This is the fourth story of a much longer story arc, which is best read in the order of the List at the end.

Translation of German words or phrases at the end. However, I have tried to make the meaning fairly clear in context.


WITH NOTHING ON MY TONGUE
Part One: THUNDER/STORM


From Leonard Cohen’s song, “Hallelujah”

Maybe I’ve been here before
I’ve seen this room, I’ve walked this floor
I used to live alone before I knew ya
I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
Our love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah.

. . . . . . . . . . .

And even though it all went wrong
I’ll stand before the Lord of Song
With nothing on my tongue but
Hallelujah



If you’d like to hear this song, here are my two favorite versions:

http://idolator.com/5190814/leonard-cohen-revises-hallelujah-into-a-love-song
Video here of Cohen singing “Hallelujah” live. He improvises a bit in places, and it’s rather long, but very heartfelt and has one of the best backup arrangements I’ve heard so far.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JStOPpNI4Tk&feature=related
k.d. lang’s excellent version.





I am lying on my side in our bed, several hours before sunrise, wide awake, restless and horny. I feel the comforting warmth of Logan’s body behind me, his arm draped over my hips as usual. My restlessness must have awakened him, as his dangling fingers begin languidly stroking my leg, moving slowly down across the top to reach the inner surface of my thigh.

His voice comes soft against my ear. “Ya want it, don’t’cha, Elf?”

“Ja,” I sigh quietly.

His fingers move to my crotch, touching me with a teasing gentleness as his arm tightens around me, pulling us closer together. I can feel his hard cock against my ass. He lifts my leg, propping it up bent at the knee so that he can gain access to my opening. I reach for the lube on my nightstand, taking a glob and smearing it over his member. Thus prepared, he presses into me, spreading me open with a delicious anticipation of pleasures yet to come. I gasp as the head slides inside me, and the rest follows, stretching me, filling me. Oh, yes! Deeper, deeper. Touch that lovely place that feels so good. Ah, yes. Just *there*.

Short thrusts now, pressing against my prostate repeatedly, gaining in urgency with every movement.

His fingers wrap around my dripping cock, milking it in time with his own cock deep inside me.

“I’m so close, darlin’! Oh yeah! Gonna fill you so full with my cum!”

I am whimpering now, quietly in comparison to the guttural noises he makes. “Oh, ja! Make me come! I want to – Yyaahhhh!”

Again, the familiar but always astonishing sensations of orgasm wash over me, drowning me in feeling, as my seed spurts out of my jerking penis and my insides convulse around the hard cock within me. Oh, Gott, if heaven feels like this, death would be a small price to pay to get there!

As the intensity of the feelings fade away, I regretfully return to reality. My left hand clutches the base of the glass dildo up my ass, while my right hand is a fist around my drained penis. Logan has not been in my bed for several months now. He is away somewhere, searching his soul. Or at least, that is what he said he would do, struggling to decide the direction his life will take from here on. I am supposed to be doing the same thing, deciding if I will still want to be with him when he returns, assuming he will still want me as his partner by then.

Looking down at the white splotch of my cum on the sheet, I know very well what my body wants. But is that the same as what I want?

I think back to the tortured days we spent together, when he told me about the horrible things he had been doing on his solitary missions and what he might well do again in the future. The long discussion we had, when I told him that I was in no way morally perfect either.

I remember the final promise I made to him, when he told me, “I’m not worth it, Kurt. I’m really not.”

“You are. I vill be here vhen you return to me.”

Sometimes now, I wonder if I will be able to keep that promise. A part of me cannot stand this waiting and wishes only to run away, be done with him, stop missing him so terribly. But that is not what I really want. I want him here, now, with me. I want his body against mine, his cock up my ass. And I cannot have it. I can only wait, wondering when he will return. And what if he never returns? What if something has happened to him?

“Seit Logan gegangen ist, ist mein Herz so leer wie mein Bett,“ I tell myself softly out loud.

I tend to lapse into German in times of strong emotion. In order to help break that habit, I translate it into English and repeat it. “Since Logan has been gone, my heart is as empty as my bed.”

Oh, stop, I remind myself. Enough self-pity. You are not the only person to be left behind to wait and worry about your lover. Think of the spouses of soldiers all over the world, when the soldier is away in battle, perhaps never to return. Or in the old days of sailing ships, when the wives must wait months and years for a husband who may be long drowned and dead, as far as she can know. Do not be such a baby! You did not invent this endless wait, and you will not be the last one to suffer through it, not by a long shot.

