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The mansion’s grounds stretched wide and green, humming with late summer life: bees drifting lazily over the flowerbeds, the occasional rustle of students’ laughter echoing faintly from somewhere out of sight.
Morph carried the basket. It was woven wicker and lined with a checkered cloth. Logan had raised an eyebrow when he saw it in the kitchen, but he hadn’t said anything. Now, as they crossed the lawn toward a patch of shade under the big oak, Logan finally grunted, “Didn’t know we owned somethin’ that fancy.”
Morph grinned, swinging the basket like a trophy. “I borrowed it from Ororo. She has a stash of things for ‘special occasions.’ I think this counts.”
Logan gave a quiet snort, but his lips twitched like he was fighting a smile. “Hmph. ‘Special occasion,’ huh?”
“Yeah,” Morph said simply. “Us.”
Logan glanced at them, quick and sharp, before looking away just as fast. But his shoulders eased, and he didn’t argue.
They spread the blanket under the tree. Morph took their time setting things out: sandwiches, a thermos of iced tea, strawberries, and even a small container of potato salad.
“You went all out,” Logan muttered, sitting cross-legged on the blanket.
“I didn’t make the potato salad,” Morph admitted. “That was Hank. He said it needed ‘a touch of chemistry’ to emulsify the dressing, whatever that means.”
Logan eyed the container with suspicion, then shrugged and reached for a sandwich.
For a while, they just ate. The quiet between them wasn’t awkward, but rather peaceful. Logan kept his eyes on the horizon, the slope of the trees, and some students running a frisbee game farther down the lawn. Morph watched him sometimes, unable to help it.
“You know,” Morph said at last, “you’re the only person who didn’t laugh when I suggested this.”
Logan’s brow furrowed. “Who’d you tell?”
“Rogue. Gambit. Jean overheard.” Morph shrugged. “Let’s just say their reactions ranged from raised eyebrows to snickering.”
“Don’t see what’s funny about it,” Logan said flatly.
Morph tilted their head, lips curving. “I don’t think any of them thought you would go for it. The Wolverine on a picnic isn’t exactly a common sight.”
“Only for you, bub.”
Morph dusted their hands on the blanket once the last strawberry stem was tossed back into the basket. “Alright,” they said brightly, leaning over and pulling something from the basket. “Now for the real entertainment.”
Logan raised an eyebrow at the deck of cards Morph held up between two fingers. “You plannin’ on hustlin’ me?”
“Tempting,” Morph said, shifting into Gambit for a moment to shuffle the cards, then back into themself, “but no. Thought I’d teach you something easy. Two-player. Low stakes.”
Logan eyed them skeptically, hands flexing unconsciously against his thigh. “What’s the game?”
“War,” Morph announced. “Classic. Simple. No strategy required. Which is probably good, since you look like you’d rather stab the deck than play.”
“Stabin’ might be faster.”
Morph smirked, then dealt the cards into two piles. “Here. You don’t have to think, you just flip. High card wins. Kings beat queens, twos lose to everything, aces rule the world. If it’s a tie, that’s ‘war.’ We put three cards face down, one face-up; the winner takes all.”
Logan picked up his pile gingerly, like the cards might bite him. “Sounds like a waste of time.”
“It is,” Morph agreed cheerfully, “but in a fun way.”
The first few rounds went quickly, Logan flipping his cards with little more than a grunt. Morph narrated the results with dramatic flair, “And the seven slays the five! What a battle! The crowd goes wild!” until Logan finally huffed a laugh under his breath.
By the fifth round, Logan frowned down at another losing card. “This game’s rigged.”
Morph leaned back on one elbow, grinning. “It’s literally luck. You just have terrible card karma.”
“Figures.”
Then came their first tie: a pair of nines. Morph clapped their hands like a stage emcee. “And now… war!” They threw three cards down with exaggerated flourish, then flipped the fourth. A king. Logan’s was a three.
Morph swept the pile dramatically toward themselves. “Annihilated. Utter devastation. You never stood a chance.”
Logan gave them a long, narrow-eyed look. “You enjoy this too much.”
“Yup.”
As the game went on, Logan grew more animated in spite of himself. He grumbled about his luck, muttered threats at the deck, and once or twice accused Morph of stacking the cards when they weren’t looking. Morph countered every accusation with a ridiculous commentary voice or a triumphant cheer.
When Logan finally flipped a winning ace, he let out a sharp bark of satisfaction, so sudden that Morph jumped before breaking into helpless laughter. “There it is!” they crowed. “Victory! You feel it? You like it? Admit it, Logan, you’re hooked.”
“Don’t push it,” he said, but there was a smirk tugging at his mouth.
Eventually, the cards dwindled back and forth until Morph was laughing so hard at Logan’s sulky face that they could barely breathe.
“You’re terrible at this,” they teased, wiping their eyes. “Truly awful. It’s a gift, honestly.”
“Glad I can impress ya,” Logan rumbled, though the hard lines of his face softened by something rare, amusement.
Morph leaned over and bumped their shoulder against his. “That’s the point, you know. Not the winning. Just… the fun.”
Logan looked up at them, his smirk fading into something gentler. His hand brushed over theirs where the cards lay scattered on the blanket, rough and warm. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “And it is with you.”
Morph blinked at him and then grinned so wide their cheeks ached. “Oh, I’m framing this in my memory forever. Wolverine. Having fun. On a picnic. Playing War.”
“Dead man,” Logan muttered, reaching to shuffle the cards again.
But Morph only leaned closer, basking in the sound, the warmth, and the way the afternoon sun seemed to settle just for them.
The game fizzled out after another few rounds, the cards scattered in lazy piles across the blanket. Morph flopped backward with a dramatic sigh, stretching their arms overhead.
“You’ve been defeated again,” they declared, eyes closed against the warm dapples of light through the oak branches. “Utterly destroyed by the champion of War.”
Logan snorted, but didn’t bother to collect the deck. Instead, he shifted down onto his side, boots crossed at the ankles, head propped on his hand. He watched Morph sprawl out with an expression of quiet fondness. “You’re somethin’ else,” he muttered.
Morph cracked one eye open, grinning. “Thanks. I think.”
For a while, they stayed like that. Morph stretched out in the grass-scented air, Logan just… there beside them. The cicadas hummed. And the world, impossibly, felt still.
Then Logan rolled over, slow but deliberate, closing the space between them. His arm draped across Morph’s middle, heavy and grounding, his nose brushing against the curve of their shoulder. He breathed in deep.
Morph giggled, startled at the sudden closeness. “What’re you doing?”
“Gettin’ comfortable,” Logan rumbled against their shirt.
“You could’ve just said that.”
“Not my style.”
Morph’s laughter softened into something breathless, tender. They turned their head, brushing their lips across Logan’s temple, then his cheek. Finally, with a grin they kissed him.
Logan pressed closer, his hand curling at their waist like he wasn’t ever letting go.
Morph pulled back just far enough to whisper, “Special occasion, remember?”
Logan’s eyes opened, dark and steady. “Yeah,” he said simply. “Us.”