you call me strawberry wine
Logan doesn’t tend to keep track of the date anymore; he knows when the birthdays are and that’s enough for him. But the seasons are much harder to ignore, and the first whiff of autumn prompts him to check a calendar. It’s only August- still humid, and the AC kicked out a couple weeks ago- but Logan can sense migrations and tides changing. It makes him restless for no real reason. He can’t quite explain it to the others. They understand his senses are much different than theirs, but with the trees still in brilliant shades of emerald and citrine, it’s hard to articulate how the change is breathing down his neck. Over the years, he’s gotten used to the ache in his bones when the weather turns, the ache that tells him to set off on his own. Some years, some seasons, it’s worse than others, and he listens to the ache. Other years, he can’t. This year is the latter. Instead, he quiets the ache in the Danger Room. At night, he wanders the grounds for hours.
When Ororo finds out, she corners him in the kitchen after breakfast.
“You cannot go on like this, Logan. You need sleep,” she says sharply.
Logan doesn’t mention that he can and probably should go on like this. That out in the wilderness, wolverines are nocturnal and he’s always felt sluggish during the day, so maybe he’s better like this. Better for the team. Or that wolverines wake up every few hours to continue trekking and that he hasn’t had a full night's sleep in years. No, it’s better not to associate with the animal part of himself. He grunts at her instead.
“Perhaps you need something to occupy your mind. I understand our lifestyle leaves little room for relaxation.” He doesn’t know what to say, so he grunts again. She purses her lips at him before walking off.
Later that night, he heads to his room to grab his jacket. Sitting on his desk is a small box wrapped in brown paper with a shiny gold ribbon tied around it.
The knife Ororo left for him is tiny in his hands. He fumbles with it, the blade far too light and disconnected from what he’s used to. He hasn’t cut anything gently in years either, and his strength causes the knife to tear through the wood and into his palm, leaving a long slash. He growls in frustration. The following cuts are softer but rigid. He plans to cut up the wood and continue prowling the grounds, but frustration wells up inside him when he’s left with a disfigured piece of balsa. He roots around in the log pile next to the mansion for smaller pieces before returning to his place on the porch. When dawn peeks over the horizon, Logan sits in a pile of wood shavings.
Anything with legs longer than a rat is a no-go, which means he carves a lot of rats. He carves a sleeping rabbit with lop ears that he leaves on Ororo’s potting table. He sees it carefully placed next to one of her orchids the next day. He tries more rabbits with some success. Marie had suggested he sketch on the wood before he carves, which makes his animals look more like… animals. An owl hoots off in the trees, accompanied by a gentle breeze. Logan works carefully on the back of a bear cub for Rogue. She had briefly mentioned wanting to see some out in the wild sometime, and she seemed delighted when Logan offered to take her somewhere to see some. He figured this one would have to do until things settled down around here.
He’s hunched over while sitting on the steps of the back porch. The grass is damp with early spring rain. As he works on the neck, the faint sound of rustling grass reaches his ears. Assuming it’s the breeze or an animal, he continues working until the wind turns back to him, bringing the scent of cologne and methane. Gambit stands above him. Logan doesn’t often see him like this, his bangs ruffling in the wind, his ponytail draped elegantly over his shoulder. His dark purple satin shirt matches the hickies that crawl up his neck. The faint scent of whiskey follows him, but Gambit is steady on his feet.
“Nice night, eh mon ami?” Logan grunts in response, returning to his bear. In one fluid motion, Gambit is sitting beside him. Logan side-eyes him, but the kid has left him enough space that he can’t be too pissed about it. Gambit pulls out a packet of American Spirits and digs in his pocket.
“Damnit, you got a light?” Gambit turns to him, cigarette dangling from his lips. Logan pulls out a shining silver lighter and leans close to cup his hand next to Gambit’s mouth. The flame gets battered by the wind before catching. The embers illuminate the curve of the man’s face, but Logan returns to his work before he can linger any longer. The night wraps around them with a blanket of humidity, only broken by a silent gust of wind. Gambit smokes silently next to him. It’s a little unnerving. They don’t spend much time with each other, even though they’ve worked out their differences. When Gambit first arrived, Logan had been hopeful. The man had clues to his past, but he could tell the kid was hiding something. They snapped at each other constantly, and Marie threatened to throw them both off the roof if they didn’t learn to coexist. A long Danger Room session had worked out most of their problems. Even if Logan knew he wasn’t telling the whole truth.
“What’you carvin’, cher?” Gambit finally says.
He looks at the lump of wood in his hand. The cub is just barely emerging, and Gambit’s gaze bores into the side of his head. He slowly reveals it to him, quietly grunting, “Bear.”
Gambit hums. “I see it.” He shivers. “Them thing’s give Gambit goosebumps. They run faster than anything needs to.”
He laughs in surprise. “Well, this one’s a black bear so they ain’t gonna give ya’ any trouble.”
“Guess you would know, huh? Got them shits all over Canada.”
“They’re all over. I’ve been all over.” Gambit’s smoke drifts over to him, makes him itch for a cigar.
“My nonc used to whittle. My whole life, he’d been bent over some wood, making somethin’.” Gambit has a faraway look in his eyes as he speaks. Logan gives him an acknowledging grunt. Gambit smokes down to the filter before standing.
“Bonne nuit, homme.”
Gambit returns the next night, carrying the scent of sweat and an electrical fire. His palm is wrapped in gauze, a small blotch of red seeping through. Clinging to him is a floral mesh shirt, onyx black, and matching his dress pants. The hickies have barely faded and Logan can see just how low they go. He carries a bottle of bourbon which is the only reason Logan doesn’t chase him away.
“Funny seeing you here, cher,” Gambit giggles. “You still making that bear?”
“No. Finished it.” Right now, he’s considering lighting his carving on fire. It’s supposed to be a raccoon. He hides the blob in his palm, looking up at Gambit. Wordlessly, he reaches for the bourbon. Gambit sits beside him with his comically long legs splaying out. His muscular stomach is on display as his shirt rides up.
“Gimme a light?” Logan fumbles with the lighter as he tears his gaze away from Gambit. He takes a large drink of bourbon.
“Rough night?” He asks, nodding towards Gambit’s hand.
“Oh, this? Just a lil’ tussle. Some ol’ thugs thought Gambit was cheating.”
“And were you?”
Gambit fakes offense. “Of course not! I don’t need to cheat against those hacks.” He’s somehow pried the bottle from Logan and is gesturing dangerously with it. “What’re you making?” He leans in, but Logan pushes him away.
“Nothing. I’ve gotta check the perimeter.”
“Awh, always on the job, cher. You know we got that damn security system?” Logan grunts, taking the bourbon from Gambit’s hands.
“Go to bed, Cajun.”
“Bonne nuit, cher.”