Logan shouldered his pack with a grunt and took off down the hall, sniffing once, casting a hard glance at the uniforms encased in their Lucite display cases off to the right before turning for the elevator. He wished to hell and back he had a cigar. Once upstairs, he took the corridor that would lead him in a roundabout way to the garage.

The school was dark, quiet. You runnin' again? Rogue's voice floated to him, from so long ago.

He tromped over the wood flooring, not particularly caring if someone heard him. People were still up and about at this hour, but no one would bother him. He paused on the threshold of the garage, not looking back but reflective. He'd never stayed in one place so long. He'd almost got to calling this one 'home.' Then he hitched his pack up and took a key from the rack beside the door, knowing which one it was without even looking. He'd 'lifted' it enough times, after all.

Outside, the night air was crisp without being cold and his hair was ruffled in the breeze. He gunned it, pausing by the grounds' main gate long enough to get it open and shut behind him and took off down the road, turbo-charging it through the curves that separated the school from the nearest habitations.

This time he got as far as the pipe-and-tobacco shop at the mini-mall area five miles down the road, which was a significant improvement compared to barely getting his pack out the door so far as he was concerned. He picked up a box of imports being marketed as "genuine American cigars" and bought them before it got too unbearable. He topped off the gas tank and cast a hard look around him, unable to shake the sensation of eyes on him, prickling between his shoulder blades. When he nudged back the kickstand, he favored the road ahead with a longing stare, then sighed.

He couldn't do it.

The drive back seemed to take less time returning to the mansion than it had to leave it. During the ride, Logan tried to figure what was tying him to the place. He hadn't been able to leave the grounds since he'd brought Scott back. He couldn't figure it, except maybe that Jean wasn't ready to let him go yet. Which was just crazy talking, because Jeannie was dead. Never mind that she'd asked him to find Scott, put the damned glasses in his hand, even.

He stowed the bike in its bay and shouldered his duffel in a quick, angry movement. "Fine," he spoke to the empty garage. "You got your way, I'm back." He thought of Scott, still lying in the medical bay downstairs, and shook his head. It was one thing to visit while the man was still unconscious and not yet out of the woods, but Scott wouldn't want to be seeing him now. He'd barely gotten out of there earlier as Scott had woken, the elevated heartbeat and quickening breath giving him a couple seconds' notice that he was resurfacing.

Scott had left because he'd 'liked it?' Fine, he could stay away. But, it seemed, not leave entirely.

Logan's lip curled and he returned to his room again, flinging the pack into a corner, saying 'screw it' to the urge to pull his clothes out and stuff them away in drawers yet again. What would be the point? He'd just be trying to leave again tomorrow. Eventually he'd sneak up on whatever was keeping him here and catch it at the right time of day, maybe, to be able to leave at last.

It was an ache, an itch he couldn't scratch, a weight knocking him down and pressing him into one place but weirdest of all, he didn't feel trapped. It was compulsion, but oddly enough, one he was inclined to obey.

He knew he'd be running if he left again. Least he could do, he figured, was stay until the will was read out. Maybe the old man had left him something after all - though if it was a position at the school he sure as hell hoped not.

With a groan half-satisfied, half-exasperated, he peeled his boots off and sank onto the edge of the bed. Logan flicked his eyes at the door, thought again with a hint of incredulity that somehow he'd ended up in a school, and got up with a mental grumble to slide the lock home. School full of teenagers, and if Rogue would walk in on a nightmare there was a good chance she'd walk in if she heard one thing and thought it was the other.

In the soft darkness behind a locked door he let himself dare think it. There had been a moment all nocturnal with a face between his legs, high cheekbones planed in shadow, lips parted wide. Logan unzipped his jeans as he climbed onto the bed and sprawled out, tugging the split denim open just enough to get a hand on his cock and tease it back and forth. He started out slow, panting quiet enough to barely disturb the thick of the room's silence, making a circle with thumb and forefinger and working it from tip down.

He gasped, remembering the suddenness of moist lips on him, the velvet clench of tongue and throat muscle sliding down around his cock. To jolt physical memory he spat on his palm, worked himself over in his fist, and made believe the slickness warming up with the slip-slide over his twitching cock was something -- someone -- else. Logan groaned, getting into it as he broke that last barrier of denial and thrust into a warm, willing mouth.

This time he wouldn't let it just happen. He cradled the strong-boned face in both hands as the obscene stretch of those lips brought him off. He gripped short dark hair in his fingers and held his lover down, pumped his hips as the rush rolled over him.

"God," he said, groaning and moving faster. "God, that's so good, yeah, just like that...I could fuck your mouth all night."

Lips and tongue were on him, around him, hungry and taking him down. Can't rape the willing. Logan thrust and his eyes fluttered and he concentrated on that shadow-veiled sight, all swollen lips and hollowed-out cheeks and the soft, wet sound of suckling and orgasm reared up inside him sudden and bright, sex and Scott and anger and the silk-wet stroke on his dick all around driving him nuts. The pads of his fingers rubbed over skin that rasped under his hands and Logan unloaded a few days' worth of sexual frustration onto the tongue that lapped at him, greedy even as he came. This time he'd do better than a hand job in return.

Logan's eyes snapped open and he glared at the ceiling. "Fuck." One thing to be grateful for, if that was really the word, in this whole muddle was Xavier's passing - 'cause he was damned sure the man wouldn't condone what he'd see as screwing around with the golden boy's head. He laid inert on the bed for a long moment, wiping his hand off on his jeans, not willing to do anything more strenuous than lie there and certainly not ready to face the likely mess he'd made of his jeans and maybe the bedspread too, considering how satisfying that last spurt had been.

Damn it, since he'd managed to get off the grounds anyhow, he sure as hell should have picked up a cold six-pack.