Learning the Language
by
Blu
Please note that both characters in this story are of legal age.
Piotr Rasputin sat at the long wooden table, trying hard to concentrate on the book in front of him. His head was down, clamped between his palms. He slowly massaged his temples, a grimace appearing on his face as he tried to comprehend the words his eyes were seeing. It was hard to focus on his studies, though. Hard to focus on much of anything, actually.
Making the move from Russia after losing both parents had not been easy. Although he was happy to be at the mansion, and grateful to the Professor for extending his offer, there were still a lot of obstacles he faced each day, alone, for the most part. Being a foreigner meant he was often excluded unintentionally. He had to learn to speak English all over again, a language he had only limited contact with back home, and had rarely spoken.
Now, he found himself cut off from the others because of it. Not just the others on the team, but from the American world itself, as well. Things in this country were so different from his ways back home. Traditions were different, the people were different, the way they talked, shopped, and even ate meals. All of it was foreign to him. Sometimes he would say something, having worked up the courage, thinking it was the correct thing, only to receive blank stares or sometimes giggles. He always smiled when people, usually girls or children, giggled at him, but deep down he felt sorely inadequate. His lack in language made him frustrated; he couldn't say what he wanted to say, couldn't explain to anyone how he felt. He had no one to talk to; his little sister was away in boarding school, his parents dead, and any relatives he might have known were likely lost somewhere in Siberia. He felt removed from life, and had no way to get closer.
He sighed. He supposed it wasn't good to dwell on such things. He was learning the language. Slowly, but he was doing it. All by himself. He could speak enough to at least say a few things to his teammates now and then, even if it was awkward for both parties. Putting his nose back to the book before him, he decided he had done enough for the afternoon. His father's silver banded wristwatch said it was nearly 5 o' clock. Soon it would be getting dark outside. Yet another difference. Back in Russia it would have hardly gotten light to begin with at this month of the year. He closed his book and got up from the table, taking a moment to stretch. His muscles were fatigued from sitting so long, and his neck made a resounding crack that sounded too loud for the quiet library.
Idly, he walked over to the window and peered out at the yards below. This time of year the trees turned shades of color, he had learned. Where he had lived in Russia, there had been no trees quite like the ones in Westchester, New York, United States. He had noticed them change over the last few weeks, and it never ceased to amaze him. The colors were so wondrous and striking, beautiful to behold. The gardens around the Institute were beautiful, as well, although they had all been readied for winter by now. They were meticulously tended, as was everything at this place, by the students themselves. It had been one of his greatest loves when he had first arrived, knowing virtually no English and none of his team, the grounds around the house had been his only place of escape. Piotr was already excited for the new season to come so he could work on his painting. He had already picked several spots around the mansion grounds, both to paint as subjects and to just sit in while he worked.
A movement over by the garages caught his eye. He pulled open the curtain a bit and peered down. The angle was a little odd and it was hard to see through the tree branches right outside the window, partly obscuring his view. A shirtless man walked across the paving, wearing an old pair of jeans on and beat up ranch hat. Piotr knew it was him, even looking at his backside from the third floor, by the puffs of smoke that clouded the air around his head, every few seconds, and by the man's short but heavily muscled stature, not lacking in hair, either, Piotr noted with a chuckle. There were grease marks smudged on his shoulder and arms, and down his back, and he carried a pan of something -- it looked like thick oil -- in his hands. Piotr continued to watch him, a small smile playing across his lips. He never considered himself a voyeur, but as an artist he had acquired an eye and a certain appreciation for getting pleasure from life's most ordinary, everyday occurrences.
A man changing the oil in his 'motorcycle' (a very foreign word to the young Russian's mind) was about as ordinary as it got. There was a certain wholesome quality to it, an honesty and a pride. Piotr didn't know Logan very well, but it didn't surprise him that the man would keep such a vehicle. Logan was a crazy man, as they said in America, but he had honor in him, as well; that was something Piotr could relate to.
Logan was laying down now, working on the underbelly of the machine. Apparently, though, something didn't fit right, because he suddenly made quick motions and hopped to his feet, flinging a hand to his face and throwing his arm back. From the looks of it, oil had gotten all over him -- and his cigar. Piotr laughed. He couldn't hear the man's curses, but he imagined he'd be getting a great lesson on American slang if he were in the garage right now.
