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Changing Seasons (After the Fall, 6/8)

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  • Mo
    Changing Seasons (After the Fall, 6/8) So, there I was in Peru. Peru, Vermont, that is. Well, actually I was staying at Charles’s house in Peru, but at the
    Message 1 of 1 , Jan 14, 2004
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      Changing Seasons (After the Fall, 6/8)

      So, there I was in Peru. Peru, Vermont, that is.
      Well, actually I was staying at Charles�s house in
      Peru, but at the moment I was about 30 miles away, in
      Bellows Falls. Fellow's Balls, the locals call the
      town. I was sitting in Dr. Leeds�s office. Yes, the
      same Vermont house Charles had wanted me to go to a
      few months ago and the same Dr. Leeds Charles had
      tried to convince me to consult. I sat down, offered
      greetings from Charles, and then used up the whole
      fifty-minute hour. Surprised that the time had gone
      by so quickly and with much more to cover, I made an
      appointment to return the next week.

      No, I wasn�t having my head shrunk. I was
      interviewing Dr. Leeds, finding out whether he could
      be a help to us with the MPP Project. Our mutant
      refugees were likely to need psychiatric support, both
      for dealing with after-effects of trauma and for
      easily assimilating into their new lives and
      identities. Dr. Leeds wasn�t a mutant, but Charles
      assured us he was well acquainted with mutant
      physiology and psychology and utterly trustworthy.
      And he was certainly conveniently located.

      Ethan Allen Leeds was a true Vermonter, meaning his
      family had been there for more than three generations.
      In his case he traced his family's residence in
      Vermont back to his namesake�s time. But he had gone
      to medical school at Columbia and done his residency
      at Bellevue, before returning to set up a practice at
      home. While at Bellevue, Dr. Leeds treated a young
      woman who had been committed for observation after
      multiple suicide attempts. Her symptoms were varied
      and severe, including hearing voices in her head and a
      strong conviction that she could move physical objects
      with her mind. When the woman�s roommate showed up
      and agreed that the patient could do what she said,
      Dr. Leeds thought he had a case of folie � deux on his
      hands. He�d tried to explain that to his patient, as
      she sat in his office after her roommate left. �Is
      there such thing as �folie � trois�?� she�d asked, as
      the dictionary in Dr. Leeds�s office flew off of the
      shelf and landed on his desk, pages flying by until it
      was opened to �F�. So, when it turned out his patient
      was a mutant, not a schizophrenic, Dr. Leeds had been
      determined to learn everything he could to help her.
      That's how he met and befriended Charles.

      Hank had originally planned on coming to Peru with me
      to meet with the doctor, but as Medical Director he
      was being kept very busy lately. A respiratory
      infection had close to half the school down. Recent
      rumors of bio-terrorism directed at mutants had all of
      us worried that it might be more than just a
      run-of-the-mill virus. Once it had been cultured and
      Hank had determined it was just this year�s flu
      strain, we all breathed a sigh of relief and made
      plans to offer flu vaccine next year. But Hank had to
      stay and tend to the ill, so I made the Vermont trip
      without him.

      Interviewing Dr. Leeds wasn�t the main focus of the
      trip, just a side issue. I was charged with doing all
      that was necessary to prepare the house in Peru for
      its new role. And doing it in a way that wouldn�t be
      noticed by the neighbors.

      Not that the neighbors were all that close. Driving
      directions to the Peru house had that familiar Vermont
      refrain in the middle: this is the point where the
      paved road ends. The house itself was on 38 acres of
      land, in the middle of dense woodland. It was far
      enough from the nearest neighbors that we never
      worried that the noise of a bunch of mutant kids on a
      nature field trip or ski excursion would bother
      anyone. Still, what we were concerned about for its
      future use was secrecy, not just avoiding being a

      The house had been in the Xavier family since
      Charles�s childhood. A huge old farmhouse with
      attached barn, it had been practically falling apart
      when Charles's father had bought it for a song. He
      must have put a fair amount of money into fixing it
      up, but nothing compared to what it was worth now.
      Charles could have made a fortune if he'd wanted to
      sell it. But the kids liked going there and besides,
      he already had a fortune. A portrait of a teenage
      Charles Xavier hung in the hallway between the living
      room and the master bedroom. He smiled back at me
      with a full head of hair, standing on skis. I always
      stopped and looked at it for a while the first day I
      was there, contemplating what he must have been like
      before he�d lost the use of his legs.

