not strong enough to be your man
Logan is alerted to September rolling around, not because of the preparations for the school year but because of dozens of bluebirds that fly overhead each night, heading south. The songs of the dark-eyed juncos that arrive from Canada make his skin itch, and his feet slowly try to drag him toward lower ground. When he isn’t busy preparing for his classes, he cleans his bike, or Gambit’s bike (never Scott’s), or Ororo’s greenhouse, or tries to fix the perpetually broken heating in the mansion. His late-night rendezvous’s with Gambit have been stalled for the last two weeks due to the man being on some sort of undercover mission. At first, he tries to continue drinking and carving alone, but the emptiness beside him only makes him want to take off into the woods. Logan gets deja vu when Ororo confronts him again, hands on her hips and a furrow in her brow.
“You’re driving us mad, Logan. You’ve done all there is to do here. I’ve never seen this place so clean.” She says, this time having cornered him while he was drawing out plans for more perimeter sensors. She sighs deeply, and he remembers how she’s the only one who can truly scold him. “What is bothering you, Logan?”
He grunts, hoping she’ll drop it. Her hand wraps around his arm, the warmth of her palm like the knowing gaze of a priest. He meets her eyes and feels like a child when he says, “You wouldn’t get it.” Her thumb rubs against his skin, and he feels compelled to say more. “It’s- It’s all the fucking changing. The leaves are turning, and the fucking birds are comin’ and goin’, and I- I feel all of it.” He can’t bear to look at her as he confesses it.
She’s quiet for a moment. “I didn’t realize it had such a… profound effect on you. Do you feel the need to… migrate?” Her words are kind and soft as silk when she says them, yet they make Logan’s skin crawl with disgust. He slams his hand down on the desk, throwing himself out of her hold.
“Fuck no,” he snarls. He doesn’t bother saying more after seeing her face and knowing he’s said too much. He can’t help but slam the door on the way out.
He comes out of his meditation to the sound of a car tearing up the drive. He hears footsteps in the hallway, along with Jubilee’s voice. He doesn’t need to know what she’s saying to know who’s arrived. His steps are sluggish as he follows her.
Gambit steps out of the car, his duster billowing behind him. His hair is slicked back, his ponytail now a braid. The wind carries his scent to Logan, and his lip curls back in shock. Instead of his usual musk and leather, the cloying scent of rose, linen, and sex follows the man. Jubilee throws herself into his arms, squealing with glee.
“Why petit, Gambit didn’t know you cared so much,” he says with a grin.
His accent is softened but still carries his honey-like tone.
“It’s been so boring without you here! Everyone’s too busy to hang out with me,” she blushes when she says it, but Gambit just hugs her tighter. “And Wolverine won’t take me to the mall,” she adds. Gambit looks up at where Logan is lingering by the porch.
A softer smile graces his features before Logan says, “You smell fucking awful.” Gambit’s face drops.
“And how lovely it is to see you, Wolverine,” he sneers. Jubilee bounds into the house before him while Gambit’s shoulder clips him on the way in. He hardly moves, but the place where they touch burns. He stands to watch the sky, tasting a cold front blowing in. Just as he is about to go back inside, maybe get his head out of his ass and apologize, he hears a bird cry cut through the air. Overhead, two hawks tussle with each other. Squinting, he can just barely recognize the gray bird from his times in Alberta, but the name escapes him. Its gray and white wings stand out against the sky. The other bird flies in front of the sun, but its call is loud and boisterous. Logan can see its russet red tail fanning out behind it when it dives after the other bird. They snap at each other for a few moments before they separate, taking their places in the sky, heading south.
Gambit’s auburn hair fans across his back, water droplets rolling down his back. His lavender shirt ripples as he stretches his shoulders. Despite Logan not moving, Gambit quickly turns to face him after he steps out of his room. His crimson eyes cast a piercing gaze across Logan, but his face remains steely.
“You up for a ride?” He hopes Gambit can see the offer for what it is. I’m an idiot. I’ll buy you booze.
“Maybe. I clean enough for you yet?” He says, dripping with contempt. The words make Logan bristle despite knowing he deserves it.
“Look I-” he starts, but Gambit raises his hand.
“It’s fine, mon ami. Water under the bridge.” He smells the frustration on Gambit and sees the clench of his jaw as he runs a hand through his hair. Logan, of course, doesn’t know what to say. They stare at each other for a moment before Gambit turns on his heel towards the stairs. When he doesn’t immediately follow, Gambit looks over his shoulder.
“You comin’, carcajou?”
Wind sneaks under Remy’s jacket, goosebumps rising along his arms as Logan slows the bike. Logan doesn’t bother with a helmet, causing Remy’s stomach to churn. The other man’s hair is windswept, somehow completely natural on him. Remy steps off of Logan’s bike and frees himself from his helmet, fluffing up his hair as best he can despite the dampness. The bar’s neon sign turns the parking lot a flickering scarlet, and Remy slips his sunglasses on. As they approach, Remy is reminded of a bar in New Orleans run by a woman with a tail and bright violet eyes. Back home, she hadn’t minded his eyes or who he looked at. Despite their outward similarities (splintered wood paneling, a constant aroma of bourbon, a lovely lesbian behind the bar), he makes sure his sunglasses are secure on the bridge of his nose. It’s mostly empty, with the TV in the corner playing a basketball game. Logan slides into a booth in the far corner while Remy orders their drinks. As he returns to Logan, he regards him. It’s not like they never see each other outside of their porch meetings. But Remy finds himself too busy to truly admire the man in the light. His brow is furrowed, and his curved nose juts out from his profile as he watches the game. His cowlicks are ruffled but still maintain their charming shape. His flannel has a rip in the collar and blood stains near the lapel.
