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The idea is pitched like it’s nothing, like it won’t immediately ruin someone’s week.
Everyone’s gathered in the rec room because that’s where decisions like this always happen, the ones that technically fall under “team responsibility” but somehow never feel evenly distributed. There’s tinsel draped along the railing near the stairs, lights already twinkling in corners even though it’s barely afternoon, and the faint smell of pine drifting in from the massive tree Hank insisted on hauling in himself. The younger students are buzzing all over the mansion, and the energy has that unmistakable pre-holiday edge to it, the kind that means something chaotic is about to be decided.
“So,” Scott says, clapping his hands once like a man about to assign homework, “the kids really want Santa this year.”
Logan snorts from his chair, boots kicked up on the coffee table. “They always want Santa. Doesn’t mean we gotta traumatize ‘em.”
You’re standing near the couch, arms crossed, already sensing where this is going. Jean’s perched on the armrest beside Scott, trying and failing to hide her smile, while Hank fusses with a clipboard he absolutely did not need for this conversation.
“The younger ones have been talking about it for weeks,” Jean adds, voice sweet and entirely too innocent. “It would mean a lot to them.”
Logan shoots her a look. “You sayin’ that like you already picked someone.”
“No,” Scott replies quickly, and that alone makes Logan’s eyes narrow. “We thought we’d be fair about it.”
That’s when Hank clears his throat and produces a handful of straws from behind his back, all cut to slightly different lengths. The room goes quiet for half a second, and then Logan slowly lowers his boots to the floor. “You’ve gotta be kidding me,” he says flatly.
Hank beams. “A literal drawing of the short straw! Democratic, simple, and delightfully festive.”
Logan turns his head toward you, brows raised. “You seein’ this?”
You bite the inside of your cheek, already smiling despite yourself. “I’m seeing it, yeah. Can’t say I’m surprised.”
“Traitor,” he mutters, though there’s no real heat behind it. Still, he straightens in his chair like he’s bracing for impact.
Scott steps forward first, because of course he does. “We’ll keep it between the guys. One straw each.”
“Absolutely not,” Logan replies immediately. “I am not squeezin’ into some red suit while you stand around laughin’.”
Jean lifts a brow. “If you don’t want to draw, Logan, you’re welcome to volunteer instead.”
He glares at her, then at the straws. “You’re enjoyin’ this way too much.”
Hank offers the bundle, and one by one they step up. Scott draws and, predictably, his straw is long. He barely even tries to hide his smug little smile. Hank goes next, then Kurt, then a reluctant Bobby who looks far too amused by the whole thing.
Finally, it’s Logan’s turn.
He hesitates, fingers hovering like the straws might bite him, then snatches one with a scowl. For a second, he just stares at it, jaw tight, like sheer willpower might make it grow.
It doesn’t.
The straw is painfully, undeniably short.
The room explodes. Scott laughs first, sharp and unrepentant, leaning back like he’s just been handed the best gift of the season. “Wow. Fate really has a sense of humor.”
Jean covers her mouth, though her eyes are bright. “Oh my god.”
Hank clasps his hands together, delighted. “Excellent! I’ll start tailoring immediately. The suit will need reinforcement in the shoulders, of course.”
Logan looks like he might actually combust. He pushes to his feet, the chair scraping loudly behind him. “You did this on purpose.”
Scott grins. “Logan, I didn’t even cut the straws.”
“You didn’t have to,” Logan shoots back. He turns to you again, accusatory. “You laughin’ at me too?”
You shrug, trying and failing to keep your grin in check. “I mean, you did agree to draw.”
He scoffs, running a hand through his hair. “Unbelievable.”
Despite the grumbling, though, he doesn’t walk out. He stays planted there, arms crossed, glaring at the offending piece of straw like it personally betrayed him. Underneath all the bluster, you can see it, the familiar sense of duty he never quite admits to. He won’t let the kids down, no matter how much he complains.
Scott claps him on the shoulder, entirely too pleased with himself. “Cheer up. You’ll make a great Santa.”
Logan bares his teeth in something that’s not quite a smile. “Say that again, Summers, and I’m puttin’ coal in your stocking for life.”
The room fills with laughter again, and as the noise swells, you catch Logan’s eye. He rolls his, then gives you the smallest, resigned shake of his head, like this is his lot and he’s already accepted it.
