but now it's getting late, and the moon is climbing high
The shrill cry of his whistle cuts through the chatter of his class.
“Okay, if you wander off, I will hunt you down and drag your ass back to the bus. So stay where one of us can see you. Or don’t. I need something to do.” He yells out to his group of kids. They all nod, itching to go explore the park. Logan got roped into chaperoning one of Hank’s biology field trips. He doesn’t mind, but he wishes he could enjoy nature and peace and quiet. Ororo brought along her advanced environmental science students, who are on the older side. Maybe. Logan’s not great at telling ages. Gambit brought his art history students to… collect leaves? He couldn’t tell if Gambit was messing with him. And Jean just wanted out of the house.
“It’s so beautiful out here,” Jean sighs dreamily. “I think the birds have gotten scared away from the mansion because of all the commotion. They’re so loud.” An oriole sings brightly to punctuate her point. A chilling breeze ruffles Jean’s hair, but she doesn’t seem to mind. Logan pops his collar against the October chill.
“Yeah, it’s nice.” The park isn’t much different than the mansion grounds, but the school overlooks Long Island Sound. Here, the Atlantic stretches out before them. Seagulls call loudly and wind rolls along the beach. Marie would like it out here, but she took Hank’s introductory bio course years ago. He couldn’t think of a good enough reason for her to skip her classes to come.
Kids cry out in joy from a small field down the hill he’s standing on. Cries of “ Dr. McCoy!” follow as the kids rush to show him something.
“Logan, look!” A student says from behind him. In their hands is the carcass of a large, purple crab.
“Jesus, kid. Fu-freakin’ stinks.” Jean giggles as he catches himself. “Go show that to Hank- uh, Dr. McCoy.” The kid sprints off down the hill.
“They like you,” Jean says simply.
He grunts.
“They always do,” She continues. “Even if you try to make them scared of you.”
“Yeah, well. At least they listen.” Most of the time.
Jean pulls her hair into a ponytail with a velvet green scrunchie. “How’s your history class been?”
He smiles. In exchange for teaching, Chuck lets him do whatever he wants with the class. He rarely has tests and instead has four projects he does every year without fail. The kids work with Ororo’s Contemporary African Art Class in the fall, which results in a lot of quiet work time where Logan can do whatever he wants. In the spring, Kurt and the Professor teach Civil Rights Movements of the World, and his kids join in on their field trips, where Logan doesn’t have to chaperone. Even lecture days don’t much bother him anymore.
“They’ve been little monsters. Same as always.” Jean laughs. She turns towards the beach behind them. On the sand is Gambit and his class, picking up shells and rocks. His duster flaps in the wind, revealing his tight jeans and pink crop top. Some of his kids are twirling driftwood around like staffs, dangerously close to hitting each other.
“Maybe someone should go tell them to stop…” Jean suggests.
“I’ll do it,” he grunts. His boots leave deep prints in the sand as he heads towards the group. He blows his whistle at the kids.
“ Hey! Knock it off! ” Gambit looks up at his voice from where he was crouched over a tidepool. The kids groan, but run off down the beach.
Logan grabs a large piece of driftwood from the pile the kids left, knocking it on his boots to get some of the sand out. The wood is pale, smoothed by the tides and cracked from wear. With the lapping of the waves, he feels calmness wash over him. Sometimes, when he knows Scott and Jean are away, he goes to sit on the dock by the boathouse. But that’s not often, so he tries to steer clear.
First he cuts through the wood with his claws, leaving him an uneven cube shape to carve from. He recalls a time on the Shiretoko Peninsula, a beautiful June, when he saw a pod of killer whales off the coast. At first, he could only see their dorsal fins jutting out of the water like a range of mountains. But as he watched they began smacking their tails into the water, or breaching. He carves a dorsal fin, careful to give it a sturdy connection to the body. He slowly begins to reveal the whale from the wood, when a shadow falls upon him.
“What little creature are you making now, cher ?” Gambit’s drawl is melodic as always, but Logan’s so relaxed that it sounds like a lullaby.
“A killer whale.” He makes short and slow nicks with the blade while carving the flippers.
“Ah, they the man-eaters, right?”
He laughs, but cuts it short so Gambit doesn’t get offended. “No, no. They really don’t care about humans. Most animals don’t. If someone gets attacked, they’re doing something stupid.”
“Why are they called killers then?”