“You get into a fight while I was gone, cher?” He points his beer at the red.
“Huh?” Logan grunts before looking down. “Hmm. Think that was from Cyke punching me.”
Remy laughs. “Figures.” Logan nurses his beer, eyes stuck on the game, but his leg bounces under the table. Remy tears away the paper of the label while he waits for Logan to say what he wants. Logan likes to believe he’s hard to read, but Remy’s job is reading people. He pushes further into the booth wall, hoping it will stop the itching anxiety of facing away from the door. Logan finally looks at him, half nonchalant, half intense.
“What did Chuck have you doin’ that took so damn long?” Logan tempers the sincerity of the question with a groan as the Liberty are hit with a foul.
Remy hums, debating on what he should say. The professor and Scott were obviously embarrassed by what they asked of him. He saw the necessity for it. A small mutant trafficking ring, headed by several wealthy men who had connections to the Thieves Guild, either as friends or enemies. He was a natural choice for the mission, despite what he had to do to complete it. It was worth it in the end when his staff, glowing a brilliant magenta, sank into the men's ribs, charging their skeletons. The satisfaction doesn’t come from the killing but instead from ensuring the caged mutants are free.
“They needed my thief contacts. It didn’t need much manpower.” He takes the opportunity to reach for Logan’s beer once he realizes his is empty.
“They could’a sent someone with you- hey!” Logan starts before swiping his beer back. His large hand closes around Remy’s, covering him in warmth where the beer left him cold. He relents quickly, slithering out of Logan’s grip.
“How sweet o’ you to care,” he quips, thickening his accent.
“Shut up.”
Remy laughs and turns to the game. It must be taped because the season ended in August. The game's intricacies are lost on him, and he quickly goes to the bar for more beer.
“Here you go, sweetheart,” the woman says while handing him the beer.
“Merci, chere.”
She speaks before he turns away. “You’re not from around here, are you?”
He smiles. “An’ what gave me away?”
She laughs, raspy and low. Her sorrel hair is graying, but the strands only stand to make her shimmer in the golden light. “I take it your friend brought you here?” She asks while wiping some glasses. On her leather belt is a carabiner, heavy with keys and melodic in its jangling. Remy smiles wider, pushing his hair behind his right ear to reveal the gold ring that hangs from it.
“He did indeed. I ain’t complaining, though.” He winks at her playfully and draws another laugh from her.
“I’m Celine.” She holds out her hand.
“Remy Lebeau.”
“I wouldn’t think this was your type of place.”
“Why, if women like you are here, then I reckon it is.” She’s right, in a way. If he has a choice, he knows where to go for people like them. He thinks of St. Ann Street, of Cafe Lafitte in Exile, where his père and his daddy took him.
“Thank you, sweetheart. I bet your boy is waiting for you.” He nods and returns to Logan, who grunts at him.
“Took you long enough.”
“Now, is that any way to say thank you?” He teases. Logan doesn’t respond, clenching his fist at the game.
They spend a few more hours in the bar, having started the night early. Remy rests his leg on Logan’s bench, his head tilting towards the side. The booze softens him, easing his aches and fatigue. Logan, while nowhere near as drunk as him, looks as relaxed as Remy’s ever seen him. After the basketball game had ended, a tape of a hockey game had been put in. Logan insisted he hadn’t seen it and effectively trapped them in the bar till it was done.
Logan glances at him. “Game’s almost done, kid.”
“Not a kid, homme,” he reminds half-heartedly. Logan’s been calling him kid since they met when he was nineteen, and much more a kid than he is now. Not that Logan remembers that. He’s changed very little since they met. His hair is a little different, but Remy remembers the morning before they left for the island when Logan was desperately trying to tame the cowlicks. His dog tags rest reliably against his chest like they have for the last fifteen years. He has crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, which makes Remy smile.
“What’re you thinkin’ about, cowboy?” Logan says when he sees him smiling. “That lady at the bar?”
Remy laughs first at the nickname and second at the implications. “She ain’t who I’m thinkin’ about.”
“Oh really?” Logan sips his beer before talking again. “You n’ her talked last time we were here.”
Remy feels himself flush at Logan’s memory. Does the man really pay that much attention to him? He quickly tries to quash the vaguely butterfly-ish feeling in his stomach.
“She’s a friend of a friend.”
“Who? Most people you know want to kill you.”
“Dorothy. You wouldn’t know her.”
Logans huffs and downs his beer.
“Let’s get outta here. It’s late.” It’s really only midnight and they’ve stayed out much later. But his weariness must be showing. He waves goodbye to Celine before they head out.
“You gonna be able to hold on?”
“Oui. Remy ain’t that drunk.” But shit, he’s tired. His limbs feel heavier than lead when he slides on the bike behind Logan. He laughs to himself. It makes sense that Celine thought Logan was ‘his boy.’ The ride to the mansion is long and cold. By the time they get there, Remy can truly feel the onset of autumn.
“Merci, cher. Gambit needed that.”
Logan runs a hand through his hair. “‘Course.”
“G’night.”
“Bon nuit, mon carcajou.”