Somewhere upstairs, kids are laughing, completely unaware that Santa Claus has just been decided by the cruelest straw in existence.
---
By the time the day of the event actually arrives, the mansion barely feels like the same place.
Garlands wind along the banisters, lights glow from every available surface, and the air hums with that barely contained excitement that only children can generate when they know something special is coming. The younger students are herded toward the main hall in loose, chattering groups, their voices echoing down the corridors as they speculate wildly about reindeer, elves, and whether Santa knows about their report cards. Somewhere near the ceiling, faint flakes of snow drift lazily down, courtesy of Ororo, who insists it adds atmosphere and absolutely does not count as “overdoing it.”
You’re stationed near the side of the hall, helping direct traffic and trying to keep kids from sprinting outright, when you hear the unmistakable sound of boots stomping with purpose from behind a set of doors usually reserved for storage.
Then the doors swing open and Logan steps out in full Santa regalia, and for a split second, your brain refuses to process it properly.
The suit is classic red and white, heavy-looking and clearly tailored to survive being worn by someone with adamantium bones and very little patience. The beard sits thick across his jaw, blending surprisingly well with his real hair, and the hat is pulled low enough that it shadows his eyes. He looks uncomfortable, irritated, and profoundly unamused, but also… ridiculous in a way you didn’t know was possible.
You bite down hard on your lip. Logan’s gaze snaps to you immediately, sharp even beneath the costume. “Don’t,” he warns.
“I didn’t say anything,” you reply, hands raised innocently, though your shoulders are already shaking.
He exhales through his nose. “You’re thinkin’ it.”
“Everyone is thinking it,” you say, finally letting yourself smile. “You look… festive.”
He grunts. “If one person cracks a joke, I’m leavin’.”
Behind him, Hank adjusts the trim of the coat with a practiced eye. “Nonsense. You look splendid, Logan. Very traditional.”
“Yeah, well, I feel like I’m wearin’ a rug,” Logan mutters, tugging at the cuffs. “And this beard itches.”
“You’ll survive,” you tell him, stepping closer to straighten the crooked pom-pom on his hat. He stills automatically when you do, eyes flicking down to you, expression softening just a fraction before he remembers himself.
“Kids are already waitin’,” he says, gruff. “Let’s get this over with.”
The moment he steps into the hall, everything changes. The chatter dies down, replaced by a ripple of gasps that spread through the crowd like a wave. A few kids freeze mid-step, eyes going wide, while others immediately start bouncing in place, pointing excitedly.
“It’s Santa!” someone yells, and that’s all it takes.
They swarm him. Logan stiffens at first, shoulders tense as kids crowd around his legs, tugging at the hem of his coat and babbling all at once. For half a second, you think he might actually panic, but then he exhales slowly, visibly grounding himself, and crouches down so he’s closer to their level. “All right,” he says, voice deeper than usual thanks to the beard, “one at a time, bub.”
It works. Somehow, it works. The kids laugh, instantly charmed by the gravelly voice and the way Santa calls everyone “kid” or “sport” like it’s the most natural thing in the world. One brave little girl reaches up and pokes the beard.
“Are you real?” she asks solemnly.
Logan pauses, then nods. “As real as it gets.”
Another kid wrinkles his nose. “Why do you smell like smoke?”
You choke on a laugh from your spot nearby.
Logan sighs. “Reindeer get nervous.”
That earns him a round of giggles, and from there, it’s like watching something click into place. He settles into the chair they’ve set up, big hands resting on his knees as kids line up with the kind of earnest patience that only exists when Santa is involved. He listens to every wish with surprising focus, grunts thoughtfully at requests for toys, and gives the occasional warning about behaving that sounds suspiciously like it’s aimed at a certain visor-wearing team leader.
You hang back, watching him work, warmth spreading through your chest. He pretends this is torture, pretends he hates every second, but you know better. You see the way his shoulders relax, how he leans in so he doesn’t miss a word, how careful he is when a kid climbs into his lap.
At one point, he glances over at you, eyes crinkling beneath the brim of the hat. “Still laughin’?” he asks.
You shake your head, smiling softly. “No. I think you’re doing great.”
He huffs, but there’s something pleased in it. “Don’t get used to it.”
