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"You know what I was thinking?"
He grunted, but she'd known him long enough to tell an inquisitive grunt from a dismissive one. It came to be an important skill for communicating to someone who used words more sparingly than anyone else she'd ever met, but Marie wondered at times whether that was because he compensated with his face. When he taught there was always a studied neutrality there that after a while she had come to recognize as a cover for nervousness; when he fought it was strategically fierce, although she knew now that it was interest, more than anger, that carried him through most fights. Now it was his focus on the task at hand that had marked a deep frown of concentration on his features, and a white line where he'd caught his lips between his teeth. She wondered whether there might have been sweat under his nose, if it wasn't so near freezing here in the garage.
Despite the cold, blowing in through the cracks around the doors in windows and swirling around her in ribbons, Marie felt warm enough. When she offered earlier to help him out here, that was the first thing he'd said — that it'd be too cold for her. But the thermal undershirt she'd picked out on a whim on her last trip to the city was paying off, as was the old leather jacket he'd brought for her and wordlessly thrown over her shoulders before they came down here. Marie fingered the hem of her sweater, a deep forest green that she loved.
"Hand me the JIS?"
Logan's extended hand was the only clue that he'd been addressing her and not the motorcycle he was hunched over, one knee bent and another on the ground. A discarded wrench sat between them, as well as the bottle that had caught small drippings from the fuel hose when he disconnected it. She glanced at the mess of repair tools sticking out every which way from the pockets of his red tool bag.
He didn't really need her here, handing tools from two feet away and making sure the screws didn't roll away while he took out the carburetor to clean the clogged pilot jets. But over lunch he'd mentioned planning to do this, and in Marie's experience Logan doled out information in very precise measures. If he'd mentioned it, he had wanted her to know. Her participation has become something of a ritual by now.
The first time she'd helped him with the bike, he'd made no effort to hide his skepticism, even as he directed her to stand in the rear brake while he got up close and personal with the front sprocket. But then right as the nut came loose she said, "I'm surprised you don't have an impact gun," and he stumbled half a step in surprise before shooting her a suspicious stare under a raised eyebrow. Marie had tapped a finger on her temple, a multi tenant dwelling if there ever was one, and he'd grumbled under his breath as he went about putting the bike on a stand.
From then on, she'd volunteered, and occasionally even been drafted, for a number of bike repairs — enough that if she hadn't started out knowing what a JIS screwdriver was, she probably would have learned by now. But she'd known all along. The sensation was familiar but still strange: a rustle through the undergrowth of her thoughts that preceded somebody else's memories moving into the light. There was no acknowledgement when she passed him the blue-handled tool, unless she counted the next screw, deposited in her open palm for her to handle.
"Ya never said what you were thinking," he said.
That caught her by surprise, although it really shouldn't have. He always, always listened; it was one of her favorite things about him.
"I was thinking I could make us some eggnog."
Pivoting on his knee, he gave her the first real look in a good fifteen minutes. His puckered face, however, was less than encouraging.
" Eggnog ?"
She shrugged, flushing a little. "What? I like eggnog."
He turned back to the bike. "I'll pass on that, kid."
With a huff, she lined up the screw alongside the others between his right foot and the spot where she was kneeling, heels tucked under her ass to prevent it from literally freezing on the concrete.
"You can spike it, you know, in case that's the problem."
The note of teasing on her voice stretched right up to the edge of annoyance. She wasn't always as ready to dispense with tradition and cheerfulness as Logan seemed to be. Two days away from Christmas, and against the backdrop of season-appropriate music played on Hank's insistence after dinner, eggnog was a perfectly reasonable suggestion. She might even say eggnog was downright fitting.
"Let me get this straight." Logan's attention went to the next screw, his long fingers turning the tool quickly. "Not only do you want me to eat some egg concoction," he began, putting the next screw in her hand without looking, "but you want me to ruin perfectly good bourbon trying to make it tolerable?"
She gave him a silly little pout that always made him look at her mouth. "You're such a grinch ."
"What I am ," he said seriously, and something about the tone of his voice tugged already at the corner of her lips. She'd long known that the exaggerated grumpiness was an act; what she'd only recently discovered was that now and then he turned it up to make her laugh. "Is a man who knows what bourbon's meant to go in, and that sure as hell ain't eggnog, kid."
"Well, enlighten me then." She smiled at him, frankly defiant. "What is bourbon meant to go in?"
A click of his tongue. "There is one thing you make with a good bourbon—"
"Whiskey sours," she cut in, voice threaded with a chuckle because she knew Old-fashioneds had been on the tip of his tongue, but he'd never forsake whiskey sours.
