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Author's Chapter Notes:
A/N: In which Logan sings lullabies. Logan’s chair makes a cameo appearance in this story, lol ;) It’s crossing over Roganverses!

Suggested listening: “Mr. Mom” Lonestar


Well
Pampers melt in a Maytag dryer
Crayons go up one drawer higher
Rewind Barney for the fifteenth time
Breakfast, six naps at nine
There's bubble gum in the baby's hair
Sweet potatoes in my lazy chair
Been crazy all day long and it's only Monday
Mr. Mom
Logan could swear he’d only been asleep fifteen minutes when Marie’s first angry wail split the quiet humming of the mansion’s heat as it kicked on in the chilly New England fall weather.

Fumbling desperately for the sports watch he often left on his bedside table, he picked it up, bleary eyed, and squinted at the taunting digital letters than stared back at him, glowing red in the darkness.

2:30 A.M.

Son of a bitch.

Rolling over, he fell out of bed unexpectedly and hit his face on the heel of one of Marie’s combat boots laying in a pile of dirty clothes that he hadn’t taken to the laundry room as requested by his girlfriend.

Who happened to be raising holy hell in miniature on the other side of the room.

“Owwwww…” Logan groaned. Maybe if he just lay there and pretended to be dead Marie would hush.

No such luck. Marie just wailed louder.

Wiping blood from his nose and then dragging the back of his hand across his boxer shorts, Logan managed to right himself and stalked towards the baby bassinet. He gently placed one large, calloused palm behind Marie’s floppy little neck, the other supporting her back as he lifted her to lay on his bare chest.

Marie hiccupped, then quieted.

“It’s okay, little lady, I gotcha.” He murmured, stroking her back. He shifted her so that her little head was in the crook of his neck. So rearranged and at an optimal distance from Logan’s over sensitive ears, Marie promptly resumed crying.

Mentally going over his what-happens-if-Marie-cries-and-won’t-stop-crying checklist, Logan immediately began step one.

The baby dance.

This of course, involved a lot of little bounces as he walked, turned, pirouetted, and glided across the room. The baby dance, he had been assured by Hank, was a tried and true method of baby control perfected by mothers for thousands of years. Instead of making Marie stop crying, however, it just made her cry in little short bursts, each interrupted by a less loud shriek.

“Awahwah…uh…awahwah…uh…awahwah,” went Marie as Logan bounced. It sounded almost as comical as the time he caught Scooter talking to himself through an oscillating fan during a Danger Room simulation.

Except of course, that instead of hearing Scooter singing a song about how he liked to eat bananas, a baby’s ear splitting shriek looped infinitely in his ears.

Maybe he should baby dance harder?

Now practically hopping like a bunny, Logan continued to baby dance as he debated his next course of action. He even added in a hip swivel for good measure. Thinking back to his mental list, Logan attempted to catalog Marie’s crying. Marie was not crying like she was hungry, maybe diaper problems?

A quick lift-and-sniff check indicated that Marie could do with a fresh one.

Dancing her into the bathroom, Logan rolled out the yoga-mat looking thing he had purchased during his earlier, hellacious shopping trip that was apparently used for changing diapers onto the fluffy, multicolored rag rug he and Marie had purchased during a trip to Nantucket.

He laid Marie down and evaluated the package of diapers marked 6-7 months, mentally gauging Marie’s size versus the diaper he now held in his hands. Turning back around, he found Marie slightly wedged in between the bottom cabinet and the floor, where she had rolled in her temper tantrum. Little, pounding baby fists made tiny cracks and craters in the travertine tile floor, and Logan, not without difficult and subsequently losing a chunk of arm hair – upon which he cursed colorfully – un-wedged Marie and re-deposited her on the baby mat.

Grabbing her by the tiny ankles and jerking her upwards, Logan quickly sliced the diaper of her, tossed it in the trash, then positioned her, tongue slipping between lip and teeth in concentration, as he wiped, then powdered – to which both he and Marie sneezed horribly – and rediapered her as quick as any Nascar pit team.

Slightly proud of himself, Logan picked up his hiccupping baby and walked back towards the door. Once inside the room, he gently baby danced towards the bassinet, whereupon he shimmied Marie lower, and lower, until she rested in the soft cotton coverlet.

Tucking the light pastel baby blanket around her and laying a gentle, whiskery kiss on her forehead, he sighed and turned longingly to look at his bed.

Bed.

Ah.

Logan’s head hit the pillow, his ears still slightly ringing, and his eyes fluttered shut. God he was exhausted…

“AWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWWAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!”

“Ohhhhhhh…” Logan groaned, pounding his fists into the mattress beneath him in silent protest, “When I catch those FoH fuckers they are going to pay for every damn second of this.”

Staggering out of bed once more, eyes bloodshot, Logan lifted Marie up into his arms again, then somehow slumped into his favorite, worn leather chair. Propping his feet up on the footstool, he gently swayed back and forth as Marie cried, hot wet tears dripping down his chest. One hand patted her back and held her close, the other cradled her baby-soft hair.

“Marie, please, baby, please.” Logan almost groaned, “Please, please go to sleep baby.”

Marie continued to cry.

God, what could be wrong with her? He had changed her, she was full, he had burped her, bathed her, what else could a baby need? Going over his mental list once more, Logan finally opened his mouth, and began to sing.

"Rockabye, and goodnight," he hummed.

Marie cried louder.

Maybe something different?

"Hush little baby, don't say a word, Logan's gonna buy you a Dodge Charger..."

"WAAAAAAAAHHHHH."

"Goddammit, a 1969 Marie, a 1969 Dodge Charger, not a new one, don't cry!" Logan growled, frustrated at himself, at Marie. What could this little ball of angst possibly want him to sing? He rattled his already rattled brains, finally coming upon one of Marie's favorites.

“If I leave here tomorrow, would you still remember me?” he started, voice gravelly with lack of sleep, “For I must be traveling on now, Cause there’s many places I’ve got to see.”

Marie quieted slightly, and a tiny coo slipped from her lips.

Ah! Success!

Rocking back and forth, Logan continued, “But if I stayed here with you girl, things just couldn’t be the same.”

Marie cooed again, and this time she nuzzled into his chest. Her wet baby eyelashes fluttered slowly against his chest, and her breathing evened out.

Singing quieter, “Cause I’m as free as a bird now, and this bird you cannot change.”

Stroking her back, Logan felt her heartbeat slow into a steady, sleepy beat.

Peeking down warily, Logan smiled gently at the sleeping baby on his chest, her little face lit up by moonlight.

“G’night, M’rie.” Logan mumbled, leaning back into the comfortable place where the chair and its arm met, eyes fluttering shut.
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