Logan leads a dangerous life, as do all the X-Men, including yourself. The day may come when either or both of us do not return alive from a mission. That is part of the life you have chosen.

Yes, but we have always shared the dangers together, until recently when he began going off by himself. And what if he does come back unharmed, but has decided he does not want me anymore?

No, I cannot think of that. I must not dwell upon it. I must live my life, hoping and praying for the best.

I get up, go to the bathroom, take a shower, and get ready to start my day. And change the sheets on the bed yet again. I must remember to have a towel or something handy, so I do not make such a mess next time.


Another day goes by. I teach my German class, check homework, teach simple acrobatics to the youngest of our students, counsel several youngsters who seek my advice, run through my regular routine in the gym, and take a walk outside as the sun sinks toward the west. It is unseasonably warm for this time of year, so I do not even need a coat. I eat supper without paying much attention to the food. I climb the stairs to our rooms without anticipation of anything but sleep.

I turn on the computer in my study. Since I started teaching last fall, I have thought of taking online college courses in education. Tonight I browse the internet, searching for whatever may be available along these lines. Until I have a license for teaching, the students in any class I may teach will not be able to count it towards their educational credits, which makes their participation strictly voluntary. I find several possibilities for online study, but I set them aside for the future.

I have also been working with our nurse practitioner to learn more about emergency medical care, in order than I may be better able to cope with injuries to any of the X-Men during our missions. Since my abilities are not as widely dangerous as those of most of my teammates, I figure I can make myself more valuable in other ways, in order to make up for that. Perhaps there are some good sites online that I could study for this purpose.

However, until I know what will happen between Logan and me, I do not want to make any definite plans. If I continue here with the X-Men, I tell myself, I will get serious about pursuing all of this. Until then, my future is on hold.

A sudden gust of wind hits my windowpane, catching my attention. From my vantage point on the third floor, I can see the trees nearby waving back and forth. The sun is just above the horizon, but I can make out a bank of clouds far to the southwest.

I check the weather online for the local forecast. The radar shows a very large area of heavy thunderstorms heading in our direction. There must be a serious front coming through. It is a bit early in the year for that, since it is only May.

There is a tentative knock on the door of my study. Before I can answer, I hear Storm’s voice calling, “Kurt? Are you there? May I come in?”

“Ja. Of course. The door is unlocked.”

A breeze ruffles the papers on my desk as she hurries in. As always when I look at Storm, I think how very beautiful she is. She has been our leader and head of the School ever since the Professor died. She carries that burden with grace and aplomb, not to mention confidence and courage. Of all the women here, she is the one I admire the most. But tonight she has the look of an excited child.

“There’s a real nasty thunderstorm coming, and I know you’ve always liked watching lightning. I’ve seen you crouched on the roof more times than I can remember, enjoying a storm. I just thought perhaps tonight you’d like to watch it from my room, since I have a much better view than you do, and it’s still rather chilly to be outside on the roof. Unless –” She hesitates, as if she is somehow uncertain of my answer. Most unusual for her to be uncertain of anything. With a graceful gesture of her hand, she indicates my computer. “Unless you have something more important to do?”

“Not at all. I vould love to!” I start the process of shutting down the computer, then get up from my chair.

Now I am sorry I am dressed so casually in faded jeans and an old sweatshirt. Surely, to spend time with such a lady, I should look my best. But too late now. At least she is not much more dressed up than I am.

Together, we climb the narrow flight of stairs that leads to her room up in one of the Mansion’s towers. There are wide windows on three sides, so she has a lovely view of the surrounding area. Potted plants are scattered all around, some small and some rather startlingly large, reaching to the high ceiling. During the day, this room would be quite sunny and bright, but now it is dim and shadowed. We go to the window that faces west, since the storm will most likely come from that direction. Yes, we can just see the distant clouds, with now and then a diffuse flash of lightning.

As we sit down on the long window seat, I ask, perhaps naively, “Could you not make this storm go avay, since it may vell cause some damage?”

“No, not with a natural weather system this big. I can only manipulate the weather within a fairly small local area centering on me, not over vast distances. In my younger days, I tried to influence more widespread storms, but only found that I made worse problems somewhere else by doing that.”