      I generally was at the Vermont house a couple of times
      a year, but this was the first time I wasn�t there as
      a chaperone. It was Hank who suggested that we set up
      the Peru place as a safe house for mutant refugees who
      would be in the MPP, while we trained them in all the
      particulars of their new identities. It was a great
      location for that � large, remote, quite
      self-sufficient. Easy to get to from New York,
      Toronto and Montreal, making it convenient for both
      Alpha Flight and the X-Men. And only used by the
      Xavier Institute a couple of times a year. We could
      easily house several MPP participants there for a few
      weeks at a time without interfering with the house�s
      other uses. But we needed to do so without anyone in
      the area knowing, which meant that the refugees
      themselves, their trainers, and all the supplies they
      needed had to be brought in silently and secretly.

      The Blackbird was perfect for that. Our jet doesn�t
      care where the road ends and its stealth features make
      it practically undetectable � by eye, ear, or radar.
      The Peru house had a clearing in the middle of its
      woodland that would be good for landing, too, given
      the jet�s vertical landing capabilities. But getting
      from the clearing to the house itself was an issue.
      Our refugees would be of varied health and physical
      capabilities; their arrival would be at unpredictable
      times. We couldn't count on their ability to trek
      through the woods during a Vermont winter to get from
      the landing spot to the house. After some discussion,
      we�d decided that what we needed was a tunnel, leading
      from under the Blackbird�s woodland clearing to the
      barn. There was a secret room in the barn, a hiding
      place from when this house had been a stop on the
      Underground Railroad. I'd seen the hiding spot and
      shown it to the kids as an onsite visual history
      lesson. It seemed fitting to put the former slaves'
      refuge to work for a whole new crop of refugees.

      Pyotr had been my first choice to help me with the
      tunnel. Between my blasts and his organic steel
      strength, we�d have it dug in no time. That is, we
      would have if he hadn�t come down with the flu, along
      with everyone else. Logan doesn�t have Pyotr�s
      powers, but he�s strong and a tireless worker, so when
      he offered to pinch hit, I agreed gratefully.

      Logan, it turned out, was a better choice than Pyotr
      for this mission, even without Colossus� super
      strength. He not only had the physical capabilities,
      but also knew a lot about design, construction and
      engineering, certainly much more than I did. I took
      out the plans Charles had drawn up for us, and he read
      them in a couple of minutes, nodding in understanding,
      then throwing around terms like "cut and cover " and
      "driven tunnel construction" as we surveyed the site.

      "Guess what?" I said. "I think you should be foreman
      for this operation."

      "Fine," he grunted, walking around the spot where the
      tunnel opening would be.

      "How do you know so much about this stuff, anyway?"

      "I don't know."

      It was hard work, but satisfying as well. We blasted
      and dug all day for over a week. "Resolute, dumb,
      uncomplaining, a man in a world of men." We spoke
      little as we worked, just saying what we needed to get
      the job done. Logan told me what to do and I did it,
      not minding being the one taking orders this time.
      Cutting through the rock with my optic blasts and
      digging with conventional tools, as well.

      In the evenings we talked more. And read. I'd quoted
      him that "resolute, dumb, uncomplaining" line and he'd
      liked it, wanting to hear the whole poem. Then when
      he'd heard that he wanted more like it, so I read him
      a few by Robert Service. And others, too. Sandburg,
      Jarrell. He nodded in grim recognition at Jarrell�s
      �Death of a Ball Turret Gunner�, saying, �With a hose.
      Yeah, that�s how we did it.� Gave me shivers. But I
      didn�t ask, just read more poetry. Poems about war or
      work or strife. Nothing flowery, nothing romantic.

      "You should take my poetry class," I said. "It's all
      girls - it would be a nice change not being the only
      man in the room." He grunted in answer, scoffing at
      the idea of him in class. But he asked me to read
      another poem a few minutes later.

      I chose "Chicago" and he was enchanted with it, had me
      read it twice. "Yeah, that's the Chicago I remember,"
      he said.

      "You never heard the poem before?"

      "I don't think I ever did. Is it a famous one?"

      "Oh yes."

      "He sure paints a picture, doesn't he? When was it

      I looked at the book. "1916," I said, and we looked
      at each other. "Does that mean..."

      "I don't know." He didn't say any thing else.

