Disclaimer: I don't own Logan, no matter how much I wish I did.
Archive Rights: Just ask.
Author's Notes: This ficlet is the result of a conversation about what we fans of Hugh Jackman would be able to endure in regards to plot as long as he was in a movie.
Dedication: For AllyKat, who gave me the idea, and for everyone who agreed with her.
The white noise of a shower drifts through the solid oak door and into the finely furnished bedroom. The rich wood paneling is unadorned, except for a few anonymous paintings. There are no knick-knacks or mementos on the bare shelves, no family pictures or portraits. In fact, if it weren't for the sound of the shower, you would get the impression that the room is unoccupied.
Within minutes, the sound of cascading water ceases and the oak door opens. Steam bursts forth into the bedroom and for a moment it is hard to detect more than a vague outline of the person emerging from the bathroom. Soon, his figure is all too clear.
It is a man: tall, broad, skin glistening with drops of water. A deep blue towel is wrapped around his waist, held precariously by a tuck that loosens with every breath. His dark brown hair drips water onto his well-defined torso, and shaking his head back and forth, he sprays the excess moisture from the damp locks.
With an animalistic ease, he strides across the room, each muscle working in concert with its fellows like a symphony of flesh. Reaching his objective, he sits on the circle-patterned bedspread, the slit of the towel pulling back to reveal a tightly corded thigh.
He looks straight into the camera, as if aware of it for the first time, and gives his audience a lusty, heat-filled grin. Reaching out his right hand, he picks up a thick text from the bedside table.
He licks his forefinger suggestively and uses it to pull back the paperback cover to the first page of listings. Then, in a deep, husky voice, he reads from the phone book.