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Three of Cups	By : cathayshu Category: X-men Comics > Threesomes/Moresomes Views: 1634 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own X-Men, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story

Chapter List
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Things were different with the Room when he made his way back. It was clear how hopeful Wagner was about the visit; instead of the usual vague gray that was the Waiting Room's default, a path was waiting for him. He followed it and terrain formed with his steps and the scent of pine and dirt filled his nose as tall, tall conifers coalesced in dark green copses around him.

He hadn't seen anything like it since going to Avalon. The circumstances of that mission made it impossible for him to properly appreciate such scenery; the air was so clean and clear, with a soft breeze that rustled the foliage around him.

He walked on until sunlight streamed through a break in the canopy and highlighted a lone cabin in a clearing. The cabin possessed an ineffable impression of having age and realness.

He couldn't walk all the way. It frightened him too much, the welling doubt in himself on whether or not this was a good idea. So he bamfed to the door, and knocked after only a few seconds of hesitation.

“Well, hey,” Logan drawled once he opened the door. “Here you are.”

“Hello!” Wagner called out.

Darkholme didn't know how they managed to keep him from bolting. As it was, he found himself getting corralled onto the sofa, Logan pressed a beer into his hand, and Wagner bounded off, muttering out loud about needing a particular cake stand from the kitchen area. Darkholme glanced at Logan, confused.

“Presentation is very important with him,” Logan drolly commented. “You'll see.”

After some muffled crashing sounds from a cupboard, Wagner was back. He placed a covered cake stand on the coffee table. It was pretty, Darkholme supposed. He didn't see why it would matter.

“Do you have a preference at all?” Wagner brightly asked.

“Preference?” Darkholme blankly repeated.

Logan made an amused chortle.

“I didn’t want to start without asking. So, do you have a preference?” Wagner repeated.

“I don't know,” Darkholme shrugged.

Food wasn't food anymore after Apocalypse. It was fuel. He remembered a hellish time wherein he and the X-men pretty much subsisted on Spam and Kool-aid for a number of weeks. It was just one more thing that kept Erik up at night; provisions for his people. When Darkholme wasn't spying or assassinating, he was out scrounging for food for the team, hoping each time that each abandoned convenience store, fast food joint, supermarket or restaurant he found still had something left, that the other looters doing the same didn't manage to take it all from the cellars, the back rooms, the feezers. You took what you got.

“Then it will all be a surprise,” Wagner rubbed his hands together, closing his eyes while wishing.

He paused showily, before lifting the cover off the cake stand, to reveal a perfectly manifested platonic ideal of Black Forest Cake.

“...Oh,” Darkholme's eyebrows raised, suddenly overcome with how much more delectable this cake seemed in comparison to his pale memory.

“Isn't it?” Wagner's tail wagged. “It's just the best surprise every time because you don't see it forming under the cover!”

“It looks good,” Darkholme said.

“It's gonna taste better than it looks,” Logan smiled. “Just don't ask for fruitcake, ever. Not even he can make that stuff edible.”

“What do you mean?” Darkholme wondered. “Fruitcake is still cake. Isn't it?”

“You were under the impression that American fruitcake is a food item?” Wagner gasped. “You poor, unfortunate soul.”

“Fruitcakes are passive aggressive hate gifts,” Logan declared. “Or biodegradable doorstops. But mostly, they are projectiles.”

Wagner nodded, but Darkholme's eyes narrowed with suspicion.

“You two. Are bullshitting me,” Darkholme muttered.

“No, we aren't!” Wagner exclaimed.

“I know the signs of bullshitting. And you two are totally bullshitting,” Darkholme crossed his arms.

“Naw. It's a real thing. There's the Great Fruitcake Toss in Colorado. And it is awesome,” Logan's tone indicated that there could be no other conclusion.

“Catapults!” Wagner made a delighted whisper.

“Catapults,” Logan agreed. “And pneumatic cannons. They put a stop to fuel-powered cannons for the contest entries a couple years ago. Somebody's roof got hit.”