He let the drape fall closed, and made to exit the room, still smiling, when a thought came to him. The Russian felt giddy, suddenly. Maybe he would go help his teammate out. Pausing for only a second to think about it, he set his books down on the nearest table, went to the window, pulled it open, climbed up on the sill, and jumped.
* * *
Hank McCoy sat reading a newspaper in the second floor den. It was one of his favorite sitting places, so removed from noise and distractions. Just him, his reading materials, a nice big chair, and a fire. He sighed in content.
Suddenly he jumped in his seat as a huge form dropped past his window. Before he could get up to see what it had been, there was a tremendous 'thud', and what felt like a minor earthquake.
"Absurd," Hank muttered as he twisted himself to glance out the window. "We don't have earthquakes in Westchester." Looking at the ground, though, there was nothing to see. Turning from the window with pursed lips, Hank frowned to himself in thought. I know I didn't imagine it.
* * *
Piotr willed his natural born power into reality as he leapt from the third story window. He hadn't really considered that it might not work. He was still training and learning how to use it, true, but he had been doing it since he was 13. By the time he had passed the second floor windows he was getting a little bit concerned, though. He closed his eyes and forgot about the terror of the ground rushing up towards him. He didn't open them until he had slammed into the earth. He was glad to see his reflection in shiny cold steel. He stood up, morphed back into unarmored form, and dusted himself, with a self-satisfied smirk on his face all the while. I have conquered the earth, he thought to himself bemusedly. He walked off, passing under the tree which had blocked his view from above, and headed toward the garage.
When he reached his destination, Logan was again laying on his back working on the bike. It appeared he was having some trouble getting at the underside. Piotr walked to the other side, morphed once more, squatted down next to the bike, and gently hoisted it a few inches.
"Thanks," Logan said offhandedly. He suddenly realized the situation, though, and clawed himself backwards, jumping up. "Jesus!" he said in a near shout. "Ya scared the shit outta me, tin man!"
Piotr let the bike back down and stood up. "Sorry," he apologized, but couldn't keep a smile from his face. The sight of Logan all riled up was rare. The oil and the fact that Piotr had morphed must have masked his scent to Wolverine's nose, and no doubt the music in the background and the fact that Logan was concentrating on something else had left his ears unattended. "I saw you from," Piotr turned and pointed a steel finger, "there. I thought you would need some help, maybe." His accent, thick with hints of Russian still, made him self-conscious. Logan didn't seem to notice it, though. He dusted off his hands and came over to where Piotr stood.
"Be glad for it," he said, giving a clap to his teammate's steel back.
Piotr smiled. "You have had trouble?"
"Yeah," Logan muttered around the unlit and oil-drenched cigar between his lips. He popped one adamantium claw and scraped some caked oil from his chest, managing to shave off a good portion of hair along with it. Logan's heavy muscles rippled with each of his slight movements. Piotr couldn't help but admire the man's finely formed body. So precise. So full of life and vitality. Logan stopped and looked at him, as if he had noticed him staring, but he didn't say anything. Instead he turned towards the bike. "Nothing too major. Actually, if ya could hold it up fer me again, that'd be a help."
Piotr nodded and propped the bike up a few more inches. Logan slid onto his knees and under the raised vehicle. The smaller man's knees and waist slid right up to where Piotr was kneeling. Piotr tried not to look, but there was little else to focus on. He couldn't help it. His eyes wandered down to Logan's midsection, to the rounded bulge in his tight, worn jeans. He only allowed the gaze for a second, and then snapped his eyes back forward. He had told himself when he arrived at the mansion that he would not look at any of his teammates in such a way. It could be dangerous to do such a thing. If he were to ever form too much of an emotional bond with them, it could be dangerous in battle.
But what about Scott and Jean? They obviously cared for one another. What was the harm in him having the same? Besides, Logan didn't seem the type, so Piotr was likely worrying about nothing.
He reconsidered his thoughts when the man slid forward another few inches. Piotr was keenly aware of Logan's thighs around one of his own legs, now. Intentional or not, there was no way the other man couldn't be aware of the contact. At least he didn't seem repulsed by it. He wasn't pulling away or apologizing.
Several minutes passed in silence. Piotr didn't have a large enough grasp of the language, nor the confidence to begin a conversation, to take the initiative himself, and Logan was concentrating on fixing the motorcycle, if his grunts and occasional mutters were any indication.