The event rolls on, filled with laughter, camera flashes, and the occasional meltdown when a kid realizes Santa can’t stay forever. By the time the last child wanders off clutching a candy cane, Logan looks exhausted, beard slightly crooked and coat dusted with fake snow.
He stands, rolling his shoulders, and makes a beeline for you. “Done,” he declares. “I need air.”
You laugh, reaching out to steady him as he pulls the hat off his head. “You survived.”
“Barely,” he says, but there’s no real bite to it. He glances back at the hall, where kids are still buzzing with excitement, then back at you. “Worth it, though.”
For someone who never wanted to play Santa, he looks a little too satisfied as he heads backstage with you at his side.
The hallway behind the main hall is mercifully quiet, the noise from the kids dulled to a distant, cheerful hum once the doors swing shut behind you. The lights are lower back here, practical instead of decorative, and the air feels cooler, calmer, like the mansion itself is taking a breath after all that excitement.
Logan wastes no time tugging at the beard again, fingers hooking under the elastic with a scowl. “This thing’s gonna be the death of me,” he mutters. “Feels like it’s tryin’ to rip my face off.”
“Hold still,” you say, stepping closer before he can actually yank it free. “You’ll take half your hair with it.”
He pauses, eyes flicking down to you, and the tension drains out of him almost immediately. “You sayin’ that like you care about my hair.”
You snort softly, reaching up to carefully adjust the beard instead. “Someone has to. You’re not exactly gentle with yourself.”
He grumbles, but he lets you fuss, standing there in the too-big red suit while you fix what Hank meticulously arranged earlier. Up close, you can see the faint crease between his brows, the way his shoulders sag now that the performance is over. Exhaustion clings to him, heavy but satisfied.
“You did good,” you say quietly, fingers smoothing the edge of the beard. “The kids loved you.”
Logan huffs. “They’re kids. Low standards.”
“That’s not true,” you reply, meeting his eyes. “They’d know if you didn’t care.”
Something flickers across his face at that, brief and unguarded, before he looks away. “Yeah, well. Don’t tell Summers. He’ll never shut up about it.”
You smile, hand still resting against his chest for balance. The suit is warm beneath your palm, solid and familiar despite the ridiculousness of it all. For a moment, neither of you move, the quiet stretching comfortably between you.
Then Logan’s hand comes up, settling at your waist like it belongs there. “C’mere,” he murmurs.
It’s instinct more than decision that has you stepping closer, closing the small gap between you. The hallway feels even quieter now, the rest of the world pushed somewhere far away. Logan dips his head, the brim of the hat shadowing his eyes, and presses a kiss to your mouth that’s meant to be quick, meant to be harmless.
It doesn’t stay that way.
You can taste peppermint and something distinctly Logan beneath it, feel the way his grip tightens just slightly like he’s grounding himself in the contact. The beard brushes your skin, scratchy and absurd, and you laugh softly against his mouth without meaning to. “Sorry,” you whisper, pulling back just enough to breathe. “The beard.”
“Don’t,” he mutters, already leaning back in. “I know.”
This time the kiss deepens, unhurried and familiar, the kind that comes from shared space and shared quiet moments stolen between responsibilities. His thumb presses into your side, warm and sure, and you forget entirely that you’re standing in a hallway meant for foot traffic.
Neither of you hear the soft shuffle of footsteps.
Around the corner, a small figure has wandered off in search of cookies that may or may not exist, following the vague memory of someone saying there were extras “back that way.” They stop short when they see the red suit first, eyes lighting up with recognition.
Then they see you.
The kid freezes, staring in open-mouthed disbelief at Santa Claus kissing someone they know, someone who definitely belongs with Logan, because everyone knows that. Their brain scrambles to make sense of it, logic tangling hopelessly around the impossible image in front of them.
Santa is not Logan.
Santa is kissing you.
That cannot be right.
Heart pounding, the kid backs away slowly, careful not to make a sound, and disappears down the hall just as you finally pull back, resting your forehead briefly against Logan’s chest.
“You okay?” he asks quietly.
You nod, smiling up at him. “Yeah. Just… glad that’s over.”
He exhales, brushing his thumb along your jaw with a softness he pretends not to have. “Me too.”
Neither of you notice anything amiss as he tugs the hat off his head and you straighten the front of his coat, completely unaware that somewhere in the mansion, a very serious misunderstanding has just taken root.