“...But. Why?” Darkholme's brows crinkled.

“Just to see who can shoot or throw the cakes the farthest, of course,” Logan replied. “Not like anybody's going to eat them.”

Darkholme suspected that it would be pointless to ask why people of their world made ostensibly inedible “cake” in the first place, so he didn't bother asking.

“Well,” Logan got up after taking a drink from his own beer. “Now's the time for steak.”

Darkholme looked at Wagner in question as Logan walked out the cabin's back door.

“Logan insists on the pleasure of grilling instead of manifesting. He manifests the raw meat, but that's the end of it,” Wagner explained.

“We're having steak?”

Darkholme was realizing all sorts of forgotten appetites that day. The tip of his tail started wagging and Wagner's tail echoed it unconsciously.

“We are,” Wagner nodded. “Want to go outside while we wait?”

There wasn't much else to see in the cabin, it was so perfectly snug and simple. Darkholme nodded, finishing his beer.

“What is this place?” he asked as they stepped outside.

“Somewhere in the Canadian Rockies, I think,” Wagner started walking and Darkholme followed him towards the shore of a lake. “Logan's pretty good with landscapes when he puts his mind to it.”

Wagner wriggled his toes in the shore's sand, before picking up a stone to skip on the water.

“Who taught you fencing?” Wagner asked.

“Mom,” Darkholme replied simply.

He wondered at the rapid figure eight Wagner's tail traced in the air as he selected his own stone for skipping. He pitched it fine and it skipped five times.

“Who is that, who is your Mom?”

“Who else can it be? Mom. Raven Darkholme, codenamed Mystique in my world. Why, who taught you?”

“...A circus's sword swallower.”

“I was not expecting that,” Darkholme's eyebrows quirked.

“The whole sword swallowing act catches the most attention, but he did know the practicals,” Wagner grinned. “I was raised in a circus. It's something that just had to happen.”

“Raised in a circus,” Darkholme echoed, fascinated. “So you got to travel all the time.”

Wagner nodded, picking up another stone to skip.

“You didn't and you had your mother...” Wagner trailed off.

“She kept me in an attic.”

That something as grim as the older fairytales happened to Darkholme and yet he was so casual about it struck Wagner as strange. Some of that must have showed in his expression because Darkholme shrugged, a little defensively.

“I was allowed downstairs at night, after she closed the curtains. We had to be careful, that was all.”

Those were the best times; when she returned from some long job or another. She'd assumed another form to pose as the owner of the house, of course. A nondescript business man, the sort that one could easily believe had to travel for business and after that, easily forgotten. He'd wait five minutes after she closed the door behind her, giving her time to assume her real face. He'd run down the stairs and there she would be, with warm take out, the most recent newspapers, new books, and ready to teach him, ready to spar.

“...Did your mother work in the circus with you?” Darkholme finally asked.

“My mother was not so maternal in temperament as yours,” Wagner cryptically replied.

He began walking back before Darkholme could ask more questions. There was something sorrowful about it and it made Darkholme terribly curious, though he was wise enough not to pry. Yet.

“Hey, you two,” Logan greeted them. “Good timing.”

He put the steaks on plates, while Wagner went inside to set the table. Being alone with Logan all of a sudden struck Darkholme into stillness.

“I'm glad you decided to show up,” Logan mentioned. “Didn't get to say that earlier.”

“I'm glad. Too.”

Logan smiled, offering Darkholme one plate to take and they entered the cabin.

“Now that's a spread,” Logan muttered upon seeing Wagner's finished table.

Wagner just grinned. He'd wished up everything else to go with the steak; Rogue's mashed potato recipe (with the requisite three whole sticks of butter) and her own special Southern gravy and bread rolls to go with it. The cake was sitting at the end of the table in the place of honor.

They took seats, Logan served, and then it was silence as they took the first bites.

Darkholme couldn't help an involuntary sound of pleasure from the first taste of steak. He'd entirely forgotten how good meat could be that wasn't scavenged jerky or Spam.

