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Lock-Down: Chapter Nine
For “safety,” no more than two max-sec inmates were allowed in a shower room at a time. They were at least assured their privacy, more or less, since the guards did not stand inside the room but rather on the other side of each door in and out. A single shower a day grated on Gambit’s sensibilities, but he had to make due. His days of a refreshing morning shower and a relaxing evening shower were, at least temporarily, over.
There were no knobs in any of the shower rooms—the heads were turned on remotely by a guard in a nearby control booth. Gambit had been surprised to note that there were no security monitors in that booth; they weren’t being watched at all while in the showers. It was a little unnerving, actually, given the amount of surveillance they were under at all other times. And always when he stepped under the shower head he was certain that, instead of water, clouds of poisonous gas would come down on them. But that never happened. The worst thing that ever did happen was a sudden dousing with frigidly cold water. That was the usual temperature of the water in these showers. And, perfectly in keeping with Murphy’s Law, the instant he’d acclimated himself to being shot with cold the water would come on burning hot. He suspected they just wanted to see him jump, but he just couldn’t figure out how they were watching. A casual but extremely professional perusal of the room had revealed not so much as a crude peephole.
Wolverine was allowed the full use of his hands during showers, which Gambit thought was a very good thing because otherwise he’d probably have to wash him. As far as he was concerned, matters of personal hygiene were best handled personally.
Their shower schedule changed daily, for whatever reason, and today they were led to the white tiled room directly after the recreation period. Gambit might have been alarmed but he had prepared for such an eventuality—a firm believer in Murphy’s Law, was Remy LeBeau. It was the only law he’d never managed to break in the course of his life. Instead of leaving the precious little square of drafting paper with his clothes he slipped it into a small plastic bag to which he’d attached a length of nylon string caged from a supply closet. He swallowed this little package, the end of the string hidden under his tongue. He’d smuggled a number of things into the prison in a similar manner, minus the string. To get those things back, he’d had to make himself vomit, which he hated. Still, it was better than the way he’d smuggled in his bo staff. All he could think of during his capture and subsequent incarceration had been grisly imaginings of what would happen if the release mechanism had somehow been depressed. His bo was seven feet long, fully extended. And the trigger switch could also release a trident head of thin, razor-sharp triangular blades. He’d been very glad to see that familiar dull metal cylinder disappear into the safe haven of his mattress.
He felt Logan’s eyes on him as he soaped himself down. That didn’t bother him in the slightest. He didn’t look anywhere near his real age but sometimes he felt that old, and it was nice to know he could still grab someone’s attention. The truth had always been that he had a fantastic body, but the truth is highly relative, and being the sort who needed constant reassurance he’d had to show that body off as much as possible, to make sure that it was a widespread opinion. In here, there was no one to show off to, even if there was the opportunity. Even the growing sense of hunger his empathy picked up from the older man was untroubling. Logan wasn’t exactly the Elephant Man himself, and Gambit had never had a problem with men wanting him. He had a strong preference for women, mostly because men always seemed to think he ought to be submissive to them, for some odd reason. But he was and always had been a switch-hitter. He looked back into Logan’s cool blue eyes blandly, daring the man to admit how he was feeling.
“Didn’t you mention something to me about getting a little shower buddy?” Logan grunted. Gambit laughed.
“I didn’t mean me, but if you t’ink you man enough, you can try me on f’size,” he said, making a point of soaping his chest and stomach with care bordering on the erotic. Logan licked his lips under the fall of water, eyes full of the sight.
“Careful, Cajun. I’m in a mood to take you up on that offer.”
Gambit moved toward him, lithe body moving sensuously through the spray, which was currently steaming hot. Logan wasn’t sure if the steam was from the heat of the water or the heat of the Cajun, but he decided it was all the same.
There was a little smile playing on the Acadian’s lips. He came right up close to Wolverine, towering over him although he was much more slightly built, and then leaned down so they were eye to eye. The collar around his neck kept his eyes from actually glowing in that way they had, but there was a distinct light in them all the same, deep and mysterious. He was close enough to kiss, if that was what he had in mind.
“Jus’ make sure you know, mon ami,” he purred, “dat I don’ roll over for nobody.” Then he planted a little peck on Logan’s cheek and stepped away nimbly, laughing, as Wolverine reached out for him.
“Nah ah ah!” he chided teasingly. “Gambit got some impo’tant work scheduled f’t’night, but I t’ink mebbe I c’n make some time t’ give y’ jus’ a li’l taste a’ what you can es’pect wit’ me. But you’ll jus’ hafta be a good boy an’ leave me ‘lone until den!”
Being a “good boy” was going to be hard work. Logan had never really realized just how damned sexy the Cajun was. That voice—God, that voice! Lazy as a southern summer Sunday, muddy as the Mississippi, smooth as a knock of the best bourbon, smoky as a New Orleans gin joint, and sexy as a lone saxophone in the halo of a street lamp on a dark, quiet back street. If it could be distilled and turned into a drink, he’d be stone drunk after one sip. He had a feeling that sex would be much the same. The shower heads shut off as their allotted ten minutes expired and both men toweled off and went through the doors at the other end of the room to reclaim their clothes. Logan followed close behind the Cajun and never took his eyes off him for a moment. Gambit reveled in the attention, putting on his clothes with cruel deliberation, calculating just how far he could push the man before he broke and enjoying every minute of it.
He could afford a little distraction, but he couldn’t let himself become completely sidetracked. He really did have his work cut out for him tonight, but getting Logan fully fucked out and asleep could facilitate that work, if he could just keep himself from total exhaustion. He doubted that would be much of a problem; like the Energizer bunny, he just kept going and going and going…