(active/open)
Characters: Logan and whoever wants to come bother him.
Location: Breakstone lake.
Time: Sunday morning.
Content: Logan is enjoying some alone time. Like that's going to last.
Warnings: Wolverine.
Logan missed a lot of things about his place up in Canada. The beer. The food. The handful of friends he'd made. The smell of the old trees and the chinook winds riding down off the mountains.
The quiet.
Barely even a week into the Professor's stupid-ass school idea and the mansion'd never felt so damn crowded, not even back in the early days when half the Eastern seaboard was wearing Xavier's name on their chests. Logan couldn't go anywhere without walking in on some kid doing something or other. His territory had been invaded. He felt penned-in. Caged. His jaw was clenched so tight it was starting to make his head hurt. Even a two hour session in the Danger Room beating the crap out of some Doombots couldn't unwind the tension coiling up his spine. He found himself retreating to his old haunts, dividing his time between the sub-basement and the grounds, avoiding the main house as much as he could. He was starting to wonder why he'd even agreed to be part of it at all.
Should've stuck with Alpha Flight, he thought to himself, chewing meditatively on the end of his cigar. He was standing at the very end of the jetty which stuck out over the lake like a broken tooth, his hands shoved in the pockets of his sheepskin jacket. Even out here, he wasn't immune to the ritual sounds of the waking students. He could hear every slammed door, every conversation held behind a half-open window.
He shrugged a little deeper into his jacket, as if it'd make any difference.
Too old for this crap.
Location: Breakstone lake.
Time: Sunday morning.
Content: Logan is enjoying some alone time. Like that's going to last.
Warnings: Wolverine.
Logan missed a lot of things about his place up in Canada. The beer. The food. The handful of friends he'd made. The smell of the old trees and the chinook winds riding down off the mountains.
The quiet.
Barely even a week into the Professor's stupid-ass school idea and the mansion'd never felt so damn crowded, not even back in the early days when half the Eastern seaboard was wearing Xavier's name on their chests. Logan couldn't go anywhere without walking in on some kid doing something or other. His territory had been invaded. He felt penned-in. Caged. His jaw was clenched so tight it was starting to make his head hurt. Even a two hour session in the Danger Room beating the crap out of some Doombots couldn't unwind the tension coiling up his spine. He found himself retreating to his old haunts, dividing his time between the sub-basement and the grounds, avoiding the main house as much as he could. He was starting to wonder why he'd even agreed to be part of it at all.
Should've stuck with Alpha Flight, he thought to himself, chewing meditatively on the end of his cigar. He was standing at the very end of the jetty which stuck out over the lake like a broken tooth, his hands shoved in the pockets of his sheepskin jacket. Even out here, he wasn't immune to the ritual sounds of the waking students. He could hear every slammed door, every conversation held behind a half-open window.
He shrugged a little deeper into his jacket, as if it'd make any difference.
Too old for this crap.