"Alright, there's two things—"
"And a Mint Julep," she added, skipping Manhattans because he thought vermouth was bullshit.
"Alright, there's multiple things you make with good bourbon," he said, changing strategy, "and not a one of them involves an egg ."
She gave him a crooked smile, mirroring the light in his eyes, and stuck out the tip of her tongue. “Said the grinch .”
He shook his head, lowering it to hide a smile as he set the last screw in her hand and she placed it next to the others, forming a neat arch to help keep track of where they had come from. He wiggled the carburetor out of the embrace of the boots and set it down. Marie's mind wandered in the silence. Maybe if she made eggnog, Jubilee and Kitty would join her for a glass. Or maybe Hank, who had turned out to be a staunch believer in the prescribed cheer of the holidays, had already made some.
The screwdriver clinked as Logan worked the float bowl. Absent-mindedly, Marie reached for the compressed air and sighed.
"You gonna clean the whole thing," she asked, referring to the carburetor, "while you have it out?"
She felt his glance in her direction as she watched her boots, swaying back-and-forth in time with her boredom.
"Nah," Logan said, taking the can from her. A loud hiss. "Not tonight, anyway." Out of the corner of his eye he glanced at her. "Tell you what," he said, fingertips tracking grease on his jeans, which she mentally noted were now officially too hopeless for the laundry. "You pick a proper drink when we're done here, and I'll mix it." Another side-eyed gander. "After you get your eggnog."
She smiled. "I don't have to have eggnog. I just wanted something…" She sank into her shoulders, looking around for the word. "Christmassy, I guess."
"Christmassy, huh?" he grunted, maneuvering the compressed air that shushed them both periodically. "You telling me sitting out here on this cold garage floor cleaning out a carb ain't it?"
She rolled her eyes. "Santa has elves, but who knew the Grinch required a motorcycle repair assistant?"
His chuckle rolled around the room, warming her a little. Logan sat back on his haunches, facing her now. "S'why I keep you around, kid. Someone's gotta keep up the holiday spirit.”
"Really?" She arched an eyebrow. "I thought it was cause I know the difference between a JIS and a Phillips."
"Yeah, well. Throw a Pozidriv into the mix and we'll see if you're the real thing. 'Sides…" He reached over with a smirk that was almost a smile, and tapped a finger gently on her temple. "Ain't that me up there knowing the difference?"
Marie laughed, but even after the moment passed his hand seemed to linger there a moment, and when he pulled it away after a beat the static had made fine brown and white hairs cling to his rough skin, moved by the literal spark between them.
"Some of it is me," she said quietly. It wasn't only that she'd learned from him; there had been Sunday mornings helping her dad, and a grandmother who had loved vintage cars as much as Logan — and now Marie — loved motorcycles. "And I do like whiskey cocktails."
He smoothed the back of his hand over her hair to get the strays to lie flat, suddenly interested in the jacket she was wearing. "I know. Two cherries in your Old-fashioned, right? And Rusty Nails like your meemaw used to drink."
He always, always listened.
But then his hand was off her hair and his eyes were on the bike again, seemingly pondering something. "Carb ain't going anywhere. I'll clean it tomorrow and put it back on." Standing up, he extended a hand, which she took despite the grease and the fact that she didn't need it. "How about I make us a fire up in the faculty room? That Christmassy enough for ya?"
"Warming up." She winked, pleased with her little joke. " Literally ."
"Some mulled wine? That ain't a bad use of bourbon."
"That one's nice," she said. "Might make us warm enough to build that fire outside, even. You know that spot by the lake I like?"
"It's freezing cold out, kid," he said, skeptical.
"Let me clarify, I'm definitely making you go out first to build the fire."
He actually snorted, but then his face softened. "And that counts as Christmassy?"
No rustle in her mind this time. Marie agreed with a smile. "It does if I can get you to say that word three more times."
They moved towards the door. He dropped the toolbag just inside the room where he kept his tools, so well-organized that back in the day Scott had often invoked it as a counter-attack when Logan gave him hell for being anal. The squeak of his boots on the concrete floor rubbed against the perfect quiet of the world outside, soundproofed by a fresh cover of snow. Marie followed him with stiff steps, feeling the cold now more than before. Near the threshold he stopped for a second, like maybe he'd forgotten something, and looked at her over his shoulder.
A mumble, barely audible. "That ain't really why. You know that, right?"
It took her a moment to process that and understand he was talking about why he kept her around. Her breath hitched in her throat as she tried to think of what to say. All she could muster was to reach out and barely graze his forearm with her fingers. Logan turned away again, but she thought she saw a smile.
"Alright, woman. Let’s see about getting Christmassy.”