“Slow down,” Logan smiled. “Enjoy it.”

Darkholme could only nod and then he tried the mashed potatoes. That resulted in more surprised pleasure noises that made Wagner snicker with glee over the affect.

“I think we'll need a fainting couch for the cake!”

“Will not,” Darkholme snapped.

“Too late,” Logan grinned, gesturing behind him.

Darkholme looked over his shoulder and saw an overwrought Victorian fainting couch behind him, all brocaded puffery and standing out much too grandly in the rustic setting of the cabin. Wagner was completely unaffected by the glare Darkholme sent him and Logan was shaking his head in amusement at the impudence.

“If you're not taking that, I will,” Logan put in. “Especially after these potatoes.”

“Oh! Then I'll need to make it shorter, so it'll fit you. I made it for him, you see.”

Darkholme glanced with some alarm over at Logan. To his surprise Logan just snorted at Wagner's jab and took another bite of steak without any sign of taking real offense. Weapon X of his world made it known early and often that anybody looking at him funny, let alone saying anything insulting to his face was getting sliced into ribbons.

“Point,” Logan replied after chewing and swallowing. “Hey, Kurt?”

“Mmm?” Wagner was in the middle of taking a drink.

“Groove thang,” Logan deadpanned.

Wagner managed to spit his drink back into his cup before coughing and gasping for breath between laughs.

“I win,” Logan announced.

“What just happened?” Darkholme finally interjected.

“Logan cheating, that's what happened,” Wagner managed to say, wiping at his mouth.

“You're not still sore about the tickling, are you? Made you laugh,” Logan was unrepentant.

Wagner shrugged, conceding on that point. Logan wasn't satisfied with that nonanswer.

“Got another one.”

“One's good enough-”

“Fo'shizzle,” Logan deadpanned again, effectively destroying all of Wagner's efforts to regain a straight face.

“What's a fo'shizzle?” Darkholme asked, perplexed.

That just made Wagner laugh even harder, which made Logan chuckle because he was getting so carried away.

“Want to make a guess?” Logan offered.

“...Not really,” Darkholme hedged.

“Come on. Make a guess.”

“It sounds like a fish. Inedible species of fish.”

“Huh,” Logan seriously considered the answer.

“That's a good guess!” Wagner said after finally collecting himself.

“Sure. Fish. Why not?”

“But what is it, really?”

“Slang-nonsense-thing from some rap song,” Logan shrugged. “All I know is that if I pick 'em right, I can make him laugh. And I win.”

“But doesn't he laugh all the time anyway? Doesn't that mean you are always winning?”

Logan's eyebrows raised and he and Wagner looked at each other, having never considered it in that way before.

“Hmm,” Logan concluded.

“You may very well be right,” Wagner wished up a new drink for himself. “We don't think too much on why we do the things we do. Just that it's fun to do in the end.”

“Hey. I like winning,” Logan smirked.

Wagner just sighed in an overly dramatic fashion in response.

“At the least it is a harmless liking,” Wagner resumed eating. “Not like some of your other quirks.”

“I do not have quirks,” Logan muttered.

“Yes, you most definitely do.”

“Nope. What I have are neuroses stemming from lab experimentation,” Logan's mouth was wry.

“Futile, futile denial,” Wagner wagged his finger.

“Hmph.”

“He is very particular about breakfast condiments,” Wagner said in conspiratorial tone.

“That’s a quirk?” Darkholme tilted his head.

Wagner was cackling into his hand at the memory.

“One day, there was a pancake breakfast at the Mansion. Somebody made the disastrous decision to get artificial maple syrup, put it on table and Logan saw it. The result was rage and property damage.”

“That did not happen like that,” Logan objected.

“Yes, it did, yes it DID!” Wagner crowed. “It offended you to your core as a Canadian! Everybody else was agog, aghast, and downright confounded by your vehemence on the subject! The authenticity of maple syrup is a matter of great importance!”