“Oh. Vell, vhile I am asking questions, vould it be all right if I had a bathtub installed in our bathroom?”

I have changed gears so abruptly that Storm gives me a rather surprised look.

“Sorry. I have been thinking about this for several veeks now and it just came to my mind that I might need your permission. Or someone else’s permission. Or something,” I end rather lamely.

“What’s the matter? Tired of just taking a shower?”

I nod. “Exactly. Vhen I vas a child, I sometimes had the opportunity to play for hours in one of those old-fashioned tubs vith the funny clawed feet. They are deeper than most modern bathtubs. Do you know vhat I mean?”

“Yes, I’ve seen them.”

“I have found such a tub online at a site that specializes in such things. I believe it could fit, if the shower stall vere removed. I vould be villing to pay for the renovations, if necessary.”

“I’ll check into it for you and let you know for sure, but I can’t think of any reason you shouldn’t be able to do it.”

“Good! I vould appreciate that.”

We sit for a while, watching the trees toss in the growing breeze as the sky darkens. Thunder grumbles in the distance, in the direction of the Titicus Reservoir, which is located to the south and west of the mansion. If the wind stays in this direction, it will be pretty rough on the eastern end, especially with the way it narrows so quickly. Maybe even some flooding, if the reservoir is full.

“You just want something that you and Logan can both fit into together,” Storm says, glancing at me instead of the window.

I smile shyly, acknowledging that she has indeed guessed correctly about the bathtub. “Ja.”

“It’s been pretty hard on you since he left, hasn’t it?”

I look away from her, not really wanting to discuss this. It hurts too much for me to speak of it easily. “Oh, I am doing all right. Logan vill be back, I am sure.”

“What if he isn’t, Kurt? Have you given that possibility any consideration?”

“He’ll be back. I have to believe that or I fear I vill go crazy,” I admit.

“He makes a habit of disappearing for his own reasons, you know. It’s nothing you’ve done, or failed to do. That’s just the way he is.” She presses the palm of her hand briefly against my cheek. “If it’s any consolation, I’ve always thought that the one who holds Logan the loosest is the one who will hold him the longest. So far, you seem to be that one.”

“I hope you are right, meine Freundin. Every night, I fall asleep hoping to hear his motorcycle coming down the drive. And every night I am disappointed.” I have said too much now. I do not wish her to think I am so pitiful. I will change the subject.

“Sometimes I envy your ability to fly, and to deal with lightning safely. How I vould love to vatch such a storm from just below the clouds, vith lightning all around me! It must be incredible!”

“You’d really like that?”

“Jawohl!”

“Then let’s do it. I can carry you up there with me.”

“Are you serious?”

“Sure. But we might want to wear some heavier clothing. I can call up a sort of protective shield of calm around us and repel any lightning bolts that come too close, and even keep most of the rain away, but I can’t provide warmth and comfort. Quick, go get into your uniform while I get into mine. That should be enough.”

In the space of an instant, I have jumped down to my room and am putting on the heavy black leather of the X-Men. When I return to Storm’s aerie, she is ready to go.

We look at each other with a strange sense of shyness. Of course, I have had reason to touch her and hold her, and she me, during many of our missions and at practice in the Danger Room. But this is different somehow.

“Vhat shall I –?” I start to ask, but she immediately knows what I mean.

“Stand next to me and put your arm over my shoulder. I’ll hold you around the waist. That should do it, since the cocoon of wind around us will hold up your weight as well as mine, but I don’t want to lose contact with you, just in case.”

I am a few inches taller than she is, but this is a comfortable position. Perhaps too comfortable, as I am very aware of her body where it touches mine, despite the layers of leather between us. Tsk, Kurt, pull yourself together. We are merely going flying, nothing more. But still I feel the slight stirring in my groin that precedes erection. Well, so what? My uniform will hide it from sight, if the situation – uh – arises.

“OK, teleport us outside the window. I’ll take it from there.”

I do, she does, and I find myself soaring westward and up towards the roiling clouds that tumble tumultuously across the sky. They have already obliterated what is left of the sunset. Bright streamers of lightning flash between the clouds and the earth, as if feeling their way forward over the ground below. Storm takes us towards the leading edge of the front, which has already covered the far shores of the reservoir. I am right. The water below us is stirred into sharp-edged waves, unusual for the small lakes in this area, except when the wind blows along the length of those lakes, in which case the waves have time and distance to build up beyond what they normally could.

