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edupunkn00b · 7 months ago

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Meus ex Machina, Chapter 17: Two Steps Forward

Edited public domain image of two hands reaching for each other, lit in deep blue and neon green.

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WC: 3305 - Rated: T - CW: swearing, suggestive, non-graphic nudity, (memories of) non-graphic violence

Logan (and Roman) work obsessively at finding a way to help Remus. Just as Lucas had. And just as Lucas had, they have a breakthrough.

“Re’s really progressing in his control,” Luc murmured, head pillowed on Janus’ belly. His head rose and fell with each breath, a soft marking of time as they wound down for the evening.

Janus hummed and carded an ungloved hand through his hair. “He seemed so happy at dinner after your excursion.”

“When we first got out there, he… he started to get overwhelmed. Ro did, too, at first. The…” His brow furrowed, then smoothed under Janus’ touch. “Old Boston is so close to the camps… That’s a lot of voices, a lot of pain.” Luc shifted, smiling up at him through messy curls. “Your lessons carried Ro through it.”

The fact he could help at least one of the boys eased the tightness in Janus’ chest. “That helps, love. Thank you.” His decade-old promise to keep them both safe danced through his mind and fueled every attempt to get Re’s powers under control. “So… how did you get through to Re?”

His gaze shifted, suddenly fascinated by the crooked edge of a thumbnail.

“Luc?” Janus prompted, hand stilling in his hair.

“I took just a little of the hurt,” he said, finally looking up. “Just enough to let him concentrate.”

“Luc! You promised you’d focus on techniques to help him stay calm, not just doping him!” Janus sat up and Luc pushed up onto his elbow, bringing them closer to eye level. “He needs to learn how to filter the perceptions coming in, not just… not care about what’s out there.”

“It wasn’t a full block! I swear, ma cheri,” Luc insisted, reaching for his arm. “We can’t just yank off the training wheels and let him teeter off a cliff.”

“I’m not suggesting—”

“‘Trust me, dammit,’” Luc whispered with a little smile. His grin grew when Janus sighed, shaking his head with a laugh.

“Now that’s just unfair,” he murmured, pushing back the hair from his eyes. “You can’t use my own words against me.”

“I can’t?” Luc chuckled, sliding closer and nuzzling against his collarbone. “Who’s gonna stop me?”

Twenty-three weeks.

One hundred and sixty-one days.

One hundred and sixty-one days since he’d first looped a reverse-field esper coil over The Prince’s shoulders.

“Damn,” he’d grunted under the weight but still laughed. “If this doesn’t work, Iron Man, I’m gonna make you bench this thing.” Logan had spent a lot of time in the fitness room after that first failed test.

One hundred and sixty-one days of breaking the vise on V’s printer, of burning his fingertips on overheated solder. One hundred and sixty-one days of The Prince’s downcast eyes, of flicking off a too-much or two-little device.

One hundred and sixty-one nights of whispering together outside The Muse’s door about that day’s attempts. And about the book The Muse was reading, and the Springsgate bridge the team had saved from collapsing.

About the dreams they’d each had the night before.

It had taken three weeks, but they’d finally convinced V to install a vent in the hall at Logan’s level to make it easier for the Muse to hear him. After watching Logan stretch and strain to get closer to the vent he’d installed at eye level—at a standing Mad Lad’s eye level—he’d finally obliged. The work in the hall was quick, but Silvertongue had needed to dig up some ancient set of manual tools so V could install the bolts on The Muse’s side.

“Wait, not that drill—”

“Dammit!” The power drill sparked and sizzled in his grip, and the acrid scent of burnt insulation filled the air. “Mac, you got the hand drill—” Logan had chuckled and thunked into his outstretched palm.

“Right here, V.”

One night, he and The Muse had tried to sit together on either side of the open door for an actual face-to-face conversation. But the temptation had been too great and all it had taken was one tiny touch for fire to spread between them.

At least it had been brief enough not to have woken The Prince or Silvertongue.

One hundred and sixty two days later, after everyone had gone to sleep, Logan tapped at The Muse’s door, trial #398 freshly polished and nestled in his lap.

“You said Ro helped you?”

The Muse sat on the floor, two arms’ length distance from the open door. He fidgeted with his sleeves, twisting them together in his lap, and chewed the edge of his mustache. He watched with wide eyes as Logan maneuvered to the floor—less than gracefully—and turned to retrieve the thick metal ring from his wheelchair.