“It is!” Logan finally burst out. “It really is, you don’t even know what kind of crap is in that fake stuff and nobody should ruin perfectly good pancakes with it.”

“Which is why you threw the bottle hard enough to embed it into the drywall, to make your point unmistakable,” Wagner nodded sagely.

“He did that?” Darkholme’s eyebrows raised. “Over syrup?”

“It’s his moral right as a Canadian.”

“…”

“Besides watching hockey for as long as he wants, when he wants, of course,” amended Wagner.

“That's insane,” Darkholme concluded, which made Logan laugh.

The rest of the dinner stayed in that manner that Darkholme was starting to see was just normal for Wagner and Logan; bouts of bantering in between meandering conversations about the most random topics. The conversation wrapped warmly around Darkholme, coaxingly, and eventually he was smiling, finding whatever sarcastic remarks he had to say merrily riffed upon by Wagner or Logan, weaving the talk forward. The only pause was from Wagner's anticipatory watching after serving the cake. Darkholme glanced at Logan and seeing the same anticipation and curious interest gave him the oddest moment of stage fright.

“You gonna eat that or what?” Logan finally asked.

“Maybe he needs help. Logan, help him,” Wagner suggested.

Darkholme blinked when Logan smiled, picked up the fork and offered him a piece, as casual as anything. It simply happened: he blushed under his fur and closed his eyes as he parted his lips and Logan fed the cake to him. His tail coiled tight around a chair leg and the burst of chocolate cherry sweet from the cake amplified the heat of his cheeks. It was delicious. It was nearly too much, all of it. He didn't dare open his eyes until he'd stalled for time by chewing thoroughly before swallowing.

“Good, huh?” Logan asked.

“...Good,” Darkholme repeated. “Very.”

Wagner didn't say anything, just smiling to himself as he ate his own slice.

The good fullness after the meal made Darkholme drowsy. He was too content to make more than the most cursory resistance to the suggestion that he should rest on the fainting couch. He had wanted to properly take his leave so that he would not be an imposition, but Logan stalled him by manifesting a blanket for him and covering him with it. The added warmth quickly lulled him to sleep before he knew quite what happened.

“I like him,” Wagner whispered to Logan after they got into bed. “He's fierce.”

They were in the adjacent bedroom with the door shut, but it seemed right to whisper.

“He is,” Logan replied. “He's starting to like you too, if he hasn't already. You're so easy to like.”

Kurt nuzzled the top of Logan's head from the compliment.

“He's completely taken with you, of course. I don't need your sense of smell to tell.”

Logan made a vague grunt in question.

“He doesn't look at you,” Kurt explained.

“I thought that means a body's disinterested.”

“I mean, he doesn't face you directly. He does just the thing that... well. People without visible pupils do. From the side,” Kurt turned his head a little, to demonstrate. “He didn't want me to see him looking at you for so long. And he does, he really does. He watches you most interestedly. But I know all about that trick!”

“You're also the only other person who can properly read his tail,” Logan's voice was fond. “He smells like fear.”

“Fear?”

“He's a man of principle. Not got any Catholic guilt, but...” Logan shrugged. “He's that much like you.”

Kurt snickered.

“Ah. Then you must let him know that it is fine between us.”

“Heh. And here I was hoping I'd get to watch you do that slinky Casanova thing that you do and bag him without me having to do anything.”

“That's so perverse!” Kurt's whisper was scandalized.

“What? Hitting on your own clone too weird? You might be right.”

“He's not a clone. He's a counterpart. There's a difference.”

“To-may-to. To-mah-to,” Logan replied. “Seriously, though. The only other person I know who can ooze more flirt on command is Remy. And that's his secret mutant power.”

Kurt stifled another snicker.

“You, on the other hand,” Logan pet Kurt's arm. “Your secret mutant power is the fact that you can eat your own weight in popcorn as long as you're staring at a movie screen.”

Logan could see the glow of Kurt's eyes cut short from a blink indicating eye rolling.