      The days were exhausting but satisfying, the evenings
      relaxed and companionable, but the nights were hard on
      us both, for different reasons. I was uncomfortably
      aware of a strong and growing attraction to Logan and
      more and more worried that, given his heightened
      senses, he'd become aware of how I felt about him.
      Oh, he had shown calm acceptance of the knowledge that
      he had a gay colleague, field leader, and temporary
      housemate. Still, I thought it likely that easy
      comfort would vanish if he had any idea what my
      private thoughts and dreams were like. I did what I
      could to ensure he wouldn�t find out. The conscious
      thoughts I just worked on banishing, using that famous
      Cyclops control to get my mind on other things. "That
      way madness lies; let me shun that" I told myself
      again and again.

      My unconscious mind wasn't listening, though, and he
      invaded my dreams with his strong, hairy body, his
      powerful arms and hands, that killer smile. Every
      night I'd tell myself it wasn't going to happen this
      time, read diverting material before bed, and then
      find myself in the arms of Morpheus - and Logan, in
      spite of all my good intentions. On my knees in front
      of him, my mouth moving up and down on a rock-hard
      cock, or underneath him, listening to him groan and
      roar as I felt him pushing deep inside me. I woke up
      each time excited, disturbed, and confused about what
      to do about my feelings.

      I wasn't the only one dreaming. If my dreams were
      exciting but troubling, Logan's were pure hell. The
      first night I didn't even realize it was a dream. I
      woke up, hearing sounds of struggle in the next room
      and then a cry like a wounded beast. I ran to the
      door and it was locked. "Logan!" I yelled, rattling
      it. When there was no answer, I blasted the lock off
      and went in.

      He was sitting up in bed and didn't look happy to see
      me. "Go away," he said.

      "Are you okay?" He grunted something and gestured to
      the door. "A nightmare?" I asked, belatedly realizing
      I'd gone into superhero mode unnecessarily.

      He nodded, and told me to leave again. But as I
      walked out, I heard him saying, "Thanks, Summers."

      I went to him almost every night, although I tried to
      be more respectful of his privacy after that first
      time. Often I didn't go into the room at all, just
      knocked on the door and called to him until he
      answered, verifying that I'd woken him up. He always
      thanked me for stopping the nightmare. He never
      wanted me to stay. I suggested a couple times that he
      get up and read, or we could play cards or something,
      but he'd just wave a large, strong hand, shooing me
      back to bed

      Then one night it was different. I woke up to the
      moaning and groaning and knocked on his door, calling
      his name. I heard him yelling, "No!" and then kind of
      a strangled sound followed by an almost inhuman
      sobbing. I went in. Standing by the doorway, I
      called his name, louder and louder, as he thrashed
      around on the bed, his movements jerky and mechanical,
      as if some invisible puppeteer had him on strings.

      Finally, he opened his eyes and sat up. "How long you
      been there?" he asked.

      "A couple of minutes."

      He held up his hands to show the claws were retracted,
      and then gestured to me to come closer, saying, "I'm
      not dangerous. Not now." He turned on the lamp and
      then put both hands to his eyes, rubbing them like he
      was trying to erase what he'd just seen.

      I sat down in the armchair near his bed and looked
      around. He was a mess. The room was a mess. The
      bedclothes were ripped to shreds; there were holes in
      the wall. And there was blood everywhere, lots of it.
      Staining the torn sheets, drying on his chest and
      arms. No visible wounds, but they'd probably been
      there a few minutes ago.

      "Were you trying to hurt yourself?" I asked.

      "Nah. I was just fighting them off," he said, looking
      at his blood all over the bed. "I guess I got in the

      "Dreams can be like that."

      We sat there for a while. I didn't want to leave,
      since he wasn't telling me to, but I was pretty
      uncomfortable. Trying not to look at his body lying
      there on the bed next to me, but looking in spite of
      myself. I hadn't been this close any of the other
      nights and I wondered if he always slept naked, and
      whether I would have found some excuse to come closer
      on other nights if I'd realized that.

      The remnants of the sheet were thrown over him, but
      most of him was clearly visible. He was sweaty,
      presumably from the dream, but now that that was over
      it looked like the glistening sweat of exertion and
      power. I wanted to lick it off of him.

      And then he started shaking uncontrollably, all over
      his body, like some machine was churning inside of him
      and he couldn't turn it off. He tried to hold onto
      the bed with both hands to steady himself, but they
      were shaking, too.

      "Are you okay?" I asked.