"There," Logan said. He scooted out from under the bike and Piotr let it settle. Logan stood up, pinching his cigar between his fingers before frowning down at it and tossing aside. He brushed himself off absently with one hand. "Thanks fer yer help, tin man," he said to Piotr.
Piotr nodded and smiled. "Da. It was ... you say ... 'no problem'."
"Comin' along with that English, I see," Logan said off-handedly as he turned to a bench off to the side of the garage and picked up his flannel shirt. He started to put it on but seemed to reconsider it in light of his current state.
"Da," answered Piotr. He couldn't pronounce the 'Y' sound, though, he noted to himself -- it came out somewhere between his native 'j' and the poorly formed and dumb-sounding English 'd'. "It is working better for me -- but very slow."
Logan nodded. "Well," he said as he gathered up his shirt and tools and walked over by Piotr, "if ya want, I s'pose I could give ya a little bit o' help sometime. I owe ya one, now -- fer the bike," he nodded meaningfully towards the motorcycle.
"That would be good," Piotr said as the two of them walked out of the garage and towards the side of the mansion. "I appreciate it if you help," he smiled to the man next to him. Logan looked over to his grin.
"Now I ain't the world's best when it comes to talkin', myself, ya know."
Piotr chuckled. "I notice this. Not just in speech. We go to battle and you are," he made a motion with his hands, signaling Wolverine's claws, "no talking. All fight." He clapped the man on the back. Piotr appreciated the man's tenacity.
"Yeah well," Logan answered with a half-serious smirk, "keep it up, bub, and we ain't gonna be doin' much talkin' either." He popped the claws of one hand and lifted them to Piotr's face in mock play.
In response, Piotr morphed his body to steel. "Can they cut this?" he asked with a grin.
"Dunno," Logan answered as he sheathed his claws. "Keep yer yap shut when I'm teachin' ya, and ya won't ever need to find out."
Piotr wasn't certain that he would really mind keeping his mouth shut, if it meant they would be doing things other than studying. He let his mind wander down that lane for a moment. Oh well, he supposed it didn't matter, much. He couldn't always have what he wanted.
They walked to the house. Arriving inside the kitchen area, after Logan had kicked off his shoes -- he was a clean housemate despite his oft-unkempt appearance, to Piotr's amusement -- they found Bobby and a few of the others talking while dinner was being readied. The Professor had a rule that, twice a week, the two teams ate together. It was like a giant extended family. Piotr kind of enjoyed it. Logan did not share his sentiments. He wore a scowl.
"Well, looks like it's gonna be time to sit and chit-chat with the 'big-boys'," he mocked under his breath, but Piotr heard the words all the same. Logan didn't appreciate having to play a subservient role to the other team -- the original five X-Men. Piotr didn't really see anything subservient about it. They had only a year or so's experience more than the newer members. There was no real competition between the two.
They took their seats at the table. Hank was finishing chopping some carrots. Bobby was at the sink cleaning dishes and looking none to happy about it. Ororo and Kurt came in together, laughing about something. They sat down in two vacant seats around the large table. Logan continued to scowl but Piotr waved and smiled to his teammates. He tried to be friendly to everyone but usually he just got blank looks or a confused smile. He wasn't exactly surprised. He knew he wasn't much of a conversationalist. The two of them continued their conversation in low tones. Logan had his arms folded over his bare chest -- still dirty from the work. Storm noticed.
"Logan -- don't you think you should clean up a bit before we sit down to eat. The Professor will be here, after all."
"Does it look like I care? I'm old enough. I don't need daddy to tell me to wash my hands."
"Well, someone should," Scott Summers said as he and Jean walked into the room arm in arm. Jean looked wonderful, as usual. Long red hair, lustrous and thick, brushed her shoulders. Scott was handsome as always -- ever the cool team leader. Piotr was impressed with the both of them. Young, but very confident. They had emerged as the dominant figures among the students, and appeared to take their roles as such quite seriously. Maybe too seriously. Maybe Logan was right.
"He was working -- outside -- on his ... motorcycle," Piotr spoke up in his friend's defense, struggling with each word. "It's hot. Hard work." He gave Scott a shrug as if to say: 'Let it be.' Scott seemed to accept it, and said nothing more, although he didn't exactly smile in acquiescence, either. The two of them sat down at the table as well. Hank was finishing up cutting the carrots. He brought them over to the table and dumped them onto the salad, then he too took his seat.
