Logan nearly makes another crack about the kid inviting strangers to places he probably shouldn’t, but he’d rather not risk pissing him off enough that he rescinds the offer. A ride sounds nice: his joints are aching thanks to having to drag around his busted bike, and he’s not confident he could find his way back from memory either. 

“Wouldn’t turn it down.”

They're at a stoplight – the only one in town, as far as Logan’s seen – when he catches the kid frowning at him.

“Need something?” Logan asks sharply. The kid’s eyes go wide and a little wounded, and Logan pinches the bridge of his nose and exhales. “Sorry. What’s up?” 

The kid licks his lips. “You come ’round before?” he asks. Logan gives him a look, and he shrugs. “Feel like I’ve seen you somewhere, is all.”

“Nope,” Logan says curtly. 

The kid makes a soft noise. The stoplight bathes his face in a red glow, accentuating the sharp edges of his jaw, his cheekbones. He looks older, in a way that sends a prickle of discomfort down Logan’s spine. “Just passing through? Goin’ somewhere fun after?”

Right now, Logan’s plans pretty much begin and end with getting the hell out of dodge. After that? Well, he’d like to hit up Vegas eventually. Score some blow, maybe buy a few hours with a pretty girl to do it with. Or boy. He’s not picky. But he’s got enough good sense not to tell the kid all that, not with the way he’s looking at him with poorly-concealed interest. 

“Thinking of going around the West Coast,” he lies. He quickly tries to think of the names of some cities. “Seattle. Los Angeles. San Francisco.”

The kid’s nodding along until Logan gets to that last one. He grimaces. “Be careful. Heard it’s fag central there.”

In the rear-view mirror he sees the kid’s eyes flash towards him nervously, waiting for Logan to respond accordingly and complete his portion of this particular male bonding ritual, and for some reason that’s annoying enough to make Logan forget his usual moratorium on revealing personal information. 

“Works for me. I like men just fine.”

The kid misses it when the light flicks to green. He’s too busy staring at Logan, his throat clicking as he swallows. It’s only when the guy at the wheel of the El Camino behind them lays on the horn that he hits the gas pedal and jolts them forward. 

“You really into that shit?” the kid asks suddenly. They’re approaching their destination, thank fuck – Logan can see the neon sign of his motel flickering hazily in the distance. The kid’s still talking, unfortunately. “You don’t–” He stops, and Logan can faintly hear his heartbeat tick up a few notches faster. “You don’t act like a fag.”

“Mhm,” Logan says, because he’s already over-shared enough for one day. He points. “Let me off here.”

The kid pulls neatly into the parking lot and unlocks the door. He draws in a breath, and from the look on his face Logan guesses there’s more he wants to say, but luckily all he does is ask, “You got a name?”

“Logan.”

“I’m Pierce,” the kid supplies, and before Logan can decipher what the sinking sensation in his stomach means he’s adding, “Donald Pierce.”

It’s an hour of trudging through dusty backroads and swatting away mosquitos before he finally catches Pierce’s scent and follows it to his shed. 

He’s not sure why he didn’t kill the little shit right then and there in that motel parking lot, but he’s sure as fuck not gonna make that same mistake again. If he can make this reality a little less awful by killing Pierce before he becomes A-T’s pet terror, he will. 

His claws itch under his skin as he grabs the knotted-rope door handle and tugs. 

Inside, Donald Pierce – child-hunter, torturer, murderer – is bent over a wooden table, hands buried in the guts of an opened-up old radio. He hasn’t noticed him yet – his face is screwed up in concentration, and he’s chewing his lip as he fiddles with one of the radio tubes.

Logan rolls up his sleeves and takes a quiet step forward. Pierce is still too fixated on his project to clock on to the fact that he’s got company. The tubes are now glowing a soft blue, and Pierce draws back and takes a moment to admire them. He’s smiling. 

Fuck, he looks young. When was the last time he killed someone so young?

Logan stalks closer, but the propulsive, righteous anger that’d pushed him all the way here is already fading. All he feels now is tired, and a little disgusted.

Pierce’s eyes sparkle brightly as he toggles the bulbs on and off. His face has the unguarded, innocent curiosity of someone who doesn’t know he’s being watched.

Logan’s boot smacks into a screwdriver on his next step. It clatters noisily, and Pierce whirls around. 

His alarm drains away into an annoyed recognition. “Told ya I’d take a look at it today. Didn’t tell you it’d be ready, now did I?”

There’s a box cutter to Pierce’s left, edged with rust. A tack hammer near the back of the table. No other obvious weapons in sight. He’s defenseless. It’d be quick and clean, as much as any murder is. 

(Funny. Apparently sometime in the last few minutes he’s started thinking of it as murder.) 

Logan shakes the thought away, and then the final, itching impulse that comes on its heels. He takes a half-step back and spends a moment trying to process what Pierce just said. “What’s ready?” 

Pierce curls his lip at Logan’s uncomprehending look, all outsized, adolescent disdain. “Your fuckin’ motorcycle, genius.” He shifts on his stool. “That is what you’re here for, right?” He's trying to sound tough but his voice pitches a little higher at the end, nervous. He isn’t sure anymore. 

Logan takes pity on him. “Just wanted to make sure my money was being well-spent.”

Pierce rolls his eyes and shoves the radio away. “Jesus, I ain’t gonna scam you. You wanna fucking watch me work? Fine.” 

Logan doesn’t really want to watch him work, but Pierce’s already hopped down from his stool and he doesn’t want to make him suspicious by leaving, now that he’s decided against killing him. 

His bike’s tucked in the corner of the shed; a rag is draped over the handlebars, and the scratches on the front look like they’ve been buffed out. Pierce stuffs the rag in his back pocket and drags out the bike. He’s a scrawny kid, probably 20 or 30 lbs lighter than his older self, and his wiry muscles strain as he moves the motorcycle. Beneath the thin fabric of his dirty tee, Logan can see the faint shape of his ribs. Not exactly peak fighting condition. 

