Generally speaking he didn’t mind a bit about weather. In fact, if somebody had asked him to name the one thing he genuinely loved, it probably would have been Canadian winters. Dry, cold weather, cold enough to freeze the balls off from a lesser man. Crisp air nipping his lungs, that small tingling on his skin that came when he stepped out from his truck and the icy queen wrapped her chilling fingers around him. Keywords in the whole equation being cold and dry. Dry enough to suck the moisture out of rocks, cold enough to turn that moisture instantly to ice.
Nothing like the weather back here. Watery slush on the ground, sloshing in his shoes, humid, sticky coldness from the fog creeping inside of him, chilling his bones and making his skin itch like he had a rash of the century. His joints ached. His teeth ached. His head ached. He felt somehow used up, like somebody had taken him in, chewed him for a while and had then spat him out on the sidewalk for everybody to step on. And he was genuinely cold. All the time. Shivering and shaking, hiding in his room because he truly didn’t want hear quips about how old age wasn’t coming alone.
“Nesting?”
“Screw you, Cyclops…” Animated pile of blankets of all sizes and shapes growled while passing Scott Summers on the hallway. When he had finally gotten enough of the humid coldness of his room Logan had taken upon a task to find anything and everything useful for turning his bed as comfortable and warm as possible. Extra pillows and quilts disappeared fast in to his room. He had been eyeing the pile of old newspapers in the kitchen but had discarded them quickly when the sharp scent of the ink had assaulted his senses after picking up the pile.
He had discarded his sticky, clammy clothes and was about to crawl under bunched up blankets when there was a knock on the door. He snatched quickly the nearest quilt and draped it over his shoulders, checking that it gave him a decent cover before opening the door.
“Hhh… Hi… Um… Ahem… There’s a situation. Meet us in the b-b-briefing room in ten m-m-min…” Ororo Munroe, X-Team’s serene weather goddess stuttered, corners of her mouth ticking alarmingly, her eyes scanning him from head to toes.
“I’ll be there,” Logan grunted closing the door. Walked to the closet, hoping to find something comfortable and warm to wear. Full body mirror attached to the closet’s door revealed the reason for Ororo’s gleefulness. Blanket he had chosen to cover himself was pale blue. Very pale blue. And adorned with images from children’s show he vaguely remembered seeing once. Teddy bears in all colors of the rainbow, their chubby arms spread, just waiting for a hug. Care Bears. Well, it was warm.
“Uh… W-Wolverine? What is your intake on this… This situation?” Cyclops asked, trying his best to suppress the laughter. Nobody laughed to the Wolverine. But it was damned near impossible not to laugh when he had shuffled in, wearing oversized, fluffy pullover, school’s light grey sweatpants, woolen socks over the sweats and pair of blue bunny slippers, with a blanket advertising Care Bears draped over his shoulders and around his neck. And were those really oven mitts on his hands?
“I say we go in and see what happens. It’s not like those fuckers have had any chances against us before.”
“Uh… Wolverine?” Storm approached him when they were sitting in the Blackbird, all suited up and ready to go.
“What?” He asked, trying to burrow deeper in to the cushions of his seat. Leather felt icy cold, but if he managed to minimize the amount of air between his back and the backrest it might actually…
“It’s a public place, and your attire…” Storm’s voice trailed off and her brows knit together.
“So? I have the uniform on.”
“Could you consider leaving off that pullover and the blanket?”
“Fine.” It was a brief struggle, but he managed to peel off the cream colored pullover and wrapped it carefully together with the blanket, burrowing his hands inside of the roll like it was some kind of strangely colored muff.
“What? I took them off! My hands are cold!” Logan snapped when Storm kept staring at him.
“Fine… Just leave them in the jet when we go out, okay?”
“What are you, the fashion police?”
“Wolverine…”
“Alright, alright! Let’s have it your way, then! Don’t see me complaining when you drag that grey sweater around…”
“I wear it at home when it’s cold. It isn’t even below freezing outside!”
“That’s the point! What’s with this pansy-ass-turning-you-to-sticky-freezing-liquid weather, Weather Girl? Getting sloppy with age?”
“Wolverine! Are you insinuating that I’m meddling with the weather? And what was that about my age?”
“Children, stop your bickering and daddy won’t have to spank you both when we get back home!” Cyclops’ irritated voice in the intercom silenced both Wolverine and Storm, and they sat rest of the flight staring at each other in muted rage.
“Jesus. That’s… That’s disgusting,” Cyclops grimaced.
“What? I don’t think this guy needs these anymore,” Wolverine grunted, flexing his fingers, testing the gloves he had taken from one of his opponents. One of his very dead and very mutilated opponents. He had had to hunt through pile of dismembered body parts to find a matching pair, but it had been well worth the trouble. Gloves were soft leather, with warm inner lining, yet fit to his hands like they were made for him. All he would have to do was to clean off the blood, and Prrrresto! He’d have something better to keep his hands warm than those oven mitts he had stolen from the school’s kitchen.
“We have to do something,” Ororo huffed. Scott rubbed his chin tiredly.
“I agree. This is getting out of hands. Could you… You know…” He asked, gesturing towards bluish grey sky through the window of Professor Xavier’s office. Professor Xavier looked appalled, and Ororo apparently shared his opinion.
“No. The weather is as it should be. It’s not my place to go meddling with it.”
“Then what do you suggest? I’m afraid it’s already gone past what’s sane and healthy. All those blankets and heaters… If Logan’s not careful, he’ll burn down the whole mansion! And don’t get me even started with electric bills…” Scott huffed. Professor Xavier shook his head, his eyes staring in to distance, somewhere past the wet, slushy garden outside.
“I’m afraid this leaves us with only one choice.”
“Professor?” Scott spoke. Professor Xavier raised his palm to silence him.
“It is a hard decision. We have already looked through every other option. I’m going to make a phone call.”
“Professor, do we even have the right to…” Ororo started. One glance towards the open doorway was enough to silence her. Logan flashed past the office, carrying armful of hot water bottles and yet another electric heater.
“Make the call. And do it quick,” Scott said, standing up from the couch and going after Logan. He’d have to ask from him from where exactly did he manage to find all those heaters. He’d have to ask him to give away at least few of those. Logan would otherwise short circuit the whole east wing of the mansion.
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Author's Chapter Notes:
It's not really about Pepe and Tweedy, but if you have been reading my stories before, you probably knew that already. :)