The ground beneath him felt clammy and cold, and something was pricking Logan’s face. His senses buzzed with myriad sensations: The wind dusting over his bare flesh; bits of grass tickling him in strange places; the sore stiffness of his muscles, telling him he had changed last night. He groaned hollowly and tried to push himself up on his elbows, but the movement made his head ring. Up above him, the sun shone warm and blinding, and he didn’t panic immediately at the implications.
Daylight. Morning.
And… he was still outside.
“Aw, shit.” His voice sounded crackly and rough to his own ears. He spat out the bits of dirt that invaded his mouth during his impromptu nap and pushed himself up on his arms. Logan scrubbed his face with his palm as his vision rebooted itself, slowly processing all the colors and shapes of daylight.
Just as he made out the familiar curb and beige stone pavers, seeing them from the incorrect perspective, he knew he’d fucked up again, but this time-
“Okay. Hey. Hi, there. You’re on my lawn, buddy. Little chilly this morning, don’t you think?”
“Geez…”
“Heeyyyyyy. Rise and shine, there, pal.”
Logan twisted himself around halfway, craning his head around to stare over his shoulder, toward that resigned voice. A rich, low alto with a slight Bronx accent. From his vantage point, he only saw ankles and long, elegant feet shod in taupe high heels. “This probably looks bad.”
“You’re raising a few eyebrows, buddy.”
“Lemme just get up-”
“Don’t. Just… if we’re looking for any chance of a dignified conversation, don’t get up yet. Here.” Logan felt something soft and heavy fall over him. “Might not be your color. Might not be your style. But try to make do.”
Logan fumbled with the edge of the fabric, a soft, fuzzy chenille. Pink. Shit. His morning was looking just peachy so far. “Thanks. I guess.”
“Oh, it’s my absolute pleasure.”
“You always this much of a morning person, darlin’?” Logan shrugged his way into the robe, jerking it up his arms. It was snug on them, straining across his too-broad back, but like the lady suggested, he’d have to “make do” until he could make his escape to lick his wounds.
“Oh, and you’re not?”
Okay. He’d had that one coming. Still. Logan rose stiffly, attempting to brush off the bits of grass clinging to his chilled skin, until he realized that her other neighbors were beginning their rides to school and commutes and getting an eyeful. He watched a slender blonde in a white linen suit covering her daughter’s eyes across the street and giving him a death glare. Logan nodded and gave her a casual smile as he tied the too-short sash to cover himself.
“Hey. Mornin’.”
“Pervert,” she hissed.
“Enjoy yer day, ma’am.” He waved, and she shook her head, rolling her eyes as she loaded her Girl Scout into the back of her BMW and pulled out of the driveway.
“So. I don’t know what’s going on. You told me the last time this happened that you sleepwalk?”
“Yeah… more or less. Look, I’m sorry.”
He turned to face her, and once again, Logan’s brain and libido both screamed at him, You’re fucked. No woman had the right to be that beautiful, and unfortunately, Logan had developed a track record for annoying her.
Her voice held a note of sympathy and she adjusted her purse strap on her shoulder. “Did you have a bad night?”
Logan hugged the robe more tightly against himself. It reached his knees. The object of his nighttime visit and ongoing admiration towered over him, and it did things to his self control to imagine how little of her long legs it left exposed. They made his mouth water at the moment, sheathed in off-black nylons, showcased by the almost-too-short-for-daytime tapered skirt. He caught himself staring and immediately forced his traitorous eyes to focus on her face.
That didn’t make it any easier for him. God, she was beautiful. Sapphire blue eyes with dark, curling lashes watched him with a mixture of annoyance and genuine concern. And maybe just a hint of amusement at the sight of him wrapped in pink chenille printed with teacups and saucers. The Victoria’s Secret tag in the neckline made Logan itch.
Logan exhaled a shaky breath. “Yeah. A bad night? You could say that. That I had, uh… a bad night.”
“Okay. Well.” She shrugged and checked her watch. “I’ve got to get going. I only get paid if I actually show up to work. This has been fun.”