He drops into a cross-legged seat beside the bike and rummages through a dented tool kit. After a minute of searching, he groans in exasperation and sticks a hand out demandingly. “Pass me the long-nose pliers. They’re behind you. No, those are – not those either. Next to them.” He gives Logan an irritated look when he finally grabs the right pliers and sticks them into his waiting hand. 

“Could say thank you,” Logan tells him. 

“Thank you,” Pierce parrots back. Bratty little smartass. Logan’s abruptly reminded of their first meeting: Pierce swanning into his limo in orange designer shades and too much hair gel, oozing faux-casual, friendly threats. 

He’s mercifully quiet as he goes to work though, and it’s sort of mesmerizing watching him in action – he’s the picture of concentration, serious and intently focused as he conducts his inspection. That being said, after over half an hour of standing around, Logan starts to get impatient.

“Well?” he asks. “You figure out what the issue is?”

Pierce leans back and wipes sweat off his brow. “It’s a lot of things,” he says, and then, a little condescendingly, lays out exactly what he thinks is wrong with Logan’s bike. Turns out there’s a clog in the gas cap vent, rust on the chain, and apparently his battery’s failing too. Logan has to fork over another hundred in cash for that one.  

“You need to take better care of this,” Pierce mutters as he gets back to work. “It’s a nice ride. Damn tragedy, seeing it in this condition.”

“But you can fix it, right?”

Pierce shrugs. He’s stuck a thin screwdriver between his teeth, and he mumbles around it as he says, “I can fix most anythin’.” He doesn’t sound like he’s bragging, but there’s a hint of pride there, especially when he cuts a quick look up at Logan. 

“Will it be done today?”

Pierce snorts a laugh. The screwdriver falls out of his mouth and onto his lap. “You kiddin’? Don’t even got the new battery. Reckon it won’t be done for a few days. Maybe a week. Got a lot of homework this weekend–”

The sound of a man shouting in the distance makes his head jerk up. “Donnie!”

Logan raises an eyebrow. “I think that’s for you.”

Pierce hasn’t moved from his place on the ground, but his shoulders are set in a stiff line. “Seems you're gonna have to find your own way back today.” His lips twitch into a brittle smile. “Apparently I’m needed elsewhere.” 

He next sees Pierce two days later as he’s stumbling out of the only decent bar in town, drunk on rye whiskey and still half-hard thanks to the cute blonde thing he’d paid $40 to get on his lap. He’s more relaxed than he’s been in ages. What can he say? Getting a pretty girl to grind on his lap and flash her tits is pretty goddamn therapeutic. 

The kid isn’t trying to be subtle. He’s loitering on the darkened windowsill of the pizza place next door, toying with something that glints silvery and metallic in the streetlights. He looks like he’s been waiting a while, and if Logan were sober he’d probably be more creeped out by that. 

Pierce smiles when he sees him. He sticks the thing he’s playing with in his pocket before pushing off his perch and trotting up to him like an eager puppy. “Hey there, Logan.”

Logan scowls, instantly suspicious. “What’s got you looking so chipper?” 

Pierce licks his lips. His voice drops into a conspiratorial hush, even though they’re the only ones on the block. “Finally figured out where I knew you from.” He pauses. Logan would bet good money it’s for dramatic effect. “You’re the Wolverine. Ain’t you.”

The sharp sounds of Pierce’s breath punctures the distorted vibration of country music filtering from the bar. The sidewalk sways underneath him. (That last round of shots had been a fucking mistake.) His denial comes out too slow, and Pierce grins triumphantly. 

“I knew it,” he breathes. “Fuck, I knew it.” 

Logan hisses, dismayed. It’s probably bad enough he’s been using the kid as his mechanic, but at least before this Logan was just some transient passing through – someone Pierce would forget about as soon as he was gone and his money was spent. Now? Well, Logan won’t pretend to be an expert on the subject, but he’s pretty sure Alkali-Transigen’s head of security meeting him almost two decades early might not be great news for this particular timeline.

Pierce misinterprets the look on his face. “Don’t worry,” he quickly reassures him. “I ain’t gonna tell nobody you’re a mutie.” He smiles again, tentative. “I’m a fan.”

He’d said the exact same thing to him the first time they’d met, and Logan’s throat flexes as he swallows back bile. 

Pierce continues, oblivious. “But last I heard, you was up in Ontario. And you look older.” It’s too dark to fully make out his expression, but Logan sees his eyes sharpen in a way that makes him uneasy. “Is it… time travel? There’s some forums online that talk about that. You know, certain muties who might be able to do it. Solid amount of evidence, if you know where to look.” 

“Aren’t you clever,” Logan says flatly. His metabolism’s started to burn away the worst of his drunkenness, but he’s still nowhere near the mental state needed to think up a lie good enough for Pierce to buy it. “Smart boy.”

Pierce seems to interpret it as a compliment rather than the threat it is. He leans forward excitedly. “You undercover?” He nods towards the bar. “Open secret this is the place to go to if you’re lookin’ for crystal.”

Logan briefly reconsiders killing him. “I’m not fucking undercover,” he says curtly. “You wanna know the truth? I got assigned a mission I didn’t understand, and now it’s fucking over. I came out tonight to get a lap dance and some decent blow, and unfortunately for me, this place didn’t have any of the latter.” 

The kid looks horrified, and then sort of pissed off. Better than adoring – Logan couldn’t keep stomaching that shit, not from him. “Thought you said you was a fag.”

Logan snorts. “Not exclusively.” 

“So who’d you buy?” Pierce demands. “Lola? Brandi?” He scowls. “Kansas?”

Logan leans back against the bricks and assesses him. “Whichever one had the belly-button piercing.”

“That’d be Kansas,” Pierce snaps. “Real name’s Emily. She–” He stops as the bar door swings open. Two men stagger outside. They’re laughing and knocking into each other, too fucked up to even register they aren’t alone, but Pierce shrinks back next to Logan and waits until they’re out of earshot before he hisses, “She was a grade older than me. Helped her study for a big physics test and she gave me a handjob on her older brother’s bed.”