Logan nodded, holding up the device. It was heavy, though perhaps not as heavy as it looked. It was about three inches wide and a good inch thick, a large durasteel bangle custom fit to wrap around The Muse’s wrist.

Well, designed to fit tightly around his brother’s wrist. Eyeing The Muse’s far bonier wrist now, Logan nodded, certain it would fit him comfortably.

“And Ro’s not awake, is he?”

“No,” He shook his head, smile tight. That first time they’d touched, it had taken The Prince several days to completely recover from the overflow of thought and perception from The Muse’s unshielded mind. “He’s asleep. And if anything goes wrong, we’ll flip the shield back up. He might have a brief nightmare. Nothing worse than that.”

Nothing worse than starting all over with their tests. Again.

Logan shook away his pessimism and met The Muse’s eyes before setting down the coil on the floor between them. “Are you ready?”

The Muse’s fingers twitched as he reached for the device. Completely powered down, it lay heavy and quiet on the floor, with none of the staticy buzz it usually emitted. His hand hovered above it, just shy of touching it.

“But if you turn it on in here, won’t my shield break your—your”

“Esper coil,”

“Yeah.” The Muse traced a spray of wires woven along the edges. Patton had helped with the braiding and Logan briefly wondered if he recognized his work. The Muse looked up and nodded. “You should see what he does with hair.”

Dragging his eyes away from The Muse’s soft green ones, Logan nodded and pointed to the power switch. “You will need to activate the coil immediately after I shut down your field. I would, but—” Right hand outstretched, he wiggled his fingers at the same time he waved his left stump.

The Muse chuckled. “Okay, I can do that. And you’re sure it’ll work?”

“I’m positive the coil will protect you. I would never knowingly put you in any jeopardy. We’ve tested it extensively and—”

“No.” The Muse touched his sleeve. “I mean are you sure it will work to protect you from me? That time the power went out, and when we touched… I…” He hung his head. “I hurt you.”

“We hurt each other,” he reminded him. “I will be fine,” Logan promised, before The Muse could argue—again—about who hurt who more. “If need be, I’ll reactivate the field.” He smiled, his hand close enough to the Muse’s to feel that glorious buzzy heat radiate off his skin.

“Okay,” he nodded. “I trust you, Logan. This switch here?”

“Precisely.” Eyes fixed on The Muse, Logan climbed up the perch next to the door, then felt along the wall for the shield’s control panel. The cover squeaked when he flipped it up. He nodded one more time and pressed his palm against the shield’s controls.

The numbers counted down and The Muse’s mustache quivered, and he shook out the hand hovering over the coil’s switch. The panel flicked to ‘0’ and a strangled sound spilled from his lips, a matching wail filling Logan’s mind.

Abruptly, the pain was gone and the Muse looked up, blinking as he smiled back at him. The cry in Logan’s mind shifted, deepening into a soft, comforting hum. It reminded Logan of a lullabye.

“It worked,” the Muse whispered. He inched closer, still gripping the coil. “I… It… It doesn’t hurt,” he said, looking around the room as though he could see through the walls.

Maybe he could.

“I…” He let out a low sigh and his entire face melted into a softer smile, his shoulders dropped, hands loose even as he hugged the coil close to his belly. “I can hear… I can hear y—” The Muse’s eyes flew wide open. “You hurt!”

“What?” Logan scrabbled for the panel, stabbing at the controls. “No, no, no, I’m so sorry, I’ll turn it back on, I’m sorry, I was so sure, I—” It would fry the coil, but all that mattered was stopping the Muse’s pain. Hand trembling, he broke the sequence and had to start from the beginning, hurrying to get the protective field reactivated.

But the Muse was faster.

“No, Logan, I mean you hurt,” he said softer, gently pulling his hand from the controls. When had he gotten so close? The Muse’ hand was warm against his, but it was more than a surface heat. His touch felt… textured. Plush, like a fluffy towel. Or dandelion heads. What insulation looked like.

Logan relaxed and moved closer. The Muse just nodded, still holding his hand, coil now wrapped around his wrist. Scarred and calloused fingers oh-so-gently traced over his own misshapen digits, brushing over the scarred knuckles where his pinky and ring finger had once been.

“I can hear how much you hurt here,” the Muse whispered. “And here,” he added, tapping what was left of his legs, then his arm.

Logan looked away, but the warmth spreading from the Muse’s touch remained. “Phantom limb pain. The clinic said it’s all in my head,” he muttered.

“Of course all our pain is in our heads,” the Muse replied, sliding closer. “So is our joy and our pleasure and our fear and our need.” His hands were so warm. “Our love and our desire.”