“And yours is that despite being quite insufferable at times, I still love you so very much,” Kurt whispered back. “It's unexplainable otherwise.”

“Unexplainable, eh?”

“Baffling, even.”

“Then I'm just the luckiest damn guy, huh?” Logan stifled a yawn.

“Besides Longshot and Domino? Just about,” Kurt closed his eyes.

“Heh.”

They slept.

When Darkholme opened his eyes he saw Logan sitting at the table, nursing a cup of coffee.

“Got over that food coma, I see,” Logan greeted him. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Darkholme sat up.

“Coffee?”

Logan manifested a mug for him. Darkholme nodded and Logan got up from the table to hand it to him. Logan sat on the end of the fainting couch and resumed drinking. Darkholme drank also and watched Logan. He came to the conclusion that Logan was making more coffee as he went; he'd been breathlessly distracted by the motion of Logan's adams apple with each swallow.

“Where is he?” Darkholme asked.

“Probably rehearsing. He's got a new routine he's working on, since he's got all this time here.”

“What's that?”

“He's playing around with these dangling ribbon looking things. I don't know what they're actually called, sorry. There's nobody to partner with him on the traditional trapeze set up, but he can work alone on the ribbon danglies. So he's doing that.”

“That sounds like something to see.”

“It will be,” Logan nodded.

Darkholme finished his coffee and set the mug aside. He had to force himself not to fidget.

“Watching's your thing, isn't it?” Logan murmured.

It was years of training that prevented Darkholme from doing anything more than a measured blink at that statement.

“I am a spy by profession.”

“Yeah,” Logan nodded. “You've been watching us for a while. I know you were there. I smelled you.”

Darkholme swallowed and his tail-spade started to twitch. Flee. Flee, he needed to go- go-

“I'm not mad,” Logan quickly said. “We got to talk about this.”

“Why? You've told me you know, I'll stop, it's finished-”

“I didn't bring this up to get you to stop.”

“What?”

“We don't mind an audience, if that's your style. We don't mind a lot of things, actually, so you don't have to feel weird about it.”

Darkholme blinked, trying to process.

“...It's, um, fortunate that one or both of you seem to have exhibitionist tendencies, but... I'm not- That is, I don't-” Darkholme stuttered.

“You were totally turned on,” Logan said frankly. “I smelled that too.”

He watched Darkholme's face get stricken with misery and shame and bit his tongue at the clumsiness of his words.

“Hey,” Logan reached out to touch Darkholme's shoulder. “I said it's okay.”

That simple, unexpected gesture made Darkholme's skin prickle with awareness and pleasure. It made him upset at himself for such weakness.

“It really isn't,” Darkholme shook his head.

“You're not going to say it, are you?”

“There are lots of things that I'm not saying,” Darkholme snapped.

“Then I will. You got the notion in you to love me, will it or not. I can see how much it hurts.”

“The truth doesn't make anything better, contrary to the saying,” Darkholme closed his eyes.

“It does. Hey. We could-”

“What? Stay friends? I was resigned to that as it is!” Darkholme's fangs showed.

“Be more than that. Together. I'm for it. It's up to you.”

“You had better explain yourself clearer than that,” Darkholme fixed Logan with a warning glare.

“You can be with me. With us.”

“I had not thought that building a harem was one of your particular tastes,” Darkholme's voice grew flat.

“I'm not saying this right,” Logan sighed. “I'm feeling you, you're feeling me and Kurt-”

“It's not fair to him, that's what it is, it's not fair and I won't be party to such-”

“Might be feeling you.”

Darkholme's jaw clicked shut.

“That- That's-”

“It is what it is,” Logan shrugged. “You weirded out?”

“That is an understatement,” Darkholme pinched the bridge of his nose. “You're insane. The both of you.”

“Maybe,” Logan replied, still earnest. “That doesn't make what I said untrue. Look. If you don't believe me on how he feels about all this, then go ask him. And then make your decision. I wouldn't want you to do anything without knowing all the facts.”