“Jesus,” Logan says, appalled. “I don’t need to fucking know that shit.” 

He shoulders past Pierce. The kid hops out of his way, directly into a puddle of light from an overhead streetlamp, and for the first time, Logan notices the discoloration on his cheekbone: the telltale purpling spill of a developing bruise. On impulse, he stops and grabs him by the chin. 

“You pick a lot of fights, huh?”

Pierce had frozen in his grip, but at the question he smacks Logan’s hand away. “No.”

“Well someone sure as hell–” Logan breaks off, and with a sick lurch belatedly remembers the man – probably Pierce’s dad – that’d been shouting for him. Remembers Pierce’s reaction, too. The pieces fit together, forming a picture he doesn’t care for at all. “Shit,” he growls. 

Pierce must think that’s directed towards him because he flinches, losing his tough guy posturing. Logan’s stomach churns. “Hey,” he says, softer. “I ain’t gonna hurt you. You okay?”

“I’m fine,” Pierce mumbles. He draws in a quick breath. “It doesn’t fuckin’ matter anyway. Few weeks from now I graduate, then I’m outta this hellhole.”

“Let me guess,” Logan says wryly. “Joining up with the military?”

Pierce nods. “Army.”

No surprise there. Logan would’ve put even odds between that and the marines, based on what he’d seen of Pierce in the field. Probably an infantry soldier until whatever happened to make him lose his arm. Logan looks at Pierce’s too-young face, wonders if he still would’ve signed up if he’d known what it was gonna cost him.

Pierce tilts his head, watching him right back. The bruise is glossy under the cold light of the streetlamp, and Logan knows what his answer would be. 

Pierce shifts uncomfortably, maybe put off by Logan’s lack of response. “It’ll be good,” he says, sounding like he’s trying to convince himself. He tugs on the edges of his sleeves. “I’ll put on some muscle. Learn some skills. People will start taking me fuckin’ seriously.” 

Logan drags in a harsh breath. “Yep.”

Pierce doesn’t notice. “Maybe I’ll go to college when I’m out,” he adds, more hopefully. “The recruiter told me I could.”

He wishes he could unhear that. He doesn’t like knowing that Donald Pierce had once dreamed of a future off the front lines, in a university lecture hall. 

He has the sudden thought of Pierce with a brightly-colored backpack slung over his shoulder, some science textbook nestled under his arm. There’s no bruises on his face, and he’s smiling like he was when he saw Logan earlier: sweet and sincere and cute. 

Logan shakes the unwelcome image away, discomforted. 

“Look,” he says. “Not trying to be rude. But I need a shower and a piss. So….” He trails off leadingly, hoping Pierce won’t need to be told more directly. He’s not really in the mood to be an asshole to him right now. 

Pierce seems like he gets the message, but he doesn’t budge. He buries his hands in his pockets instead, avoiding Logan’s gaze. “Maybe… you wouldn’t be opposed to me crashin’ at your place for a few hours?” He’s quiet for a beat. “Don’t really wanna go home right now.”

Logan exhales. “Sure,” he says. “What the hell.”

The kid only starts talking once they’re in the motel room. The first thing he does after toeing off his shoes is fish out the thing Logan had seen him playing with before. It’s a wire puzzle, Pierce explains, and his fingers flash as he shows off, maneuvering the interlocking bands into the shape of a ring. 

Logan asks him if they make more complex versions, which is a mistake. Turns out Pierce’s got a bit of a motormouth when he gets going, and he doesn’t seem to want to shut up until Logan steers him to the bed, turns on the TV, and leaves him with the remote while he goes to shower. 

The kid’s mood shifts when Logan comes out of the shower, towel around his waist. His eyes track him warily, like he’s suddenly hyper-conscious of the fact that he’s in a motel room with a grown man he doesn’t actually know all that well; and great – now Logan’s thinking about that too. He quickly grabs his clothes and retreats back into the bathroom, and when he comes out the second time Pierce seems more relaxed. 

The TV’s on some bullshit reality show that Pierce isn’t paying attention to. Logan flips the channel to a soccer match and plops down beside him on the mattress. He’s half-expecting Pierce to get up and move to the armchair (he’s not about to, it’s his fucking room, and that chair is lumpy as fuck), but the kid stays put, just props up a pillow behind his back and gets comfortable. The wire puzzle’s on his thumb – it’s a pretty ring, but it’s a half size too big for him and Pierce spins it around nervously.

“You hungry?” Logan tries, kind of awkwardly. “I think there’s some jerky around somewhere.”

Pierce shakes his head. “‘M’good. I got leftovers at home.”

“You gonna have any trouble getting back? It’s a fucking hike.”

Logan didn’t think it was a weird question, but Pierce seems caught off guard. “I parked near the bar,” he says after a pause. “I’ll be fine.”

Logan huffs out a laugh. “You’re such a little stalker,” he says. Really, he shouldn’t be surprised, although it’s slightly more endearing now than it was the first time Pierce tracked him down. “How the fuck did you find me, anyway?”

Pierce’s cheeks flush, embarrassed. “Wasn’t hard,” he mutters. “Came here first, but the receptionist said you was gone. It’s past dinnertime and you don’t got a ride, so I did the math. Only two bars in town. Only one of ‘em halfway decent. Took a gamble you’d know which was which.”

He falls back into silence after that, whatever burst of energy that’d gotten him so chatty earlier drained away. 

Logan sort of misses it. 

“So, uh,” he starts. “That shit you were working on in your shed. The radio. What’s up with that?”

It’s the right question. Pierce’s face lights up and Logan finds himself smiling right back. Pierce talks his ear off about electronics for the next hour, and by the time the kid heads out, he’s almost wishing he wouldn’t. 

There’s a knock on his door the next evening, and he can’t say he’s surprised when he opens it to find Pierce waiting for him outside.  

What he is surprised by is the six-pack of beer he’s carrying with him. 

