The kid was saying something, but Logan could hardly understand him. No problems there - the ability to enunciate is not the hallmark of a good blow job, for either party involved. Sharp mutant hearing only brought semi-articulate moans into crystal-clear indecipherability. Looks like I'm doing something right, Logan smirked to himself. One hour ago he'd been persona non grata at the Marvel headquarters. He'd stepped into the elevator intending to catch the next train out of town, right after he'd pissed on the building outside, when this Cub Scout cornered him. Next thing you know he's in the bedroom of some borough rowhouse repaying a favor he'd received minutes before. What's-his-name (Peter?) clutched onto Logan's ears, tight. He was about to tell him they ain't handles, kid when the kid's balls jerked up tight into his body and the bleachy smell of fresh cum washed up into Logan's nose nanoseconds before the spooge hit the roof of his mouth.

"Spit. Spit." the kid gasped. I ain't never spit in my life, Logan was about to say, but when he flexed his jaws to speak they were glued together. A dense clot of what felt like cotton candy was raveling into rigid strands in his mouth, wrapping around his teeth and swelling up against his soft palate like a rubber band ball gone on the attack. What the fuck?

"I'm sorry," the kid gasped. He was sitting up, wedged in the corner of his bed, leaning against crumbling Camaro posters on his bedroom wall, fly open and t-shirt lifted, dick still slick with saliva. "Just work it around in your mouth. It'll dissolve."

Logan snapped his jaws and gagged and tried to thrash his tongue through the thick mozzarella strands. Ugh, bleach is one thing but this tasted beyond nasty. Whatever it was, it was curing fast into some other substance. Fuck this, he thought. He pried his jaws open, swept a gob of the elastic out of his mouth and flicked it on the floor. The spaghetti tangle of mother-of-pearl ooze bounced a few times, dragging gossamer threads against the grimy stalks of shag rug and slackened, relaxing into the nap like a lump of pearlescent Silly Putty. Little waffle-tread striations coasted over its surface before it dissolved.

"You need to see a doctor, kid?" Logan snarled. He wiped his mouth off on the back of his hand. Little shreds of gossamer strung between his lips and fingers.

"No, that's just what it does now. I should have said something."

"Yeah, you should have." The bitter taste was fading. He swallowed the last shreds and shuddered. "Last one you're getting from me."

The kid opened his mouth to speak but sudden shock wrote itself over his face. He tumbled off the bed, frantically zipping up. "Hide!" he whispered hoarsely. Logan spun around to the closed bedroom door. His nostrils flared, searching the air for rogue molecules signaling danger – nothing. He'd brush it off if the kid's expression wasn't so panicked and his heart wasn't beating like an espresso-fueled hummingbird's wings. Claws leapt SNIKT! from between knuckles but Peter pushed him down. "No, no, quick, under the bed!"

"What, kid?" he growled.

"Shhhh . . ." Peter hissed and then the stairs creaked outside. Logan jumped up and pressed himself to the flat of the wall behind the door, ears cocked, claws at the ready. The kid spun around – damn, he's quick, thought Logan – and slammed a biology textbook open on the desk, assuming a position of casual study.

The doorknob trembled.

The door swung open.

"I brought you cookies." a frail voice warbled. Logan felt the doddering footsteps on the floor inches away from his own feet, swaying in time to the musical clink-a-clink of china clicking on a tray. Through the crack of the doorjamb he could see a stooped chintz-clothed back and a dusting of white hair. He inhaled sharply – baby powder, black pepper, menopause - and pressed his body closer to the wall. "I'm sorry dinner's going to be late. I thought you might need a snack."

Logan saw Peter's eyes twinkle in double-entendre before melting into relaxed delight. "Oh, thanks, Aunt May." He exhaled shakily.

"You've got a lot of work, I see."

"Yeah. Yeah, finals on Monday."

"Well." She patted his hair. "Don't work too hard." She shuffled out of the room and closed the door.

Peter exhaled a deep sigh of relief. Logan shot him a glare.

"My aunt." Peter said. "I live with her."

"No shit."

"She doesn't know. I try to keep my private life private."

"It sells more books, huh?"

Peter's brow furrowed in confusion. Then he laughed. "No, she doesn’t know about Spiderman."

Logan jerked a thumb towards the corner behind the door. "Then what was all that for?"

Peter smiled coyly. "You're too old for me. I'd get in trouble."

"Peter?" the voice warbled up from the ground floor. "Tell your friend he's welcome to stay for dinner."