"You know," he said with his usual thoughtful look, "today I saw the weirdest thing. I was sitting upstairs in the den, doing my usual reading, and all of a sudden, I swear, I saw something fall from the sky. A few seconds later there was a small shaking. Did any of you feel it?"
Nobody said anything. Bobby turned from the sink and quipped: "Hank, I think you finally spent too much time on the Post cross-word."
Hank looked indignant. "Well I know what I saw," he said, and then added with a vindictive smirk, "popsicle."
Bobby just rolled his eyes and turned back to the sink. He dried his hands and then came over and sat next to his large friend. Despite their bickering, Piotr saw that they were very good friends. He liked that about this place -- that it was possible to form such friendships with other people. He hoped he would have that, too, someday.
Warren, Sean, and the Professor came in together. Sean wheeled Xavier to the table before seating himself next to Ororo. Warren was next to Jean. Piotr and Logan were nearly directly across from the Professor. Logan sat up, despite his earlier words, although his face wore its perpetual dark cloud and he was still a mess. Piotr had thought for sure the Professor was going to say something about the shirtless, dirtied man -- but he didn't say anything. In fact, he looked almost pleased. Maybe for him, Piotr thought, this WAS kind of like a family. The family he had never had. It was an interesting thought. Looking around him, he could almost see it through the Professor's eyes. Maybe Logan's rough presence added a bit of reality to the situation. Piotr was reminded of the farm back home. During harvest he almost never wore a shirt to the dinner table. His father always seemed proud of him, in some way. Like he was seeing his son growing into a man. Maybe the Professor had some sort of thought like that going through his head: pride in his students, his family.
The food was passed around. For dinner, they were having salad, rife with carrots and tomato; soup, a hearty blend of potatoes and some kind of meat; bread, and mixed vegetables. Meals in America were something else Piotr was adjusting to. For one thing, Americans all ate their largest meal at dinner. In Russia, dinner was a small meal, hardly more than some light foods. And the food itself was different. Piotr was amazed at the abundant variety of everything. Since he'd arrived, they'd rarely eaten the same thing twice on their weekends. Everything from pizza to hamburgers to hot dogs to more exotic things like kiwis and lemon pies. He didn't find the food unappealing in the least, just an adjustment from what he was used to. He supposed people from America would have found Russian food and eating habits just as different.
Sean, as usual, kept his face buried close to his plate and shoveled it in. Hank ate voraciously but with grace, dabbing at his face with a napkin now and then. Bobby sometimes ate like Sean, sometimes like Hank, and sometimes just idly played with his fork, picking at bits of food. Ororo and Jean were neat and tidy about it, of course, as women of all cultures tended to be, by their nature. Logan, while not quite stuffing it down like Sean, was very direct about it. He occasionally used one of his claws as a knife if he encountered resistance from a particularly rebellious piece of potato -- stabbing it without remorse and eating it right off his claw. Piotr sometimes found this amusing, and sometimes a little frightening. Other members seemed to find it rather disgusting. Having lived in a rough land, though, it didn't bother Piotr much. Kurt and Warren ate like most people would, having no particular tendencies one way or another. They dropped crumbs, used fingers, sometimes talked with their mouths full, reached over other people's plates, and generally were unaware of themselves at the table. The Professor, of course, was all proper.
Piotr made a mental note of such details. He stored away the mundane as future inspiration for artwork. Maybe someday he would unveil a painting of the two teams at the dinner table. That might get a laugh.
They idly talked about the day's events, and the goings on in the world at large. Mostly it was just inconsequential talk, a lot of which Piotr had difficulty deciphering. It seemed as if the Americans all talked so fast. He was thankful that Kurt was at the table. A native German, Kurt was the only other person who Piotr could relate to on the matter of speech. Kurt didn't say much, either.
The meal soon ended, and people began getting up to go and do their own private tasks, whatever they might be. After the table had been cleared and everyone else had gone, he took the professor back to his study.
"How do you like it here at my school, Mr. Rasputin?" the man asked.
"Good. It's ok," he answered.
"The truth now?"
Piotr hesitated. What should he say? "Yes," he lied.
Charles nodded but wore a smile that said he thought otherwise but wouldn't press him for it -- yet. Piotr kept silent the rest of the way, too embarrassed to speak up.
"This is it," the professor said. "Thank you. I'll see you on the morrow. Be sure to get some rest tonight, my student."
"Yes professor. Good-night."