“Hey, darlin’? I just… I’m sorry, all right?”
His voice sounded resigned and sad. His smile was awkward, not quite reaching his eyes.
“Try to have a better day, then. Okay?”
“Sure.”
“For the time being, keep the robe.”
“I can bring it back later-”
“Don’t worry about it.”
She tipped off in those heels, and Logan caught a whiff of her feminine scent. Coffee, sandalwood, and the warm, sweet pheromones of her hair. It always got his motor running, and it invaded his dreams. It was no wonder his changes inevitably brought him back here.
Every full moon. He wondered if she even noticed the pattern.
She paused before she got into her car. “Logan?”
That made him pause in starting his Walk of Shame. “Yeah, darlin’?”
“It’s… probably not the best idea to sleep in the nude. If you’re going to sleepwalk.”
“I’ll take that under advisement.” His voice was dry. Her lips twitched.
“Bye, now.”
She drove off. Logan kicked himself all the way home, cursing his lycan instincts not for the first time, and certainly not for the last.
He didn’t know why he did what he did. Why showing up on her doorstep - scratch that, her lawn - was so routine for him.
But if he had to name a reason, if he had any inkling of why, Logan considered, it was because being around Ororo Munroe felt safe.
The wolf in him trusted her.
Logan just wished that he could have more chill, though, because this was getting awkward.
*
The Walk of Shame was always a walk because Logan never had his wallet in his pants when he woke up. What, with having no pants on, and all. A Cab Ride of Shame would have made his day. Just once.
He inevitably ran into Remy when he came out to check his mail. Logan could have predicted his reaction to the robe. He paused in sorting the junk mail from the bills as he took in the pink robe.
“Least it ain’t Frederick’s, mec.”
“Yeah. Lucked out this time, fer sure.”
“Beats newspaper,” Remy shrugged. Ororo might have gotten sick of Logan stealing her newspaper and making a makeshift skirt for himself.
He wondered if he was wearing her down.
Remy discovered Logan’s affliction one night when he was taking out the trash in the middle of the night after coming back from a late shift at his radio station. Logan scared the crap out of him when he went to dump his old beer bottles into the recycling dumpster. Logan had growled at him, making Remy drop the bottles, shattering them loudly on the asphalt.
The lycan was fearsome in the darkness, eyes glowing that eerie green-gold, snags of sharp teeth gleaming. Remy was taller than the creature, but he was built like a tank, covered in this, coarse brown fur. Remy had interrupted him while he’d been stalking a squirrel.
Remy froze as the creature glared at him, growling and whuffling in the darkness. His heart pounded as he watched him sizing Remy up. Remy tried to make himself “taller” in the hopes that would intimidate him.
That just made him pissed.
“RAWRRRRGGGHH!!”
“Aw, shit!”
Remy’s bad midnight snack habit saved his life. The creature approached him slowly, growling and baring his teeth. Cruel talons protruded from his fingers, and he moved with predatory grace. Terror speared Remy’s chest and he broke out in a cold sweat. “Oh m’God,” he breathed, not recognizing his own voice. The sound of it, a breathy whimper at best, confirmed the beast’s advantage over him and his raw power. He breathed in the scent of Remy’s fear.
It was a rush.
Remy was alone in the parking lot. Unarmed. Unprotected.
Then the creature paused, still regarding Remy and cocking his head slightly.
“Easy, mec,” Remy urged. “S’okay. Ain’ gon’ hurt ya, I swear!”
The creature made a thoughtful noise in his throat and stared at Remy’s chest, relieving Remy of that stare from those eerie golden eyes. His snoutlike nose bunched up as he sniffed Remy with interest. He was close enough now that his whiskers brushed Remy’s skin. Remy felt like he would pee himself any second.
Remy risked a glance down at his chest and noticed the lump sticking up out of his shirt pocket. The familiar, bright yellow plastic wrapper winked up at him. “Whut… y’wan dis?” Remy huffed a nervous laugh and reached in to take out the Slim Jim spicy beef stick. He’d grabbed two of them from the vending machine and wolfed one down on the ride home, intending to enjoy the other one with his Corona before bed. He took out the Slim Jim and waved it at the creature… man… whatever it was.