Pierce thrusts the beer towards Logan. The bottles are pleasantly chilled, straight from a fridge. “Shoplifted it,” he says smugly, answering Logan’s question before he can think to ask it. “Would’ve gotten you somethin’ nicer, but, uh–” he clicks his tongue against his teeth, “my options were sort of limited.” He grins. “Can I trust ya not to turn me in to the authorities?”

“Your secret’s safe with me,” Logan replies. Frankly, it’s about the sweetest gift he’s gotten in ages. Helps he’d been running low – he’s down to the last can of his own supply. After a moment’s consideration, he steps to the side. 

His nose prickles as Pierce slinks past him. He’s doused himself in some sort of cheap body spray and it’s strong enough that Logan can barely detect his natural scent underneath. Just the harsh, chemical aroma of simulated vanilla and cedar. 

Pierce sits on the edge of the bed. The bruise is worse today, but otherwise he looks nice. His blond hair is shiny under the fluorescent lights. It’s been slathered with gel, though not as meticulously arranged as the style he comes to favor in the future. Logan decides it looks better without all the product. Softer. 

He joins him on the bed, putting down the six-pack as a barrier between them. 

“So. To what do I owe the visit, kid?” 

Pierce grabs a beer. He’s still wearing his puzzle ring, and he uses it to pop the cap off the bottle. He hands it to Logan with a grin, then takes one for himself. 

“Can’t a guy swing by to say hi to a new friend?” he drawls. He watches Logan, mirroring him when he takes a sip of his beer. “Wanted to show my appreciation. For letting me come through last night.” He grins again, too wide not to be a little forced. “An’ I know this place is boring as all hell. Figured I’d liven it up.”

Logan takes a long drink from his beer. It’s sort of suspicious how hard Pierce’s trying to be charming. And fuck, he’s actually nearly successful, although he’s not quite as smooth as he’ll eventually learn to be.  

Pierce fidgets with his bottle and cuts a shy look towards Logan. “Mind if I ask you somethin’?”

“Shoot.”

Pierce’s voice drops into a hush. “Could you show me the claws?” His cheeks go pink. In a rush: “Only if you want. I’ve always thought they were cool.”

Logan downs the rest of his beer. “Fuck it. Sure.” 

Popping the claws always hurts like a motherfucker, but it’s worth it for the look on Pierce’s face. He makes a soft noise and leans in, shameless in his admiration. His blue eyes glitter as he ghosts a careful finger down the length of one of the adamantium blades as if testing its sharpness. 

“Careful, kid,” he murmurs. 

Pierce grins up at him. “They’re amazing,” he says. “Holy shit. Wouldn’t mind a pair myself.” He gazes down at them again and inhales sharply. “Could do some real damage.”

Logan’s mood abruptly sours. He snaps the claws back and sucks the blood from his knuckles while the torn skin slowly knits back together. “The last thing you need to be worrying about is fucked up shit like that,” he snaps. “Your school, your engineering projects – focus on that shit instead.” 

Pierce slow-blinks like a damned cat, sly and calculating. “I can multitask.”

His hand reaches over the pack of beers and falls onto Logan’s thigh. 

Logan grabs him by the wrist. “The fuck do you think you’re doing.”

Pierce winces but he doesn’t try to tug his arm out of Logan’s grip. “Told you,” he rasps. “Showin’ my appreciation.” 

Logan shoves Pierce’s wrist away. “Don’t need you to do that.”

Pierce’s expression grows almost petulant. “Thought you liked this kind of thing,” he says, and then in a distressingly quick movement, he clambers over the beer and drops himself directly onto Logan’s lap. 

Logan’s hands automatically go to his hips, ’cause that’s just the thing you do when something pretty straddles you. Pierce seems to take it as an invitation. He ducks his head, nipping Logan’s ear. The cloyingly sweet smell of his cologne settles in the back of Logan’s throat, making it go tight.

“You wanna fuck my ass?” Pierce grinds down clumsily, in demonstration. His voice hitches. “My mouth?” 

He tries to kiss Logan’s neck and Logan jerks away. “You even done this before?”

Pierce’s hands have gone to Logan’s chest. He squeezes his pecs in a quick, experimental grope. “No,” he admits. And then, defensively, “But I’m eighteen. I could be getting DP’ed on camera for horny motherfuckers to beat off to right now if I wanted.”

“Jesus,” Logan says. “Yeah. You’re a real adult, kid.”

“C’mon, Logan. It’s for you. You like this shit, don’t you?” He’s still trying to paw at him, but his hands move stiffly now, like he’s no longer sure what he wants to do. 

“Fuck, you’re a closet case. Hey,” he says, sharper, when Pierce reaches down to undo his belt. “That’s fucking enough.”

Pierce stops. His hand stills on Logan’s waistband and he abruptly drops his forehead to Logan’s shoulder, breathing hard and unsteady. 

Logan knows he should probably push him off. It’d be the responsible thing to do – for more reasons than one. Instead, he grabs hold of Pierce’s waist and bodily maneuvers him more fully onto the bed. He gets him on his side and hooks an arm underneath him, holding him steady. 

He’s sort of expecting Pierce to try to kick free, but there’s only a half-hearted attempt at squirming away before he shudders and goes boneless against him. 

The kid’s breathing gradually evens out. Logan can feel the protrusion of his ribs under his shirt as his chest rises and falls, and he’s suddenly gripped by an absurd impulse to take him out for some burgers and a milkshake. 

After a few minutes Pierce rolls over, turning his face into Logan’s neck. His warm breath tickles Logan’s skin. The cologne’s finally starting to wear off, and Logan inhales deeply, taking in Pierce’s natural scent. It’s faintly sour with stale, fading adrenaline. 

Pierce raises his face and shimmies up a little higher. His eyes are heavy-lidded, the blue nearly hidden away under golden-brown lashes. Logan rubs a gentle circle into the small of his back and Pierce releases a soft, tremulous sigh. It’s hotter than the porn star shit he’d tried to pull earlier, and it’s enough to get Logan half-hard. 

Pierce leans forward. His nose bumps against Logan’s. His breath smells like spearmint gum and cheap beer. 

Logan knows what’s coming. Doesn’t stop it. 