But then a lightning bolt sizzles down close to us, followed instantly by the sharp crack of thunder. I stop paying attention to the reservoir. Although I know Storm will keep us from being struck, it is still frightening to feel such power so close by.

Another flash, this time very crooked, with many small branches dangling from it. Lightning always fascinates me. So much danger combined with so much beauty.

I steal a quick glance at Storm’s face, close beside mine. Her eyes glow silver-white, as they always do when she is using her power to influence the weather. She appears transformed, her expression rapt and concentrated. I can well believe that she could easily be worshiped as a goddess. Some of my awe in the near presence of the lightning transfers to her, and my body responds to the feel of this wondrous creature next to me.

Another bolt comes sideways across the sky in our direction, but splits and branches around us at the last second, some branches seeking the ground below while others pierce the clouds or disappear into the thick veil of rain blowing around us.

It is surprisingly cold up here, as Storm had said it would be. The noise of thunder, the roar of the wind, assaults my ears. I feel almost confused, dazed by the ferocity of my surroundings. But Storm appears at home in the midst of the chaos and confusion. And why should she not? This is her world, just as teleporting is mine. She has been dealing with this since she was barely more than a child. I am almost jealous of the dramatic extent of her power, but I refuse to let that feeling take root and grow. We are all different and unique. What counts is how we use our differences, not what they are.

Far down below us, I catch a glimpse of a small sailboat on the water, trying to hold its own against the wind that seems to be driving it down towards the eastern end of the reservoir, where the lake narrows precipitously. I watch it for a moment, trying to determine if it is in trouble or not. The boat has one mast, and looks to be about 25 feet in length. I can vaguely make out two people on the wind-tossed deck, one aft at the tiller and the other standing nearby in the cockpit. Only one sail is still set and it is reefed down to far less than its normal size, but the boat appears to be steadily losing ground. Fortunately, the reservoir, especially at this narrow end, is not so large nor so deep as to pose a life-threatening risk. At worst, they can maneuver their boat close enough to shore to make it to safety themselves, even if the boat is badly damaged in the process.

And then the storm abruptly changes the rules, as a streak of lightning flashes out next to us, slants slightly, and finally splits into two near the surface. One branch strikes the mast of the sailboat.

“Mein Gott!! Storm, did you see that?!”

“What?”

“That bolt struck the sailboat down there!”

Before I can say more, Storm is already swooping down towards the boat, which has suddenly begun to swerve around as if no one is at the tiller. If properly grounded, the mast of a sailboat usually provides the same protection as a lightning rod. However, things can still happen to the people onboard, especially if they are grasping any of the wire shrouds that keep the mast in place.

Storm’s arm is tight around my waist and I am clutching her fiercely as we plummet from the sky headfirst. Through the heavy rain, I struggle to make out what is happening on the deck below. One person appears to be down, lying on the floor of the small cockpit. The other kneels next to him. No wonder no one is at the tiller.

At the last minute, Storm levels off and lands us on our feet on the wildly-plunging deck.

Rain pelts down around us as the single sail flaps out of control just above our heads. A man bends over the unconscious body of a boy, shouting words that can barely be heard over the roar of the wind. “Lenny, Lenny! Son, are you OK?”

“Kurt,” Storm shouts, “check the boy! I’ll take the tiller and settle the wind so we don’t capsize!”

I am there in a second, crouching opposite the man in the now-crowded cockpit. Quickly, I turn the boy onto his back, leaning forward to shield his face from the rain. He is wearing a bulky life jacket, so I do not have to tilt his head very far to make sure his airway is open, as it is already lying back at an angle. For a long couple of seconds, I watch for any sign of breathing motion from his chest, also slipping a hand underneath the life jacket to see if I can feel movement. Lenny appears to be about fourteen years old, not quite a child, but not quite an adult either.

The man, presumably his father, stares at me in horror, too shocked to react. Good. I do not need to be interrupted right now. The boat is tossing violently, almost broadside-on to the waves. As Storm gets to the tiller and takes control of the weather immediately surrounding us, the chaotic motion smoothes out some. Nearby, the wind falls to a safer speed, but nothing can be done about the incoming waves. The same sort of cocoon that kept the two of us dry and safe below the clouds now spreads over the boat, but it is more diffuse. Much of the rain gets through despite Storm’s efforts to protect us.