He watched incredulously as the creature’s face went from menacing to eager. Remy thrust the stick toward him, and he cringed as the creature snatched it from his hand. He turned away from Remy and tore at the stick with his teeth. He backed away from Remy, who edged away from the dumpster and sidled in the direction of the pavement. He watched the creature fight with the stubborn wrapper, ripping it open with his teeth, before he savored the questionable, salty beef.
Remy locked himself in his apartment after making the breathless sprint back and slamming the door shut. He heard the creature’s low growls behind him, but he had no plans to entertain him any further.
Remy didn’t know whether to call the police, or animal control. Either way, he knew no one would believe him.
*
When he had similar encounters with him around the apartment complex “ the last time, Remy had to lure Logan away from the Nelsons’ yappy dog with a package of raw chuck steak “ Remy finally realized that he had to live nearby. The creature was unpredictable, but once he began to recognize Remy during his excursions, by sight and by scent, he was friendlier, or at least less hostile. Feeding him kept him from roaming as far.
Talking to him, though, paid off. Logan understood speech in that form. And he apparently respected Remy when he finally stood up to him.
“Dis ain’t workin’, mec. Folks don’t take well t’havin’ de wits scared out o’ dem in the wee hours, ya hear? G’wan t’bed. Wherever dat is.”
The werewolf bristled at him, whining.
“I mean it. You behave.”
He growled at Remy, cocking his head, then crouching in supplication, but Remy folded his arms.
“Bedtime,” Remy ordered firmly. He even used his Dad Voice.
He followed the creature at a distance as he loped off, tracking him to the apartment complex next door to his. Remy saw him head for a downstairs unit whose door was slightly ajar. The creature wandered inside, snuffling and bumping into furniture. Remy hovered just inside the door. The apartment showed signs of a disturbance; Remy noticed a couple of broken dishes in the kitchen, and a throw pillow on the floor of the living room that had been torn to shreds. The refrigerator door hung open, and Remy saw a Styrofoam meat tray coated in a thin, telltale layer of chicken juice.
Remy’s new friend had gone out for dessert. All right.
Remy lingered in the apartment, cautiously, as he watched the creature head for the bedroom. He was tired, not unlike a toddler after a day at the park.
He collapsed onto the bed. Within minutes, he dozed off, chest rising and falling in broad, jerking huffs. Remy spied the digital clock on the nightstand. It was four-thirty AM. Remy sighed. Anyone up at that hour had a story to tell, and Remy was dying to hear it, even though he doubted his own sense of self-preservation at that point and questioned his sanity for it.
The creature slumbered quietly. Remy yawned, already drowsy himself, and he slumped in the corner and watched him. His eyes eventually drooped shut; by that time, the sky outside shifted from indigo to royal blue, and the last of the stars faded from sight.
Remy woke up to a hand poking him in the chest, then roughly shaking him.
“Wanna tell me how ya ended up here in my apartment, bub?”
Remy startled slightly and stared with bleary eyes at the short, burly fortysomething man with thick, wild dark hair who stared right back at him, clutching a bedsheet around himself. “Ya left de do’ open after I sent ya t’bed, dat’s how, mec.”
“After you… what, now?”
“Ya owe me a chuck steak. A few o’ dem, as a matter o’ fact.”
Realization dawned in Logan’s hazel eyes. “Oh. Shit.”
“I didn’ steal nut’in’,” Remy offered. But his new friend looked alarmed and much less furry than he had the night before. He reached for Remy, touching him, patting him down and checking for injury.
“Please tell me I didn’t hurt ya!”
“Ya didn’t. Kept me on my toes, though, pal. And I kept you outta trouble.”
He looked contrite, resting back on his haunches. “Wow. Okay. So, uh. I guess some explanations are in order.”
“An introduction wouldn’ hurt, either.”