He parts his lips obligingly when the kid kisses him. He’s not great at it. He doesn’t really know how to move, or what to do with his tongue, but he lets Logan lead, and eventually they find a good rhythm. 

He gets fully hard relatively quick, and he’s pretty sure the kid can feel it with the way they’re angled, but he doesn’t try to do anything about it which is a fucking relief. Logan isn’t sure he’d be able to stop him this time. 

It ends on its own, naturally, and Pierce snuggles closer, half-dozing in Logan’s arms. His wiry body is a blade of a heat against his chest. 

“Should go,” he slurs eventually. He tries and fails to stifle a yawn. “Got shit to take care of at home.”

He doesn’t actually show any indication of moving, and Logan wonders if the kid’s hoping he’ll insist he stay. 

It’s surprisingly tempting. Real tempting. 

“Probably should,” Logan murmurs instead, and the look of disappointment on Pierce’s face breaks his heart, just a little. 

The kid leaves, and Logan strips down and gets into the shower. The water pressure in this place is unexpectedly good: it hammers down onto his back, hot and sharp as a rain of bullets. He braces himself against the slippery tiles and wraps a hand around his dick. His erection’s gone down, but a few rough pumps gets him hard again. He tries not to let his mind wander to Pierce, to his soft, inexperienced mouth, or his breathy whines when Logan licked into it.

He isn’t entirely successful. 

It’s a week and change before he sees Pierce again. 

Well. That’s not exactly true. It’s a small town – he occasionally glimpses him filling up his mom’s car at the gas station, and one time in the supermarket he feels a prickle on the back of his neck and turns to catch the kid staring at him from the soda aisle. He’s not sure who’s avoiding who, but he hasn’t gone to check on his bike, and Pierce doesn’t drop by the motel again. 

That’s fine, he tells himself. Good, even. Less loose ends to worry about when he eventually blows out of town, not to mention all ways fucking around with Donald Pierce is sort of the definition of a bad idea.

He’s started picking up the occasional shift at the other bar in town. Official story is that their previous bouncer got his pelvis shattered pulling a stunt at the rodeo – based on the giggling snippets of gossip he’s overheard from the waitresses, he guesses there’s more to it than that, but he doesn’t care to pry. All he gives a shit about is that the owner pays in cash and doesn’t mind if he grabs a few beers on his way out the door.

There’s a rotating assortment of sharp-eyed, quick-fingered women who drink alone at the end of the bar, waiting for men to approach them. They go into the restrooms together and come out separately, lipstick blotchy and more cash in their wallets than they started with.   

It’s the kind of place where a kid like Pierce can slip in around 10. 

His hair’s slicked-back and he’s got on a well-cared-for bomber jacket and artfully ripped jeans Logan has a sneaking suspicion were DIY. He looks out of place here – the only ones dressed up pretty are the girls. Pierce’s already catching some side-eyes from the patrons. 

He hasn’t noticed Logan yet, and Logan intends to keep it that way. 

There’s a good crowd tonight, but nobody’s gotten rowdy yet, so Logan lurks in the back keeping an eye on things, safely out of range of the speakers. They’re blasting out hard rock songs, and the sound’s cranked up so fucking loud the audio keeps clipping. 

Pierce’s chatting up a girl at the bar. Logan recognizes her by her painted-on red dress – she came through last night too, made a killing off a crew of factory workers. Pierce glances at her tits a few times, but he doesn’t seem like he’s trying to solicit her services. They’re just talking, loose and conversational like they’re friends. Fuck, town this small, they just might be. Pierce says something that makes her laugh so hard she chokes on her drink, and Logan turns his attention away, repressing a smile. 

Next time he looks over, they’ve got company. 

A drunk guy in a baseball cap’s got his arm slung over the girl’s narrow shoulders. Her smile is tight, and she prods the ice cubes in her drink without looking up. She says something, and the guy opens his mouth to respond, but Pierce cuts him off snidely. 

Logan prowls forward, straining to pick out what they’re saying over the music. Things are getting more heated. Pierce hops off his stool and the guy pushes away from the girl, getting right up in his space instead. 

“Fuck you,” the guy slurs, stabbing a finger into Pierce’s chest. “You didn’t want her anyway, you fuckin’ faggot.”

Pierce laughs, sharp and mirthless. “Hey. Better n’being a cuck. Say, where is lovely Abilene, anyway?” The guy goes beet-red, and Pierce shows his teeth. He points between him and the girl. “That why you here tonight? Tryin’ to finally level the playing field–”

Logan lunges forward but the guy’s fist is already flying. Pierce’s head snaps back at the same instant Logan grabs the guy by the elbow and spins him face-first into the bar. 

“You gonna be cool?” he growls. He twists his bent arm when he doesn’t respond, only letting up when the guy yelps and nods aggressively. Still holding him down, he looks at Pierce. “You okay?”

Pierce isn’t paying attention. He’s breathing hard and tonguing around his mouth, checking for injuries. “Fuck you,” he spits out. He bends over and leans in close to the guy’s face, making sure he can see him. “You hit like a bitch.” 

The guy bucks uselessly against Logan. Half his face is mashed into the counter, but he manages to spit out, “Fuckin’ fag–”

“Fuck you and your whore wife,” Pierce snarls. “Go stick your dick back in her diseased slit where it belongs.”

Logan had been happy to let the kid blow off some steam after getting smacked in the face, but people are starting to look, and Pierce just seems more riled up than he was when he started. He gives him a sharp look. “That’s enough.”

The girl comes up behind him. “Don,” she murmurs, so low Logan barely hears her over the music. “It’s over, honey.” 

Pierce shudders when she puts a hand on his shoulder. He straightens up and finally seems to notice he’s got an audience. He scans around the room, his eyes glazing over with the blank terror of a snared animal. His gaze drops back to the guy Logan’s still holding down, and his expression hardens. 

He shakes off the girl’s hand and lashes out. His fist connects solidly with the side of his head, and the guy howls as his eardrum ruptures in a gush of blood. Logan releases him to grab at Pierce; he’s not the only one – the girl’s also trying to wedge her way between him and his target, but he dodges around her and lands another punch, this one on the back of his skull, before Logan gets him by the scruff and haul him off. 