“Uhm. Probably should ask Hank. But lots of ‘em eat seals. Maybe that’s it.”
“In Nawlins we got gators. They’re killers too. But I reckon you're right, cher . They ain’t a problem unless you make them a problem.” Gambit leans in to watch him carve, his breath slowly hitting the side of Logan’s face. It matches the cadence of the tide, the warmth appearing on his skin before fading. He’s so lost in the rhythm that he pushes too hard on the knife, slicing the dorsal fin from the body.
“ Fuck.” It’s embarrassing how much he cares about his carvings, but holding the finless whale in his hands makes him hot with frustration. Gambit’s gaze doesn’t help.
“Awh, it’s no problem, cher . You can just put a bit of glue on there and it’ll be good as new.”
He scoffs. “Really?”
Gambit crosses his heart. “I promise.” At Logan’s skeptical look, he says, “I’m an art teacher. Glue is an artist’s best friend.”
“I’m not an artist. But… thanks.” He pockets the dorsal fin, returning to the orca’s tail.
“You’re too modest, Logan. It’s amazing you don’t have my job.”
He huffs at Gambit, ignoring the praise. “Since when do you call me ‘Logan’?”
“Since we met, cher .” He looks up at Gambit, who’s watching the horizon. Everytime Logan asks about the night they met, he gets a faraway look. His scent carries something unpleasant.
“And you didn’t even give me your real name? I’m hurt,” he says in an attempt to fix the sadness emanating from Gambit.
“Clearly your memory hasn’t come back. Gambit was the name Stryker’s men gave me. When you came lookin’ for me, you called me Remy.”
“And then you blasted me through a wall,” Logan says, recalling what Gambit had told him.
“ Desole .”
“Guess it’s kind of weird I call you Gambit.”
He shrugs. “ Non . But I would prefer Remy. After all, you owe me for the plane ride.” Gambit- Remy winks at him, and Logan has to turn away from the ruby gaze. As they look onto the ocean, a huge gray head bursts from the water. The whale has short front flippers and a flat head. Through the surf that follows its leap from the water, he sees white spots near the whale’s mouth.
“ Mon Dieu! ” Remy says as the whale disappears into the blue. Kids have gathered on the beach, screaming in excitement. A large sooty tail fin appears and slaps the water, the back of a whale visible as it dives.
Remy begins to head towards the water and he can’t help but follow. They walk to Hank and a group of students all huddling by the water’s edge.
“My stars and garters, those are right whales!” Hank says with glee. “They’re almost certainly on their way to warmer waters. What a rare sight.” Jean giggles with glee.
“Oh my gosh, I’ve never seen a whale before!” The air is buzzing with excitement and he can’t help but smile. He looks up at Remy, who’s dazzling smile nearly blinds him. Now that he’s closer, Logan can see that the salty air is creating small curls in his copper hair.
“What a sight,” Remy says wistfully. Yeah. A sight. He thinks.
Wind shakes the skeletal trees above them, a shower of golden leaves cascading down. Hank’s cerulean fur is impossible to miss against the beautiful array of maroon and yellow foliage. The weather is biting, weaseling its way under his coat. He had borrowed a sweater from Kurt, who was happy to lend it.
“Now we need just a few more Hen of the Woods- those are the brown ones,” Hank calls from ahead, two fabric pouches attached to the belt around his hip. They are round with their bounty of mushrooms and berries. Remy carries a small wicker basket, lined with gingham fabric, full of nuts and mushrooms. Scott and Rogue hadn’t been able to contain themselves at the sight of him, dressed in a maroon sweater with an honest to god basket hanging off his arm. Despite the teasing of the others, being outside with Henri was calming. Remy could remember the way the mushrooms looked, just not always their names. But Henri was more than happy to have some company, even if he wasn’t always helpful.
“What the plan for all this, Bête ?”
“I’ve got a recipe for mushroom soup I’m planning on making. The walnuts can really be used in anything. Maybe I’ll see if Jubilee will want to help make cookies,” Hank replies before trailing off in thought. “Would you like to help with the soup?” He asks.
“Gambit’d be happy to. Nice to finally-” he almost says ‘ have some calm around here ’, before his superstitions get the better of him. “You know…” He finishes lamely. No use in jinxing them.