      "Shit!" he said. "I hate this." He clenched and
      unclenched his fists, grabbed onto the bed frame,
      seemed to be trying to do anything he could think of
      to make it stop, but nothing was working. "Sometimes
      it just takes me like this, afterwards," he said,
      still trembling uncontrollably.

      �Do you want me to call Dr. Leeds?�


      Well, unlike Charles, I can take no for an answer.
      �How about Hank? Maybe he can prescribe something.�

      He tried to shake his head, but the trembling made it
      go back and forth in a bizarre, almost robotic way,
      his teeth chattering. �No doctors,� he said. �No

      "Is there anything I can do to help you?"

      "Yeah, yeah," he said. "Come over here. Put your
      hands on my shoulders. Hold me still."

      So, I did. I got onto the bed with him, holding him
      by the shoulders, talking to him softly. He seemed to
      relax after a while and the trembling stopped.
      "Thanks," he said.

      "Is there anything else I can do?" I tried to keep
      my mind off what I wanted to do.

      "Yeah..." There was a long pause and I almost asked
      again. But then he said it, "Suck my cock."

      "What?" Had he really said that, or was my strong
      desire making me hear things? I figured I should
      check, just in case he'd really said "Take the clock"
      or something like that and my overactive imagination
      had turned it into something more exciting.

      "You said you like to do it? Right?" I nodded,
      figuring we weren't talking about clocks. "It helps.
      Sex is the only thing that... makes it stop. For a
      while, anyway. Come on, Cyclops. Do me a favor."

      So, I did. He sat on the edge of the bed and I got
      down on my knees, stroking him to hardness, looking at
      his cock. I�d sneaked peeks before but this was the
      first time I was seeing up close. He had curly dark
      hair at the base; the skin on his balls was dark. He
      was circumcised, which surprised me. I figured he'd
      be old enough that it wouldn't have been a common
      practice. His cock was long and hard and seemed very
      thick, with a purplish head that looked like it was
      straining to be sucked. He looked delicious.

      I bent down and started licking him as I stroked,
      savoring the taste and the feeling, one I'd wanted for
      so long. Then I put the whole head in my mouth,
      kissing and sucking, moving down a little farther with
      each stroke until I was taking him all the way in and
      pulling all the way back up. He stroked my hair and
      moaned as I did him. I could smell the sweat and the
      blood and it seemed almost like I could smell his fear
      disappearing and turning to joy and excitement. The
      sounds he was making were driving me crazy, better
      than I could have imagined: moans and sighs and
      seemingly random spoken words of joy and lust, all in
      this almost growling undertone, as he stroked my hair
      and cheeks encouragingly. I cradled his balls with
      one hand while I held the root of his cock with the
      other, bobbing up and down, almost overcome with the
      taste and the feel of him in my mouth, with the sounds
      and smells all around me. When he came he was in up
      to the root and breathing hard.

      He stayed still, catching his breath afterwards,
      smiling ear to ear. "God, that was good," he said,
      after a minute. "You've got a real talent for it."

      "Field missions, English classes and blow jobs. I
      think it's important to have varied skills," I
      replied, and he chuckled.

      He moved over on the bed, sitting with his back to the
      headboard and feet stretched out. He sighed happily
      and patted the space next to him. "Come on," he said.
      "Sit down." I joined him, very aware of my hard cock
      straining against my boxers.

      He was aware, too. "You do like giving head, don't
      you? Turns you on. Well, let me take care of that
      for you," he said, pulling my dick out of the opening
      and starting to stroke me with a loose fist. "Only

      I leaned in to kiss him, but he turned his head away.
      Kept jerking me, though, with a truly wonderful motion
      of his hand. I wasn't even sure what he was doing,
      but it felt great. And then he reached under my shirt
      with his other hand, playing with one of my nipples,
      then the other. He was making me squirm and moan. I
      closed my eyes and just gave myself to the feeling.

      And he kissed me. Not on the mouth, but on the
      shoulder, licking and sucking and biting a little,
      moving into my neck all the while he was rubbing and
      stroking like he knew just what I needed. "I'm going
      to come," I told him.

      "Good," he said, right in my ear, as I shot on his
      hand and his leg.

      "Good," I echoed, head back and coming down from that
      high now. "Very good."

      "You came buckets. Been a long time?"

      "Too long." Neither of us said anything for a while.
      "Maybe we could do that again sometime?" I asked.

      "Yeah, maybe," he replied with a chuckle.

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