Pierce only puts up a token struggle as Logan drags him outside. He dumps him on the pavement, glaring as Pierce slowly picks himself up. 

“What the fuck was that about?”

Pierce’s eyes flash as he slowly rises to his feet. He spits out a wad of red-threaded mucus and fixes Logan with a hateful look. It makes him look older, and for a second all Logan can see in front of him is the bastard he becomes, the sort of man who would happily assault a restrained man.  

“N’why the fuck do you care?”

“That’s a good fucking question,” Logan snaps. “Jesus. What the fuck is wrong with you?” 

“Hey now. I just finished what he started.” Pierce throws a contemptuous look towards the bar. “He won’t fuckin’ mess with me again,” he says viciously. “None of ‘em will.” His jaw clenches. “Can’t let ‘em think I’m just some little girl that does nothin’ but whine when I’m hit, can I?” He glares at Logan, daring him to disagree.    

Logan doesn’t say anything, and the anger on the kid’s face flickers, giving way to the same look of fear he’d seen on him right before he’d attacked the man. Sympathy curls inside of him. “You can’t fucking do that shit, kid,” he says softly. “It’s just gonna get you into trouble.”

Pierce’s expression darkens with outrage. “And who the fuck are you to tell me what to do?” He lets out a shrill laugh, gestures at Logan’s black shirt and pants. “You’re just a fuckin’ bouncer.” He scoffs. “The fuckin’ Wolverine, in the flesh. What a goddamn disappointment.”

Logan snorts. “Fuck, kid. Keep up that attitude, and I promise, you’re gonna grow up to be a real cunt.”

Pierce sneers. “Whatever you say, daddy.”

Something sharp and hot drops through Logan at that, and he drags in a quick breath. 

Pierce goes still. He studies Logan’s face. “So what now?” His voice is rough. “Gonna put me in my place, daddy?” 

There’s something needy in his expression, and something more than a little terrified, especially when Logan snags hold of his jacket collar and marches them out of alley. 

“Where the fuck we goin’?” Pierce demands, jogging to keep pace. 

“Think you know that.”

Pierce grabs Logan’s wrist but he doesn’t try to shove him away, just hangs on. “Don’t you got work?”

“Fuck that shit.”

Pierce releases a breathless, giddy laugh. “Fuck it,” he agrees. 

Soon as the door closes behind them Pierce drops to his knees and tries to get Logan’s dick out. His hands are shaking something bad as he attempts to open his belt, and he eventually gives up on it and goes for the zipper before Logan stops him.

“Bed,” Logan says, before the kid can protest. And then, as an afterthought, “Clothes off.”    

Pierce’s throat works as he swallows hard. He accepts the hand Logan offers to help him up, then heads for the bed, glancing back over his shoulder a few times like he’s making sure this is still what Logan wants. 

Logan fishes around in the drawers under the TV for the bottle of lube he’d bought from the gas station on a whim. Behind him, he can hear the thudding of shoes being kicked to the floor and then the rasp of shifting fabric as Pierce undresses. 

He’s naked when Logan turns back around, and he props himself up on his elbows to gawk as Logan strips down to his boxers, staring blatantly at his chest, his abdominals. 

Pierce squeezes his thighs together like a girl trying to cover herself when Logan crawls beside him, before he remembers he’s trying to be sexy and lets his legs fall open with a grin. He blushes as Logan drags his gaze down his body in a slow once-over. 

His limbs are long and slender, with sharp elbows and knees. His torso is scattered with freckles and almost entirely hairless. His hip bones jut out a little, and his cock is already hard and dribbling precum into his pubes. 

“You’re beautiful,” Logan tells him gruffly. The kid’s flush darkens at that, spilling all the way down his throat. 

He gets on top of Pierce and kisses him. The kid’s already getting better at it; at one point he gets Logan’s tongue between his teeth and nips playfully, snickering at the surprised noise Logan makes. He keeps his hands fisted into the sheets until he eventually realizes he’s allowed to touch, and then he’s all over Logan, groping his tits and shoulders and ass and greedily dragging his fingers through his hair and beard.  

It’s only when Pierce starts to hesitantly reach between Logan’s legs that Logan pushes off his boxers and lets Pierce explore there, too. He stops kissing him to touch it; he’s tentative at first, but when Logan tells him it won’t bite he wraps a fist around it and tugs roughly like he’s trying to prove something to both of them. 

Logan gives him a few minutes of that before he spreads the kid’s legs open and gets his mouth on his dick. He only blows him for about thirty seconds – he doesn’t risk any longer than that, not with the punched-out noises and gasping curses coming out of Pierce. Maybe he’s selfish, but he doesn’t want this to be over so soon. 

Pierce wiggles his hips up obligingly when Logan pulls away, watching him carefully as he squirts lube onto his hand. 

It’s only when he’s circling his thumb around Pierce’s hole that he thinks to ask him if he’s ever had something inside him before. 

“Sometimes,” Pierce admits thickly, “when I’m in the shower, I’ll–” He cuts himself off, blushing hard. 

“You like it?”

“Yeah,” he chokes out. “Feels good.”

Logan works a finger inside of him and finds his prostate. “You like this?”

Pierce rolls his hips. “I think so.” He groans when Logan shifts slightly, his eyes slipping closed. “Yeah. I like that.”

Logan pushes in another finger and spends a while working Pierce open before the kid starts whining for him to fuck him already. 

Pierce stares up at Logan as he spreads lube over his cock. His expression is open and soft and vulnerable – none of the cruel hardness Logan had seen at the bar – and his chest twists with something alarmingly affectionate. 

He’s careful about it, slowing down whenever Pierce whimpers or sucks in a too-sharp breath, and it takes him a while before he starts to thrust. 

Pierce wraps his legs around Logan’s waist and groans as Logan rocks into him. It’s not long before he’s canting his hips up to meet Logan’s thrusts, and he digs his heels impatiently into his back. “C’mon, daddy,” he says breathlessly. “Can’t ya go harder than that?”