Logan got up from the fainting couch and headed towards the door. Management had him on assignment and he needed to go.

“See you,” Logan said.

“Bye,” Darkholme nodded.

After the door shut, Darkholme pulled his knees up, curling his tail about his ankles as he thought. He had to admit to himself that being offered more than he was expecting and the offer being real and made in good faith was more than tempting enough to sway him. He'd no longer be at the outside looking in. But the strangeness of the entire situation made him wary and doubtful.

And wouldn't it all come to naught from jealousy anyways? He traced the tip of one if his fangs with his tongue as he thought. He felt envy about their relationship. It was a very simple and clear feeling. He was also very sure that usurpation did not suit him; he'd gain no happiness from it. He wouldn't lower himself to try such a thing. No, there wasn't that kind of terrible jealousy from him; only the bleakest of yearning; Wagner was first. Wagner was lucky, he was not. It was the way it was and who was he to gainsay it? The world was unfair; that he learned very early. At least... His world was unfair. He had not even entertained the hope that Logan would not share that point of view. But what about Wagner's point of view? He'd have to be jealous, right? Why should he agree to any of it?

The only thing to do, given his background, was to go and gather information. There was no use in speculation when proper intel could be retrieved. Resolved on that, he got up from the fainting couch, wishing it away and going to see if there was anything of a proper breakfast for him. Logan's active presence in the cabin kept the environs fresh and alive; the kitchen area had a refrigerator because it was just that much more real and expected and inside there were fresh eggs, rashers of bacon, and juice. He didn't want to risk actually cooking the eggs and bacon; he cracked a few on a plate, laid out the bacon and wished them into doneness. It worked; the smell of it made his mouth water and he sat at the table, savoring it.

As he ate, he scanned the interior of the cabin again. That door lead to the bedroom. He definitely did not want to intrude there. There was another door and Darkholme tilted his head, considering it. There could not, he decided, be an actual addition to the cabin on the other side of the door; the external dimensions of the cabin did not physically allow it. So this was a pure Room manifestation with high probability that his counterpart was on the other side, doing whatever it was that he was doing. He finished, wished the plate and glass clean, and went for the door.

The door opened into a place of darkness. There was a pinpoint of light some distance away, but other than that, there was no feature but the floor. Darkholme's tail-spade flipped in the air as he took in the darkness. Well, that's convenient. He wouldn't be seen if he prowled properly. He dropped on all fours and went through the door, closing it behind himself with his tail. He went for the light.

Wagner was there. He was alone under the hot glare of a spotlight and Darkholme stopped at a safe distance to watch him. It was mildly disconcerting how at ease Wagner was under the unmerciful light. Darkholme suppressed a nervous twitch of his tail; that light was little different in intensity from a Sentinal's search lights. The strains of a lone violin were playing. Wagner moved, stretching, arching, dancing by himself, for himself, and yet, Darkholme sensed that he'd be just as equally at ease with more witnesses.

There were, as Logan said, two long strips of white cloth dangling side by side in the middle of the spotlight. Wagner took both in his hands and fell backwards, arching slow, and the tension of that fabric held him in mid fall, allowing him to swing his legs up. His knees hooked around the cloth and he began his ascent upwards. He stopped midway and his legs scissored and twisted on the cloth, looping them around himself, still for all purposes, dancing. He let go and the cloth held him suspended in midair and he lifted his arms and tail, striking balletic poses. He rolled and twisted in the air, and the cloth held for him, cradling him, unwinding for him, veiling and unveiling.

His movements were slow and languid. There was just as much importance with the turn of a wrist, the angle of light on his profile, as maintaining the right tension of cloth at his waist or around his thighs. The song reached crescendo and he exhaled, releasing. The cloth unfurled and he was spinning, rolling towards the ground in a big drop. The music stopped just as he did, catching himself at nearly the last of the cloth, and he grinned and pirouetted out from the drape of the cloth, ending in a deep bow.