Logan shot a glance at the tray. Two glasses of milk, two plates of oatmeal cookies.

Peter paused before answering. "Thanks, he's got school tomorrow."

"Well, make sure to clean up the rug before he goes. I'm an old lady, I can't be on my hands and knees after every time you entertain a young man in your room."

"Okay . . ." It was hard to tell by the light of the desk lamp, but Logan was pretty sure the kid blushed a little.

Logan stood up. He scooped his jacket off the floor and threw it over his shoulders. God, it reeked.

Peter looked up. "Where are you going?" he asked.

Logan shrugged. "Out. We're done here, right?"

Peter shrugged and reached for a cookie. "I guess so. But – I dunno, you can stay. I'm not kicking you out or anything." He snapped the cookie in half. An intoxicating brown sugar and butter perfume wafted out like honeysuckle. Logan's salivary glands gave a little shudder.

Peter saw him staring. "Go ahead. Help yourself."

Logan felt a little foolish - aw cripes, since when do I eat milk and cookies? but Aunt May's culinary skill won him over. Peter sat at the desk and watched as Logan devoured the tray's contents.

"Did you eat today?" he asked, a little bemused.

"No." Logan growled through a mouthful of oatmeal cookie. He slugged down a glass of milk.

"Where do you live?'

"None of your business."

"OK." Peter started to reach for a cookie but thought better of it. "When do you start for the company?"

Logan looked up. "Who said I work for the company?"

Peter shrugged. "You were in the elevator. And you've got those blades in your hands. I figured - hey, are you a villain? Are we doing a team-up or something? I thought they told me something about a team-up in September."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"I don't know what they're talking about half the time, either." He sighed and leaned back in his chair. "You'd better think long and hard about joining the company. It's a great experience but it's murder on your personal life. Like, right now, I've got several papers due at Empire. Plus my freelance job at the Bugle. All while I'm still supposed to be fighting crime. But they don't care, they still want to put me on two team-ups every month in addition to my regular book. And now they're talking about a second title. Plus endorsements and licensing." He rubbed his face with his hands. "I don't know how I'm going to fit all this in."

"Just tell them no."

Peter shook his head. "I gotta keep this place for my Aunt May. I'm the only breadwinner now."

Logan's ears perked up. "What, the money's that good?"

"It's not the books. If they can't pay Ditko or Kirby what he's worth, how are they going to pay me? It's my side business that keeps this place. "

Logan stopped chewing. He looked around the room. "Kid, I don't have any money."

Peter waved his hand. " I'm not . . . no . . . you don't have to pay me. It's not you. It's the other guys. Captain America. Mr. Fantastic. Silver Surfer. You know, the bigshots." He sighed and stretched his arms behind his head. "I'm the youngest guy there. Everyone wants 'the jock'". He made derisive quote marks with his fingers. "Like I could play a sport to save my life. If I was still a weakling biology major none of them would care." He poked at a few crumbs on the desk. "You'd be amazed at the complexes these guys have. Everyone's so touchy about their image. "I need someone really straight-acting". Yeah, because you run around in tights all week." He sighed. "I guess I'm lucky, though. I hear the guys at DC have it really rough. It's like a twenty-four hour gang bang over there. Why do you think they keep going through so many Robins?"

"So quit the day job."

Peter shuddered. "No way. You ever seen a superhero out of book? It's a sad sight. I remember the day they stopped the X-Men's book. Everyone promised to keep in touch. Then you just drop off the face of the earth. I haven't heard or seen any of them since. Besides, the company pretty much owns me. I wasn't kidding, think long and hard about joining. I was probably too young when they came to me. But we needed the money. And I didn't know what else I was going to do with this." He flicked his wrist open, sticking his index and pinky out like horns. A little spurt of flabby netting sputtered out of the dimple on his wrist. "Damn." He grinned. "I'm still tapped out. I'll show you later."

"Don't make me sick, kid."

"Don't worry, it's not cum. All my proteins ravel up now. Even my blood clots in web shapes, if you look closely. It's pretty cool. I've written a paper about it." His face darkened with regret. "But I can't use it for my thesis. Just another thing I've got to keep quiet about." He stared into space.

Logan finished the last morsel of cookie. He stood up. "There another way out of here?"

Peter pointed to the window. "We're only one floor up."

"Good." He unlatched the frame and slid it up with a creak. The cool night air breezed into the bedroom.

"See you around, I guess." Peter said.

"Yeah, maybe." Logan said. He leapt silently to the ground below and crept into the night.