Logan chuckles and starts fucking him faster. “I’m daddy, then?” 

Pierce grins up at him. “Yeah,” he pants. He claws at Logan’s biceps. “Don’t you like it?”

Logan rumbles out an affirmative and buries a hand in Pierce’s hair. “Who are you?” 

“A slut,” Pierce pants, but he must realize it’s the wrong answer when Logan responds by tightening his grip in his hair. “Your bitch,” he says, with less certainty. He arches up underneath him, tries for a sultry, coy smile he’s probably imitating from some porn star getting a facial. “Your fuck toy.”

“Try again.”

Pierce shudders. “I don’t know.”

“Come on, sweetheart,” Logan says. He gets his free hand on Pierce’s chin, holding it steady. Fuck, his face looks so delicate under Logan’s broad fingers – Logan isn’t surprised he ended up growing out a beard. It’s not smart being too pretty among men like the Reavers. “If I’m daddy, what does that make you?”

Pierce’s ears go red, and he tries half-heartedly to wiggle free. When he’s done fighting, he bites his lip hard enough that his teeth leave indents. Softly, he says, “I’m your good boy?”

“Fuck, yeah you are,” Logan growls. Pierce moans. “Such a good fucking boy for me, aren’t you? You wanna touch yourself, sweetheart?” 

Pierce makes a thin, almost pained sound as he gets his hand around his cock and strokes it, slowly at first and then faster, until his fist is a blur of motion.

“…Daddy,” he whimpers. His cheeks are bright red. 

Logan slows down, rolls his hips indulgently. “Daddy what?” 

“Daddy… can I cum? Please?”

Logan presses a kiss to the side of his neck. “’Course you can,” he says roughly, and that’s all the kid needs; with a shout he spurts cum all over his own belly, and it’s hot enough that Logan only needs a few more hard thrusts before he’s following suit. 

Pierce’s spent, and Logan half-carries him to the shower, cleaning him up as gently as he can under the warm water. He feels that curl of affection inside him again as Pierce leans into him limply, trusting him to support his weight. 

He doesn’t have the heart to kick the kid out this time. Pierce snuggles against him, an arm thrown over Logan’s waist and his head resting on his chest. They watch TV for a bit until Pierce starts drifting off, and Logan carefully disentangles himself to get the lights. 

Pierce clings to him when he slips back into bed, sighing softly when Logan kisses him on the forehead, and fuck, Logan realizes this might actually be the most content he’s felt in too long to remember. 

Logan takes him out for breakfast the next morning, gets them a booth in the back of the diner when he sees the kid glancing around anxiously, like he’s worried someone’s gonna see them together and make assumptions.  

“You doing alright?” he asks, once the waitress has dropped off their food.

Pierce looks up from drowning his waffles in blueberry syrup and graces Logan with a small, tentative smile that makes something soften in his chest. “I’m good,” he says. He blushes a little.  “You?”

The door to the diner swings open, and the late morning light pours in, scattering brightly over Pierce’s hair when he ducks his chin. It looks impossibly soft and pretty, and Logan wishes they were alone so he could play with it. He’s learning the kid likes having his hair petted; he mewled like a kitten when Logan sleepily stroked through it earlier today. 

But they aren’t alone, and Pierce already looks like he’s half-ready to bolt, so he doesn’t move. “Yeah,” he says. “I’m good, kid.”

“Kid?” Pierce’s lips slant into a smile. “Thought I was your boy.” 

Logan laughs. “That too.”

They eat quietly for a while. Pierce picks at his waffles. He’s got his thinking face on. 

“I’ll get your bike done today,” he says between bites. He avoids Logan’s gaze. “You can swing by and pick it up when I’m at school tomorrow. Nobody will be home. Just… promise to take better care of it, yeah?”

Logan’s chest clenches with an emotion he tries not to examine. “I promise.”

He’s halfway to the interstate before he turns back. He isn’t sure it’s the right move (it’s almost definitely not the smart move), but it makes the tight knot in his chest finally uncoil, and that’s good enough for him. 

It isn’t hard to find the high school – it’s only about a mile down the road from the liquor store. The day’s already inching towards late afternoon, so Logan idles around the area until he hears the final bell ring. He catches Pierce about twenty minutes later, walking down the dusty gutters carved out beside a service road.

Pierce jumps when he hears the rumble of his bike; there’s a dangerous, mean look on his face when he whirls around, hands balled into fists, but he loosens when he sees Logan. He shields his eyes from the sun and jogs up to him, beaming. 

He sticks a hand on his hip and strikes a pose when he gets next to the bike. The effect is sort of ruined by the threadbare backpack weighing him down. “Hey, honey,” he purrs. “Lookin’ for a good time?”  

“Do me a favor. Never say that again,” Logan grumbles. 

“Sorry,” Pierce says, not sounding particularly sorry at all. He jerks a thumb at Logan’s bike. “How’s it running?”

“Better than ever.” Logan hesitates. “You did a good job, kid.”

Pierce smiles. “Didn’t expect to see you again,” he admits. He tugs at his straps. “You stayin’ for a while longer?”

“Playing it by ear.” He scoots up in his seat. “Wanna hop on?”

Pierce’s eyes dart around like he’s checking to make sure they’re still alone. He’s got the same skittish look on his face Logan had seen at the diner, and he’s about to tell the kid it’s just an option, not an order, when Pierce squares his shoulders and jumps on. 

Logan toes up the kickstand and revs the bike. “Where to, sweetheart?”

Pierce wraps his arms around him tightly; his soft, humid breath puffs against Logan’s neck. “Your place.”

“You got it.”

Logan spends about an hour demonstrating by example how to properly suck a dick. The kid’s a quick study: soon as he’s recovered he’s putting what he learned to good use. It’s not the best blowjob Logan’s had, but Pierce’s enthusiastic and attentive, and when Logan tells him he’s gonna cum he just latches on tighter, swallowing down every drop and only gagging a little. 