There was no helping it; Darkholme clapped because there was really no other proper way to respond to seeing something as artful and beautiful as that. Wagner startled, standing up.

“Logan?” he called out.

“No. Me,” Darkholme replied, coming closer to the edge of the spotlight.

“Oh! Hello,” Wagner smiled.

“The light. Could you-?”

Wagner nodded and it dimmed into something like candlelight, low and soft, casting deeper shadows. Darkholme could get into proper conversational distance only after that.

“It's hard to believe that you still need to practice.”

“Thank you,” Wagner's tail wagged.

“Logan was there when I woke up.”

“He would be, wouldn't he?” Wagner had tied the cloth into an impromptu hammock and was sitting in the pocket. “Want one of these for yourself?”

“...Okay.”

Wagner manifested one for him.

“You were saying?” Wagner asked.

“He said the both of you... know. About me.”

“Yes. What are you going to do?”

“I want to know how you can- how can you possibly want-” Darkholme couldn't finish.

“Ah. That. Well,” Wagner paused. “We've loved and lost many times before, Logan and I. It becomes so much that we want love to grow when it happens, instead of cutting it off.”

“It can't really be that simple.”

“But it is. It is.”

“How isn't it cheating?” Darkholme was at a loss.

“Infidelity is a breaking of trust. There is no breaking of trust when it comes to this, seeing as the both of us are in agreement with inviting you. Understand that we've known each other for so long, it was not a hardship to come to that decision.”

Darkholme's mute disbelief made Wagner sigh.

“You must have that same sort of love as mine. It goes deeply. May I guess in what way, though?”

“Go ahead,” Darkholme was dubious.

“His enemies are now your enemies. May God have mercy on them, for you will not,” Wagner's tone was solemn. “That is the way you would show your devotion to Logan.”

“Yes.”

“But I can't, you see. Not just being consigned here, in the Waiting Room. It's not the way I was raised. It's not the way that I am. But you are that way. So,” Wagner made an eloquent shrug.

“But. Me? When you and I are what we are to each other?”

“What are we to each other, really?” Wagner laced his fingers together philosophically. “Variations on a theme. And I can tell you right now, out of all the counterparts I've met in my travels, you are the one I like the most. Absolutely.”

“So I get your approval.”

“More than that, Logan must have told you.”

Wagner extended his tail out and traced the tip of it over Darkholme's. Darkholme's tail shivered, but he didn't take it out of reach.

“You know very well from your mother how in all her shifting, she's still the same person, yes? Then see what I see. You are you. I am me. We aren't the same persons at all. Just the same bodies. That circumstance is only an obstacle if you let it. And why should you let it here, in the Waiting Room?”

“Say that I am not convinced,” Darkholme murmured.

“I can be very convincing.”

“I'm sure. I've seen the way you've got Logan wrapped around your finger when nobody else can move him to do a thing,” Darkholme laughed softly.

“Then you'd best give in right now to save time, shouldn't you?” Wagner's tone was light.

“There's too much fight in me to just give in on anything,” Darkholme rolled his eyes, amused.

“Logan's like that too,” Wagner purred. “I have my ways of getting around such obstinacy. As you know.”

He got out of his hammock and walked towards Darkholme. Darkholme had been about to make a retort, but the way Wagner was walking towards him cut the words short in his mouth. It was a slow, smoothly gaited strut, his tail arching as he approached, and suddenly Darkholme couldn't move at all.

He's seen Wagner do just this sort of thing before, to Logan. It was something to envy, how Wagner can go from sweet to sultry at a blink, but having the brunt of it directed at him overwhelmed him. Hot blush flushed on his cheeks as Wagner bent close and pressed a kiss to the outermost corner of his mouth.

“Stop me, then,” Wagner whispered, kissing there again.

Darkholme swallowed.

“Can't.”

“Then you've made up your mind?”

Logan and Wagner. With Wagner like this, and Logan...

“Yes. Yes.”

“I'm glad. Come on then.”

Wagner stepped back and bamfed. Darkholme followed suit.
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Three of Cups