He closed the door and turned, almost walking into Logan as he rounded the far corner of the hall to go to his own room. Logan had a ripe red apple in hand and had just taken a bite from it, juice running around the skin and onto his fingers. "Study?" he asked, mouth full of apple still.
"Ok," Piotr answered. "Now?" He pointed to his wristwatch with a questioning look.
Logan shrugged. "Why not? Now's as good a time as any."
"Ok."
* * *
"No more," Piotr said thickly and leaned back in his chair. He put his arms behind his neck and cracked his joints, heaving out his chest and stretching at the same time. Logan was seated next to him at the desk. Piotr felt the man's eyes raking over him.
"Tired?" Logan asked with a grin.
"No -- not really. Worn out."
"Good!" Logan said. "Need a rub?"
"What?"
"A rub -- like this."
Piotr felt the other man's hands on his shoulders suddenly. For a second he tensed, but then loosened under the grip. Slowly. He wasn't entirely comfortable with it. It took him a while to let himself relax. Logan's strong fingers dug into him. He realized that he had let a grunt escape him. His eyes popped open and looked up to a grinning Logan.
"Sorry. Time for bed," he said suddenly. He didn't want to stop -- but it felt too good and he was afraid of what might happen if he let it go on.
"Alright," Logan said. "Tomorrow then. Same time."
* * *
The danger room session was hard, and not just because the professor was running an alpha-level program. Piotr's mind wasn't entirely on the fight. He kept running his thoughts over the night before -- over Logan's hands on his shoulders. The fingers digging in -- the feel of his hands. Several times he was pummeled by opponents who he normally would have smashed to pieces before they even reached him.
When it was over, they moved to group training. Piotr held his breath while the names were called out for partners, whispering a silent prayer that he wouldn't get paired up with Logan. Hoping he would at the same time. Dreading it.
He got paired with Bobby. "Ice against steel," Scott said over the intercom when the turn for their session came.
"Come on, big man -- let's see whatcha got," Bobby said defiantly. Piotr knew it was a false sort of bravado, though. His observations for artwork were useful for things besides painting -- and Bobby had been as easy to read as an open book. One written in Russian, at least.
He gave a grim smile, set his stance and sauntered forward, slowly. Taking in the angles, looking around without looking, using what he had learned in his early training sessions. Show nothing. Reveal nothing. Say nothing. Look around and be open, don't be blind. Don't be narrow.
Bobby set down a sheet of ice; Colossus promptly smashed it with his steel foot, sending fractures back along its path all the way to Iceman. He countered with a lunge; Iceman threw up a wall at the last second. Piotr couldn't stop his momentum and he smashed right through it and landed on his chest on the other side. He was coated in ice before he could recover.
"That it? TOO easy!" Bobby taunted. He started walking away. "Hey, Cyke! What is this -- some kinda joke? Come ON bud -- gimme something I can WORK with, I mean --- OOF!"
Piotr crashed into the smaller man from behind. It had been easy to fake immobility and make Bobby think he had won. As soon as he had turned away, though, Colossus had broken out of the shell and leapt. In his armored form, the other man was no match for his strength.
"Pinned," Piotr grinned at him. Bobby squirmed underneath him. "I win."
The intercom came on. "That's it. I've warned you about overconfidence, Robert." It was the professor's voice. Bobby groaned and let his head drop to the floor with a thud, Piotr still holding him down triumphantly. "Good work, Colossus," the professor said.
* * *
The shower water felt good on his skin. He let the warm water wash over him, run down his back, around his waist, down his legs and then swirl into the dark hole below. He lathered himself with the soap and ran his hands over the muscles of his chest, thighs; his feet. Training had finally ended after a grueling 6 hours, and he was sore all over. He liked the feeling. It made him feel fulfilled, accomplished -- like he had done something worthwhile. He was in a good mood, besides. The professor's compliments rang in his head.
Warren walked by the shower. "What are you grinning about, ox?" he joked. Warren called him an ox -- Piotr had only learned recently that the word meant, more or less, a big dumb animal with a lot of strength that was good for hard labor and little else. He didn't like the name.
"The shower is nice," he said. Warren gave him an eye and then burst into laughter, shaking his head and walking away. "What's funny!?" Piotr shouted back. "You like a shower, too, right?"
Warren didn't give any answer and Piotr heard the door slamming at the other end. It was hard to figure out their humor, sometimes. He again felt the weight of alienation on him. He rinsed off his soap and turned off the water, stepping out and pulling on a towel.