This close, Logan was certain he heard the Muse’s words like his own thoughts, though with the coil set this high that shouldn’t be possible.

The Muse grinned as he touched his chin, two gentle fingers turning him so their eyes would meet. “You’re softer now, but I can still hear you. And I think you can hear me.”

Logan shivered, the Muse’s excitement buzzing under his own skin, easing his worry. The movement set off a wave of sharp ache, long-gone calves screaming to be stretched. He stifled a cry. “And… and I’m not hurting you?”

“No,” he said, wincing in time with Logan.

The panel called to him. “No, I am. I can see it. I’m hurting you. I should raise your shield.”

“No, please don’t,” the Muse stroked his hand. “I have an idea.” Pulling back, he sat fully on the floor, legs crossed at the shins in front of him. One hand rested on his thigh and the other he held in offering to Logan. “Close your eyes and take my hand.”

With one more glance at the control panel, Logan slid down to the floor and did as he was asked. Eyes closed, Muse’s hand wrapped around his and he laced their fingers together, with Logan’s pinkie—his pinkie— brushing against a long, jagged scar over the back of Muse’s hand.

“You feel that, don’t you?” Laughter played in his voice. “Now take my other hand,” he whispered.

“But I—” Logan began even as warm, callused fingers enveloped his left hand. Tears pricked his eyes as he flexed fingers he hadn’t felt since the bot attack. “H—how? How are you doing that?”

“Keep your eyes closed,” Muse instructed instead of answering. “And see.”

Eyes still shut, Logan looked down and smiled at his own thin, pale fingers threaded together with Muse’s. The tips of Muse’s fingers were scarred and rough, but his palms were soft and wonderfully warm. Logan squeezed his hand, laughing, then traced a thick knotted scar just above his first knuckle. The bones were crooked beneath his skin, like they’re broken and fused not quite the way they’d been. Muse nodded.

“I punched the cinderblock,” he explained with a dry laugh. “I thought it might be a good distraction, but…” He shook his head and gave him a little shrug when their eyes ‘met.’

Logan stroked the scar, nodding slowly, then brought their shared grip together and compared his hands side-by-side. His own hands weren’t identical, but they never had been. Without the augmentations commonplace for Traditional children of the highest classes, the fingers on Logan’s dominant left hand had always been just a little thicker, a little stronger.

He’d always scarred easily and his skin freckled in the sun. This hand, his hand Muse was showing him was splashed with the same familiar constellation of freckles and moles on the back of it where he’d missed his sunscreen, awkwardly applying it with his non-dominant hand. He’d had the marks since before the final round of ozone replacements back when he was still a child. Know you like the back of my hand…

Muse’s Illusion was… perfect. Incredible, in fact. Logan could ‘see’ his old hand so clearly. But—

“Your mind remembers,” Muse whispered, leaning closer until their foreheads touched, hands clasped between them. “It’s all in there, bouncing around in your head, little memories hiding from your own thoughts.”

Logan floated in the gentle cadence of his words.

“But your mind keeps it all, the memory never really goes away. Nothing does. Nothing dies in your mind. Your mind remembers what your hand looked like, remembers what things felt like. Your mind remembers everything.”

As if on cue, Logan curled around himself, a tearing, burning pain shooting up his left arm and his right hand clenched around Muse’s. The pickerbot’s shadow loomed over them, cold metal pulling him up by the hair and—

“Shhh, it’s okay,” Remus whispered. A mustache bristled against the knuckles of his right hand as warm, chapped lips pressed kisses against his mangled fingers and Logan gradually softened his grip. “See? You’re safe.” When his right hand grew slack, Remus laid it in his own lap. “Rest your hand there,” he instructed, then wrapped both hands around Logan’s trembling left arm.

Palm smoothing down over skin that wasn’t really there, he gripped Logan’s phantom left hand, then firmly massaged the muscles in his shoulder and upper arm, pressing away the pain of ripped ligaments and flesh, the physical evidence of a solid, whole humerus overriding the memory of shattered, grating bone.

His hands moved down Logan’s left arm, pressing soft spirals into his elbow and over the flexors in his forearm, his wrist, each finger. When he was done, Remus lifted Logan’s left hand to his lips and gently kissed each fingertip.

Logan flexed his left hand, twisting his arm first one way and then the other. Remus smiled, watching.

“Better?” he asked and Logan nodded. “Now your legs. May I?”

“I trust you, Remus,” he said, laying back. Remus. When had he started to call him that?