“Logan. Call me Logan.”
“Remy LeBeau. Pleased ta meetcha. Now that we got dat outta de way, mind puttin’ on some pants?”
*
Remy learned that Logan was lonely. That wasn’t a huge leap in logic. He hadn’t dated anyone since he began to change, following an attack by a wolf that he’d accidentally hit when it loped out into the road one night. He’d gotten out of the car to check it and to call the vet. It thanked him for his concern by sinking its teeth into his wrist.
Logan lived a quiet life, otherwise. Weekend golfer. Gym rat. Definitely an outdoor person. Worked at a lumber yard and was amicably divorced. No kids. Loved dogs. (Again, not a stretch.)
And he formed attachments easily, out of that loneliness. He and Remy got on thick as thieves.
*
The last time Logan checked the bookshelves, he didn’t see any “Being a Werewolf for Dummies” manual. He felt weird about visiting online forums, wondering if anyone was tracking his web surfing history. Some of the forums made him raise his eyebrows, because a) they lacked practical advice, and b) some visitors mistook the term “werewolf” for “furry,” and it all went downhill from there. Anyway…
Logan would have preferred to meet his soul mate “ the woman his instincts told him was his future pack mate “ under more ideal circumstances and in a nicer location. Say, a coffee shop. In the grocery produce section. At church, or at a barbecue through a “friend of a friend.” The emergency room, lying on a gurney surrounded by kids with middle of the night ear infections, drunks who got punched in the jaw, and gunshot victims? Logan never expected to find the perfect woman there, and certainly never would have picked it as the place to begin his courtship.
Her scent enticed him, tickling his senses “ which inexplicably grew much sharper as the night wore on - and drawing his focus from the noise and suffering around him. “Mr. Howlett?” Logan looked up from the bandage on his wrist, which itched horribly, making him wish he could chew it off… an urge which puzzled him. One look at the source of that voice made Logan feel like someone punched him in the chest.
“I’m the discharge planner. I’m here to see if you have a good plan for getting home tonight?”
“Gonna take myself, darlin.’ Same way I got here.”
“You’re sure?” She checked his chart. “Okay. Looks like the painkillers you have on board won’t make you too woozy.”
“I’ll be fine, darlin.’”
She smirked at his use of the pet name. Seeing her mouth, full, soft, and gleaming with raisin lipstick did things to him.
She burst his bubble the next moment. “Can I see your ID and copy of your insurance card? I need a copy so we can bill this visit.”
“Huh? Oh. Sure.” Having to roll, flail and fumble for his wallet where it was tucked into his hip pocket wasn’t his smoothest move. She was the only staff member not dressed in scrubs paramedic gear, or a flight care jumpsuit, even though it was the wee hours of the night. He handed her the cards, and she smiled as she took them.
“Are you warm enough? Want a blanket while you’re waiting to head out?”
“Uh… no. No, I’m fine.”
“Don’t want you to catch a draft.”
“I run warm.”
For just a second, she looked at him like that thought appealed to her.
*
Yet, over time, that new trait got him into the most trouble.
Shifting made him run hot. As soon as the full moon rose, Logan felt liquid fire pouring through his veins, consuming his blood as his muscles and bones tore themselves apart and rebuilt themselves into new shapes. Hair burst through his skin, prickly and coarse, oversensitizing him and making him itch. In that form, he couldn’t tolerate clothing. Logan usually found whatever he was wearing rent and ripped to pieces, lying on the floor for him to trip over the next morning when he staggered home.
Logan struggled. It was his affliction, and he felt ashamed of it, tired of feeling so out of control at “that time of the month.” Yet, he felt stronger. Bolder. He’d never been in better health, and there was something about the wolf inside him… it was liberating.
But these feelings… for Ororo. They presented a new obstacle for him.
His senses kept leading him back to her doorstep.
And she thought Logan was a total nut job.
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Story Notes:
Taken from the Tumblr prompt, “Apparently not even my werewolf form can forget my big fat crush on you, since I keep waking up naked in your yard.”
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