As well as I can determine under these conditions, the boy is not breathing. Clamping his nose closed with my fingers, I seal my mouth over his and give him two long breaths. Only then do I check the carotid artery in his neck for a pulse. Yes, I can feel the steady pumping of blood. His breathing may have stopped, but his heart is still going. It is not uncommon for that to happen when struck by lightning. It is possible his heart stopped momentarily, then began to beat again on its own, as he is young and healthy. I unfasten the clips on his lifejacket then lean down and give him another breath.

As I finish, the father grabs my shoulder. “What are you doing to him, you monster?!”

“Trying to save his life.”

“But you’re a –“

“A mutant, ja. But I am a mutant who knows CPR and rescue breathing. Your son is not breathing.”

“Kurt!” Storm’s voice from aft. “What’s happening? Do you need help?”

“We have to get this boy to the infirmary at the School as fast as we can!”

“I can fly –“

“No time! I can ‘port him faster!” I turn my attention to the father. “You have to trust me. I can get your boy to safety and medical care. My friend will take you there also, but I am going to do it right away.” I give Lenny another breath, then check once again to see if his heart is still beating, which it is.

I glance at the father, hoping to get his permission. If not, I will jump anyway and worry about the consequences later. Lifting the boy up and out of the lifejacket, I take him into my arms, steadying his head and neck as well as I can by holding it against my chest, just in case there was a spinal cord injury when he fell.

The father stares at me with his mouth open, then manages to say, “Go!” just as I disappear.

Three long jumps and we are in the infirmary. I approached my limit on each jump, and that is not easy when I am carrying another person with me. But I stagger over to hit the emergency button on the wall that will summon Angelita Gutierrez, our resident nurse practitioner, then lay Lenny down on one of the padded tables, giving him another breath and grabbing for the oxygen mask and bag that hang nearby. I take a few moments for myself, leaning forward and breathing deeply several times, fighting off the weakness that threatens to overwhelm me. Every moment is precious right now. I cannot afford to collapse. Fortunately, it does not last long.

By the time our nurse arrives, I have the mask fitted snugly over our patient’s face and can send oxygen into his lungs simply by squeezing the bag. I have also laid out all the supplies needed to start an IV, if necessary, and brought our cardiac monitor over alongside him.

“Buenas noches, Angelita,” I greet her as she comes running through the door.

“Guten Abend, Kurt. What have we here?” she asks, coming to a stop next to our patient.

“Steady heartbeat. No respiration. Presumed lightning strike.”

She pulls Lenny’s shirt open and lays her stethoscope on his chest. “Confirmed. Stop bagging him for a moment. Let me check if he’s started to breathe again.”

After about half a minute, she shakes her head. “Continue. I’ll set up the monitors.”

As instructed, I continue bagging my patient while Angelita evaluates him. The cardiac monitor is now beeping regularly.

“I don’t see anything wrong, other than the burn on his hand and some blood on his lips.”

Able now to look at the boy more closely, I notice a nasty burn on the palm of his right hand. “If I have to take a guess, he was touching one of the wire shrouds when the boat was hit. As for the blood –”

I lick my own lips and taste blood. “That is nothing. My teeth have doubtless cut his lip. I did not have time to be overly careful.”

Angelita works at starting an IV in the boy’s left arm, in case it is needed.

Just then, Lenny coughs weakly. I feel him suck in a breath of air. I stop squeezing the bag in order to check if he will continue his efforts. Yes, his chest rises again by itself.

Angelita and I look at each other and smile. She continues to check his body for other injuries, after stabilizing his head with some foam rubber forms, in case there has been a cervical injury.

After perhaps fifteen minutes, Lenny shows signs of returning consciousness.

“Wha – where –? Who are you?” He is clearly still groggy and somewhat confused. Not unusual for an accident victim.

Angelita begins asking him questions, trying to assess his alertness. Meanwhile, I strip off my rain-soaked leather jacket and hang it over a chair, which leaves me with a rather damp and sweaty t-shirt, which I decide to keep on, since it covers the scars on my chest and torso, if not the ones on my arms. No reason to alarm the boy any further than I have to.

With the resilience of youth, Lenny starts to grasp his situation.