Remus only smiled and a fuzzy brightness filled his mind. Warm sunlight on a hot day, a cool breeze raising goosebumps at the back of his neck, and over his cheeks. His heart thrummed in his chest, syncopated with the beat of Remus’ just under his skin. He relaxed as Remus shifted his body, freely sharing images of how he wanted to move him.

Stretched out on the floor, head pillowed on one of the cushions, he lifted each leg one at a time as Remus massaged away a year’s worth of knots and aches from phantom muscles. Remus slowly worked his way up until his fingers grazed the line of fire half-way up his thigh where the pickerbot had torn him apart. He flinched.

“It’s okay, Logan, see for yourself.”

His words were soft and voiceless, but clear in Logan’s mind. He looked past closed eyes and saw his legs were healthy and whole, lanky muscles relaxed under Remus’ ministrations. The fiery ache was gone, replaced by Remus’ soft, gentle touch.

“Whenever it hurts, whenever you hurt, remember this feeling,” he said, the silent words stitching themselves into his every cell, neurons crackling and popping like those old vids of campfires. Remus helped him sit up then cupped his face between both hands. “You’re safe now, Logan.”

Remus’ words melted into his skin with the heat of his touch and Logan nodded. “I know.”

He leaned against the door and Remus curled close, tucking himself under his stump of an arm. Slowly, Logan reached up and brushed back a bit of Remus’ hair where it had fallen into his eyes. Warmth spread through his chest, a low rumbly hum. He wasn’t sure if it had started in Remus and spread to him. Or the other way around.

Just as slowly, Remus wrapped one arm around his belly, molding himself to Logan’s side. “Is this okay?”

Logan couldn’t tell if he’d asked out loud. He nodded, cheek rubbing against the top of Remus’ head. “More than okay,” he said with his mouth. Don’t let go, he said with his heart.

And Remus heard both. “I won’t,” he promised.

They stayed like that until their eyelids grew heavy and Logan’s hand stuttered and fell against Remus’ shoulder.

“It’s late and you’re drifting off,” he murmured, shifting so he could look into his eyes. Remus blinked slowly, concern mixed with a happy daze. “It’s probably safer for you to sleep in your room, just in case…” He jiggled the coil on his wrist, its circuitry’s buzz reassuring. The key to so much.

But Remus was right. Logan nodded and he tried to sit up, a vision of clambering up and into his chair pulling him further from sleepiness.

“I can help.�� Remus moved to a crouch, arms open. “We’ll work together,” he grinned, understanding both Logan’s need and hesitation without him having to speak it. He could get used to that. “Teamwork and all that, right?”

“Right.” Conjugations from an ancient Latin textbook, one of those old screened ones you could only read in the library, popped into his groggy brain as Remus lifted him up so he could reach the door controls. “Quorum par, tuum par, meus par…” [ ‘Our partner, your partner, my partner’ ]

Remus chuckled and settled him into his chair after the door slid open. “‘Meus par?’ Does that mean what I think it means?”

“Ah… Ah w—well—” Logan’s cheeks burned, the many meanings of the words ‘my partner’ flowing freely from Remus’ mind. “Th—that particular meaning might be more precisely translated as ‘socius meus.’”

Remus knelt next to Logan’s chair, keeping himself at eye level, if not just a little below. He then took Logan’s hand and held it to his own heart, the steady, rapid thrumming tickling them both.

“Or you could just call me ‘meus.’” Remus stared back at him, naked hope painting his features, a galaxy of emotions pouring from his mind. It left Logan dizzy and overwhelmed, this heady mix of joy and fear and… something soft he didn’t want to try to find words for. But did they really need words? Did they need words for what battered at the inside of his rib cage, fighting to be heard?

“Meus, then,” he whispered and Remus’ face bloomed in a smile. “Good night, Meus,” he said again.

“Good night, Logan.” He pressed a kiss against Logan’s knuckles and drew back into his room and let the door close.

Logan sat outside Remus’ room for a long time before slowly rolling down to the elevator. He called it and the doors slid open. He half-expected V to be waiting for him inside. But the elevator was empty.

After a minute or two, the elevator doors closed with him still sitting in the hall. The car remained where it was. Logan turned and rolled back to Remus’ door.

Remus was there, watching through the window.

“I don’t want to leave,” he said, hand trembling as he reached for the door panel. Remus nodded and leapt through the door as it slid open.

He crouched in front of his chair, both arms wrapped tight around Logan’s middle. “Then stay.”