A careful, close shave -- like his father taught him before he even had any beard at all -- he had been so proud -- and then he got fully dressed. A red short sleeved polo shirt and jeans were good enough for him. He pulled on his belt and strode out of the shower room.
Jean passed him in the hall, towel in hair and around her body. She smiled shyly at him, but then paused and looked him up and down, turning back to him as she walked by. "Wow." She gave that universal whistle that had the same meaning in every country. "Lookin' GOOD!"
Piotr smiled at her. "You too," he answered, and held up his thumb like Bobby did sometimes. She gave a giggle and hurried past him.
"Don't let it get to my head, Piotr. I'm counting on you!" she called back to him.
"Ok!"
* * *
"What are you so stuffed up about, tonight?" Logan asked him.
"Nothing," Piotr quipped back.
"Yeah -- right. An' I'm not hairy. Come on, tin man -- you got that gleam in yer eyes."
"What?"
"That gleam."
"What is ... 'gleam'?" he asked uncertainly.
"A look. Ya know. Like," Logan looked around, and then got right up in Piotr's face, only inches from him, and pointed a finger to his eyes, "this."
Piotr saw the red lines of veins radiating out from the dark centers. He saw Logan's black eyes staring into his. He switched his gaze from one to the other, looking for the elusive word's meaning. "You mean -- white?"
Logan shook his head. "No. The shine. We all got it. That's shine -- like life, ya know?"
Piotr slowly nodded. "I think."
Logan sat back on his haunches and stared hard at him, then stood up. "It's a look we get when," he paused, "when we want something. When we got this feelin' in us that's like -- human and animal at the same time."
Piotr laughed. "You know about that!" he said. "You're an animal!"
"Right," Logan said. He pulled up the chair next to him and sat down by Piotr. "Ready to get to work?"
"Ok."
The work went quicker than it had the night before. Piotr found that working with Logan was a very comfortable experience. With Logan, he didn't feel like he did with the others. He didn't feel pressured. When he stumbled over words, Logan helped him work through them. If he couldn't understand something, Logan pointed it out to him in the book.
And besides that, Piotr couldn't help but enjoy the man's physical company as well. He had a reassuring presence to him -- a kind of rough kindness that covered something deep inside him.
Once, when Logan reached across the desk to point out something in the book, Piotr found himself paying no attention to the words.
"What?" he heard himself ask. The arm in front of him pulled back. Logan looked at him for a long moment. They'd been studying for close to two hours.
"Had enough?"
"No it's alright."
"Why don't I believe that?"
Piotr shrugged -- because he didn't know what else to do. "Long day today. Practice was -- difficult."
Logan nodded. "Yeah it was. But hey," he patted Piotr on the shoulder, "you came out lookin' pretty swank."
"What?" Piotr grinned.
"Ya looked good, earlier."
"Oh."
Again he felt Logan's eyes on him as they had been the night before -- moving over him. He looked at the man this time, though.
"Logan," he said. "You. I can't say right. I want to ..." He sighed in frustration at not being able to express himself. Then he reached out and took Logan's shoulder -- and he squeezed it. "A rub?" he asked, smiling.
Logan just looked at him. "It's ok. You're still learnin' the language." He got up out of his chair, and came over. "Sore, huh?"
"Da." He felt Logan's hands on his shoulders again. "Wait -- first -- we are teammates ... I don't want --"
Logan bent down next to him. "It won't. Just relax."
So Piotr did. He sat back and relaxed and let his eyes close. Logan's hands worked on his shoulders, moving around them, fingers touching his biceps just below the shirt sleeves. He couldn't say how long it went on for. Logan stopped, and Piotr opened his eyes.
"Thanks," he said.
Logan shrugged. Then he bent down and Piotr felt a tickling warmth on the side of his neck as he realized that Logan was kissing him there. Piotr shut his eyes and mumbled out something -- he couldn't form any words. "No problem," Logan said, pulling away. His eyes had a look in them.
Piotr pointed. "The gleam."
Logan let out a grunted chuckle. "Yeah." They stared at each other for awhile. "So, I think our sessions are going pretty well, don't you? At this rate, let's see ... we should get pretty deep inta it by the middle of next week. I'll get ya talkin' in no time." He dropped the last words with a wicked smile on his face, and then turned and headed for the door. "See you tomorrow, then?"
Piotr shook himself from his thoughts. He looked to Logan and grinned. "Yeah. I study hard."
"I noticed."
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