one more
Here's one last ficlet from the International Day of Slash, when I was taking requests. This one's for likeadeuce, who asked for Logan/Scott and shirts. Movieverse, set post-X2.
The Trouble
The trouble with Summers is . . . hell, the trouble with Summers is a lotta stuff. He's a schoolteacher who thinks a leather uniform makes him a general. He's a boy scout and he don't get that the whole world's not a fucking Jamboree. He's a priss, like he never had a good fuck or a good drunk or a good fight in his life.
He's the guy Jean loved, he's always gonna be that guy, and Logan's always gonna be the guy she turned down.
Plus there's that stupid visor.
But the other trouble with Summers is his shirts. Especially the silky ones, the ones that sorta shadow his body like they're not really there, so you start imagining the wide chest underneath. And the button-down, wrinkle-free, be-prepared, scout-salute ones, the ones that scream purity 'til Logan gets why scoutmasters go perverted, how all that clean makes you need to dirty it. And the white t-shirts for exercising, so tight you can sorta see the bumps of his nipples, like a girl's. And the ones for working on the bike, grease-stained and stretched from wiping off tools, the ones where he just looks like a guy, like somebody you could talk to. Like Scott, instead of Summers.
Jean probably picked 'em out--well, except the motorbike ones. She went to stores and she thought about how good Scott looked, how to show off his body, how much she loved him. So the shirts are kind of Jean-and-Scott. Summers gets to wrap up in Jean-and-Scott and wear it around all day.
One time in the laundry room there was a dryer full of Summers's stuff, and yeah, Logan thought about it. Picked up a shirt, one of the silky ones, and petted it, sniffed it. But it was just a thing, dead and empty, and it smelled like laundry soap. So he folded it up, and then he folded all the shirts and the pants and even the underwear, and left them in a basket. Probably he wrinkled everything all to hell, 'cause it's not like he's got practice folding his own laundry.
He shoulda figured out, that day, that it was time to go. But he didn't, and now he doesn't even want to.
That's the trouble with Scott Summers. He makes you crazy.
*****
The Trouble
The trouble with Summers is . . . hell, the trouble with Summers is a lotta stuff. He's a schoolteacher who thinks a leather uniform makes him a general. He's a boy scout and he don't get that the whole world's not a fucking Jamboree. He's a priss, like he never had a good fuck or a good drunk or a good fight in his life.
He's the guy Jean loved, he's always gonna be that guy, and Logan's always gonna be the guy she turned down.
Plus there's that stupid visor.
But the other trouble with Summers is his shirts. Especially the silky ones, the ones that sorta shadow his body like they're not really there, so you start imagining the wide chest underneath. And the button-down, wrinkle-free, be-prepared, scout-salute ones, the ones that scream purity 'til Logan gets why scoutmasters go perverted, how all that clean makes you need to dirty it. And the white t-shirts for exercising, so tight you can sorta see the bumps of his nipples, like a girl's. And the ones for working on the bike, grease-stained and stretched from wiping off tools, the ones where he just looks like a guy, like somebody you could talk to. Like Scott, instead of Summers.
Jean probably picked 'em out--well, except the motorbike ones. She went to stores and she thought about how good Scott looked, how to show off his body, how much she loved him. So the shirts are kind of Jean-and-Scott. Summers gets to wrap up in Jean-and-Scott and wear it around all day.
One time in the laundry room there was a dryer full of Summers's stuff, and yeah, Logan thought about it. Picked up a shirt, one of the silky ones, and petted it, sniffed it. But it was just a thing, dead and empty, and it smelled like laundry soap. So he folded it up, and then he folded all the shirts and the pants and even the underwear, and left them in a basket. Probably he wrinkled everything all to hell, 'cause it's not like he's got practice folding his own laundry.
He shoulda figured out, that day, that it was time to go. But he didn't, and now he doesn't even want to.
That's the trouble with Scott Summers. He makes you crazy.
*****