Henri exclaims before bending to pick a cluster of brown mushrooms, surrounded by a patch of small, delicate white irises. Their centers are pale indigo, standing out brightly against the oak wood. Remy leans down to observe them. More Hen of the Woods; brown, fan like caps stacked on top of each other, growing in a cluster at the base of a tree.
“You know, these mushrooms are only a small part of a much larger network. They create a fantastic web of connections underneath the ground that connects all fungi to each other, and to everything in this forest. These mushrooms are the breeding part of that network.”
His eyes go wide at the man’s words. These clusters are huge already, but to think that below his feet, they are connected to everything around them?
“That’s amazing.”
“I’m glad you appreciate my knowledge.” He straightens. “I think this is enough. Besides, the sun is going down.”
The walk back is very unpleasant. Hank must not feel the incoming chill, but Remy begins shivering before they’re halfway back. A shrill bird call breaks the silence, causing the songbirds to quiet themselves. Above them, a red tailed hawk circles. Its boisterous cry is chilling in the dying light. Flying south of it is a gray hawk, one Remy can’t identify. Red tail’s live in Louisiana year round. They used to steal his tante ’s chickens.
“Henri, what bird is that?” He points to the gray bird.
The man squints. “Hmm. It’s hard to tell. But this far north, I would say a northern goshawk. These two are a rare sight this time of year. By now, most hawks are much farther South.” Silent, they watch the birds before continuing on. When the patio door slides open, the warmth of the kitchen streams into the cool evening air. He sighs in contentment.
“I’ve already got the stock ready. Could you wash the mushrooms?” Remy rolls his sleeves up and follows Henri’s directions. He carefully pulls the clusters apart, dirt pooling in the sink. The work is methodical and rhythmic.
“What’s that smell?” Logan’s gruff timbre calls. He stands in the doorway of the kitchen, leaning heavily on the frame. His silver blue eyes catch the light, reminding Remy of the irises in the woods.
“Is that a new flannel?” He asks instead, pausing to look at the dark green plaid hanging loosely on the man.
Logan forgoes answering and comes to look at the sink, crowding Remy against the counter. He pulls a face.
“Mushrooms?”
“ Oui . That Henri and I spent the last two hours pickin’, so I don’t want to hear nothin’ from you.” Logan tips his head to look at him before his cheeks flush. Must have realized he had Remy pressed against the counter like he was a lady. Not that he minded. But Logan definitely did, by the way he moved to the other side of the kitchen. Remy returns to washing the mushrooms, laying them out on a towel to dry.
Beast returned with Rogue in tow, still in her mission suit. Her hair rests beautifully on her shoulders despite the dust that has settled in it.
“Hey there, cher ,” he greets with a smile.
“Hello, Remy,” she replies, fighting down a smile. It breaks through when she sees Logan. “Hi, Lo. You helpin’ them cook?”
“I can.” He looks towards Remy for permission, who shrugs.
“I’m sure we can find something for you.”
Rogue lifts herself onto the counter to talk with Henri about some of the students while Logan and him continue the soup. He takes great care to waste as little as he can, like how his tante taught him. Looking at his hands, carefully dicing the carrots, he feels like he’s back home. When he was given the night off from thieving, he would help his tante cook. His père helped pay her rent, but she always clung to the traditions. She taught him how to use every scrap of a chicken carcass, chickens that she killed herself. Her house smelled like thyme and bay leaf, every evening filled with the buzzing of zydeco music from the streets outside.
Something hits the back of his head, drawing him out of his thoughts.
“What-?” He turns to see Logan chuckling heartily to himself. Remy scowls and charges a piece of carrot, flinging it at the man.
“Hey!” Logan cries when it explodes in his hands. The weak burns heal within seconds.
“Dinner’ll never get made with the two of you in here,” Rogue teases. Logan grumbles and dumps his pile of celery slices into the pot. Once they’re sauteed, Remy mixes them with the broth to sit.
Logan whistles at him. “Smoke?” He says simply when Remy turns.
The patio is only lit by light from the kitchen filtering through the french doors. Logan and him sit just outside the pool of golden light, looking out into the blue night. The trees have lost their golden colors, instead covered in shadow and blending together as a towering creature in the distance. Logan pulls a cigar and a lighter from his jeans, his legs stretching out on the stairs. Remy dully puts a cigarette between his lips, using his charge to light it.
“When’d’ya learn that?”