Logan orders pizza to the motel, and after inhaling three slices a glum look spreads over Pierce’s expression. Logan figures it’s just heartburn from eating so fast until he says, “Be nice if we could do shit in public, you know?” 

Logan scoffs. “What, you trying to get bent over behind the gas station pumps?”

“Not that,” Pierce snaps. “I mean like. Shit we could do if I was a girl.” He scowls down at the half-eaten pizza. “Be cool to like… go bowling or get tacos or somethin’. Whatever shit people do when they like each other.” He seems to realize what he’s just said and glances anxiously at Logan. “I mean… you do like me, right?”

“’Course I like you.” Logan’s surprised how little he has to think about it. “And you do know there’s places we can, right?”

“Yeah? Where?” Pierce makes a derisive noise. “San Francisco?”

“Sure, there,” Logan agrees. “But plenty others, too.” He whistles. “That outfit you had on the other night? Go to almost any city in America and you’d fit right in. You’re just not made for this town, kid. That’s all.”

For a moment, Pierce actually looks a little hopeful. Then his expression sours. “It doesn’t matter anyway,” he says flatly. “Soon as I’m done with school, it’s straight to boot camp for me.”

“Doesn’t have to be.”

Pierce is quiet for a moment. He snags another slice of pizza, eats a solitary pepperoni. “You make it sound so easy, Logan.” 

Pierce pivots to another subject after that and does a passable job feigning excitement about some new microprocessor. Logan doesn’t press him, and later, when the kid curls against him extra close, he doesn’t say anything, just pulls him in tighter. 

The next time they see each other it’s in Pierce’s shed, and the kid’s got a fresh black eye. 

Logan tips his chin to get a good look, and Pierce makes a hurting noise when he glides the pad of his thumb over his swollen eyebrow. 

“Should heal fine,” Logan murmurs, trying to keep the rage out of his voice. He drops his hand to the curve of Pierce’s cheek, and presses a quick kiss to his forehead when Pierce nuzzles into his palm. “Your dad’s a fucking piece of work, huh?”

“Stepdad,” Pierce corrects. He gives Logan’s hand an affectionate head-butt, like a cat, before turning back to his workstation, where he’s been busy dissecting a busted electric motor. Without looking up he says, “But you know. Meet the new boss. Same as the old boss.” He gingerly prods at the bruise. “Dad wasn’t any better.”

Logan pets through his hair for a few minutes while Pierce concentrates on cleaning the rotor. “He lays his hands on you again, you come to me, okay?”  

“Would you kill him?” Pierce says. His voice is even, but he still doesn't look up. “If I asked?”

Logan traces a finger down the back of Pierce’s neck, making him shiver. “Yeah,” he says, after a moment’s consideration. “Prefer you didn’t ask me that, though.”

Pierce raises his face and smiles beatifically, like Logan’s just presented him with chocolate and a bouquet of roses, instead of a grudging offer to kill another man. “I won’t,” he says. “I’ll be outta here real soon. And after that I ain’t never comin’ back.” 

Logan scruffs a hand through Pierce’s hair. “Attaboy.”

To celebrate his graduation, Logan takes Pierce out to dinner at the nearest Chinese restaurant. 

Nearest happens to be 15 miles east in a different town entirely. 

It’s a cramped place, strung up with shitty paper lanterns and ads for the local theater, and they don’t card Pierce when he orders a beer. Egg rolls are pretty damn decent though, and Logan’s almost offended that the kid doesn’t try them until he notices the look on his face. 

He puts down his chopsticks. “You doing alright, Don?”

Pierce seems to realize he’s just been blankly staring at the food and unenthusiastically stabs a roll with a chopstick. He stuffs it in his mouth, chews miserably, and then washes it down with half his bottle of beer. “Supposed to ship out for boot camp in two weeks,” he says quietly. “Just feels real fuckin’ soon all of a sudden.”

“You don’t wanna go?”

“I wanna be gone,” Pierce says. “And I guess a drill sergeant screaming in my face beats my stepdad doing it.” He pauses. “But shit, Logan. That don’t sound too fun neither. And it’s gonna really fuckin’ suck not seeing you, too.”

“You know you don’t have to go,” Logan says. And then, because he doesn’t think anyone’s ever told Pierce this before – not in this reality, and not in the other one, either: “You got a whole life ahead of you, kid. And trust me, you don’t want to waste it doing shit that makes you hate yourself.” 

Truthfully, he’s expecting Pierce to brush him off. But instead, Pierce fixes him with a wretched, imploring look. “What other option do I got?”

Impulsively, Logan reaches across the table and grabs Pierce’s hand. “Come with me,” he says. “Right now. We can go anywhere you want.” He hadn’t planned any of that, but now that he’s said it it sort of feels like the least complicated choice he’s made in years.

“Just like that?” Pierce asks. He exhales a shaky breath and threads their fingers together. “I got all my shit at home.”

“Nothing you’d get to take to boot camp,” Logan reminds him. “Your clothes, your fucking toothbrush. We can buy all that shit. Tell me one thing you actually need.”

Pierce is quiet for a minute. “Anywhere I want?” he asks. He gives a small smile. He’s still holding Logan’s hand. “LA? San Francisco?”

“Anywhere,” Logan repeats. “C’mon, sweetheart. What do you say?”

“Fuck,” Pierce says. And then, more emphatically, “Fuck. Yeah, alright.” A weight Logan hadn’t realized he’d been carrying abruptly sloughs off his shoulders. Pierce tugs on his hand and grins. “Let’s go, daddy.”

He throws down $60 on the table and half-drags the kid out the door. He tosses Pierce his helmet (a new acquisition – he’d started to feel weird about letting the kid ride with no protection) and the kid obediently shoves it on and gets behind him. 

They’re flying down the interstate when he catches him tugging it off and tipping his head back to let the wind whip through his hair.  

“Kid! Christ, put that back on!”

“Sorry,” Pierce shouts over the wind. One-handed, he stuffs his head back inside and snuggles closer to Logan. “Just feels fuckin’ good to be free.”