He feels himself flush at the memory from the summer when Logan’s fingers brushed his cheek. He could have lit his own, but the booze made him crave closeness.
“Not sure. Sometimes it’s a lil’ hard to control. I don’t do it too much.” It’s just barely skirting a lie. He hopes his heartbeat doesn’t give him away.
Logan whistles at him again, and he turns to see Logan leaning towards him, unlit cigar hanging from his lips. Trying to calm himself, his fingers glow a faint pink as he pinches the cigar. It takes a second longer to light, his charge’s mulberry light enhancing the textures on Logan’s face. Before they pull away, Remy sees the bags under his eyes.
“You get the heating fixed?”
“No. Piece of shit thing needs parts we don’t have.”
Remy shivers. “Can’t believe I agreed to come up here. Could be down in Nawlins, enjoying the heat.”
Logan lets out a puff of smoke as he chuckles. “This ain’t nuthin’ Gumbo.”
“An’ thank God for that, mountain man. Any colder, and I’d be going into hibernation.”
Logan stiffens a little. “It’s only October.”
“Well I’m sure the Professor’ll let me take a little vacation. Spend my winter months in the tropics like a bird.” A breeze crawls up the side of Remy’s neck, making him curse. He pulls the hair tie from his hair, before leaning forward to shake out the stiffness.
“That’s what the um… the hawks do,” Logan says quietly. He’s picking at a thin patch in his jeans.
“Oh really? Henri and I saw two earlier. A red-tailed and a… a goshawk? I’d never seen it before.”
“Alberta is full of those goshawks. Out in the woods, at least. One time I parked my trailer too close to a nest of ‘em, got mobbed by the parents every time I stepped out,” Logan recalls. The pale blue smoke from his cigar clouds his face, fading into the darkness behind him.
“Didn’t know you went back to Alberta,” Remy says. “You know, I ain’t know much about what you did after the island.” He bends to stub his cigarette on his boot.
Logan grunts, eyes downturned. “I just… Followed my gut. Took me all over. Never found out anything that actually told me who I was.” His voice is bitter, cold as the night. Remy tries not to show his hesitation as he reaches to put a hand on Logan’s knee. He rubs his thumb lightly against the denim, not bold enough to put anymore than the ghost of a touch.
“I’m sorry Stryker took your peace, cher . You’re the least deserving man of it.” Remy thrums with nerves at Logan’s silence. Despite himself, he continues, “If it means anything, you brought me more peace than I’d ever thought I’d get when you went after Stryker. Just gave me a heart attack right after when you ran off with two bullets in your head.” He spares a glance at Logan. His brow is scrunching together, jaw clenching his cigar. They resume sitting in silence, only broken by Logan’s soft:
“Thanks, Rems.”
The whiskey brings a welcoming burn in his throat. The amber liquid gleams under the orange lights. Logan glances upwards before quickly looking away. The single look is a renegade ember from the fire he regularly douses.
Without thinking, he got drunk. The party was loud and hot, and the booze helped ease it. But he hasn’t been drunk around Remy before, not truly drunk. Remy’s costume is hardly more revealing than anything else he wears. He’s spread out on the couch under twinkling purple lights. His cheeks are rosy, the alcohol making him flush. The ties on his black top, Westley’s from The Princess Bride , are undone and cascading down his chest. Marie’s legs are in his lap, her hair spilling out behind her. She’d straightened it to look more like that girl from the movie she showed Logan… Some horror film with a guy in a halloween mask. But throughout the night her curls were coming back. She had covered herself in fake blood, a move that Scott disapproved of so Logan of course agreed with. It was Halloween afterall. He hadn’t been planning to dress, just like he didn’t every year, but Marie had taken one look at him and promptly plopped a cowboy hat on him. He didn’t have the heart to take it off.
Together, Remy and Marie look like a painting. Probably a specific painting, but art is Remy’s thing. Maybe he’ll ask him once they’re both sober. Logan tries to focus on Marie, counting her breaths, but Remy is trying to talk to her, and he can’t help but follow the movement of his lips. He downs the last of his whiskey. The pull he feels towards the man is shocking in its intensity. He’s so busy thinking about how Remy smells that he doesn’t notice Jean sitting beside him.
“You okay, Logan?” She asks with a hand on his arm. They’re sitting at the staff dining table, next to the living room. From his seat, he has the perfect view of Remy.
“What? Yeah, I’m fine.” His words are lopsided in his mouth, but Jean nods, making her braids bounce. The red ribbons tied to the end of them are as shiny as when the night began.
“You’ve just seemed a little… off. Tired.” Her thumb reaches to trace the bags under his eyes, a delicate pressure on his skin. Her green eyes are soft, searching for an answer. He ducks his head away, leaving her hand hanging in the air.
“No, no. I’m fine. How’ve you been, Red?” Her eyebrows raise in surprise. She fiddles with the skirt of her Dorothy dress.
“I’m fine. It’s been nice not teaching classes this year. Being back in the lab with Hank is great.” She laughs. “Scott and I went grocery shopping together the other day. I never thought I would want something like that so bad.”
Logan hums and remembers cooking with Remy. “I’m glad, Red. You deserve it.” She smiles at him and tries to speak but is cut off by a crash from the living room. Remy is lying in a heap on the floor while Marie howls with laughter. Remy’s beer bottle rolls under the couch. Marie is trying to ask Remy if he's okay but stops to bend over in laughter.
“The hell are you two doin’?” Logan calls.
“I-” Marie sucks in a gasp of air. “I’m sorry, Remy, I didn’t know you were asleep!” Now Remy’s laughing with his face pressing into the side of the couch. His stupid fake sword is laying across his lap, contrasting his face red with laughter.
“Didn’t mean to startle ya’ like that, chere .” Jean laughs at the two.
“Probably time for bed, huh?” She says, mostly to Logan.
“Yeah. I’ll, uh, handle these two.” She nods and squeezes his arm before she leaves.
“C’mon, kid. Time to turn in.” He hauls Remy up. “You gonna get back to your room okay, kid?” He says to Marie. She’s barely tipsy, and he trusts her.
“Yup, I can. G’night, Lo.” She presses a quick kiss to his cheek.
“Night, Marie.” Remy is barely holding himself up, clinging onto Logan's arm.
“Jesus, kid, how much’d you drink?” The kid responds in a mumble. He leads them towards the stairs, trying to let Remy walk. But once they reach the stairs and he tries to get Remy to step up, the man is halfway limp and has his arms wrapped around Logan’s neck.
“Good lord,” he grumbles before scooping the kid into his arms.
“Awh, cher , how sweet o’ you,” Remy slurs in his ear. Unlike the other time’s Remy’s said it, his tone is laced with sincerity. And booze his mind supplies. Anything Remy’s saying right now is because of the massive amounts of alcohol in his system.
Logan tries to climb the stairs as quickly as he can without jostling Remy too much. He doesn’t want to know what Scott would say if he saw Remy almost passed out. He kicks the door to Remy’s room open with his foot.
“Here we are kid,” he mutters as he sets Remy down on the bed. Remy tries to sit up, get his boots off, but his hands barely grasp the laces. “Jesus.” Logan knocks Remy’s hands away and works the boots off. He gently eases them off of Remy’s feet, setting them to the side. When he looks up, Remy is gazing down at him. In the dark, his crimson pupils seem to glow.
“You need help wit’ anything else?” He mumbles, feeling perplexed by the look in Remy’s eyes.
“You don’ remember how we met?”
“Uh, no.” The question is startling.
Remy hums before trying to get his shirt over his head. It’s clearly taking all of his strength.
“I- Remy, just let me help.” His fingertips brush Remy’s ribs as he pulls the shirt off. In the darkness, he can’t admire Remy. He wishes he could.
“Lo, you don’ need to. Just lemme…” Logan doesn’t bother waiting for him, just looks away as he pops the button on Remy’s pants and leaves him to shimmy out of them. “Like ol’ times, yeah?” Remy quips.
Logan begins to blush. “The hell does that mean?” Remy squirms under his gaze, looking vulnerable now that’s stripped down to his boxers.
“I’m hurt, cher . When we met-” He suddenly pales, and doubles over. He doesn’t puke, thank God , but he groans weakly.
“Okay, just lay down, Jesus.” Trying to pull anything more out of him right now seems useless. He practically has to tuck Remy in, the man mumbling incoherently to him. He puts the trash can next to the bed. “Rems, I’m gonna go get you some water, ‘kay?” Remy mumbles something. He puts the whole bottle of aspirin on the nightstand, knowing Remy’s mutation makes him burn through pills.
“G’night, Remy.”