---
The kid doesn’t stop moving until they’re two hallways away.
Their heart is hammering like they’ve done something wrong just by seeing it, like the image might chase them if they slow down long enough to think about it. Santa kissing you plays on a loop in their head, impossibly clear, and no amount of rationalizing makes it make sense. They know you. They know Logan. Everyone knows you and Logan are together. That’s just a fact, like classes and training schedules and Logan always scowling when someone touches his stuff.
Santa is not Logan. Santa had a beard and a hat and a red coat and a voice that wasn’t quite right. Santa is supposed to kiss Mrs. Claus, not you.
The kid presses themself against the wall for a second, breathing hard, trying to sort it out. Maybe it was pretend? Maybe it was a trick? But it didn’t look like a trick. It looked like the kind of kiss you give someone you like a lot, the kind you’re not supposed to interrupt.
Which makes it worse. Because if Santa kissed you and Logan didn’t know about it, that means something bad is happening, and bad things are always supposed to be reported to an adult. That’s what they’re taught. That’s what the rules are for, even when your stomach feels weird and you don’t really want to get anyone in trouble.
They push off the wall and start walking again, slower now, eyes scanning for someone official enough to handle something this big.
They pass other kids still buzzing from the party, chattering about presents and Santa’s voice and whether reindeer would fit on the roof. None of them have any idea what just happened. The kid feels older all of a sudden, weighed down with responsibility they absolutely did not ask for.
By the time they reach the stairwell, their mind is made up.
They climb the steps two at a time, heading for the upper level where the teachers usually end up after events like this. They hesitate at the landing, chewing on their lip, then square their shoulders and keep going.
Scott is the first one they see. He’s standing near the balcony railing with Jean, both of them relaxed in that post-event way, talking quietly while watching the last of the kids be ushered off to dinner. The kid stops short, nerves flaring all over again.
Scott notices immediately. He always does. “Hey,” he says, voice gentle, crouching down to be closer to their height. “What’s up? Everything okay?”
The kid glances at Jean, then back at Scott, then around the hallway like Santa might suddenly appear again. They lean in, lowering their voice to a whisper like they’re sharing classified information. “I saw something,” they say.
Scott’s expression shifts, the humor from earlier gone in an instant. “All right,” he replies calmly. “What did you see?”
The kid swallows. “I saw Santa kissing someone.”
Jean’s brows lift, but she stays quiet, reading the situation. Scott tilts his head slightly. “Okay,” he says carefully. “Who was he kissing?”
The kid’s eyes widen again, like saying it out loud makes it more real. “Mr. Logan’s girlfriend.”
There’s a beat of silence. Then another. Scott blinks once. Jean’s mouth twitches, but she presses her lips together, turning away just enough to compose herself. Scott clears his throat. “Are you sure?”
“Yes,” the kid says quickly, nodding hard. “I know them. And Logan wasn’t there. It was just Santa.”
Jean finally looks back, her eyes bright with something that is definitely not concern, but she keeps her voice smooth. “You did the right thing by telling us,” she says. “Thank you for coming to us.”
The kid relaxes a little at that, shoulders dropping. “Is Mr. Logan gonna be mad?”
Scott presses his lips together, clearly fighting something, then shakes his head. “We’ll handle it,” he says. “You don’t have to worry about anything.”
“Okay,” the kid says, still unsure but trusting. They glance back down the stairs once more, then nod and head off toward the dorms.
The moment they’re out of earshot, Scott straightens slowly. Jean lets out a quiet laugh, covering her mouth with her hand. “Oh no,” she murmurs.
Scott stares down the hallway in the direction you and Logan disappeared earlier, a slow, delighted grin spreading across his face. “This,” he says, far too pleased, “is incredible.”
Jean shakes her head, trying and failing to look disapproving. “You’re going to enjoy this way too much.”
Scott doesn’t deny it.
---
Tracking the kid down turns out to be easier than Logan expects and significantly harder than his patience would prefer.
They’re in one of the common rooms upstairs, sitting cross-legged on the floor with a small group, half-listening to someone read aloud while absently twisting the end of a candy cane wrapper. The moment they glance up and see you and Logan in the doorway, their entire posture stiffens. Their eyes flick to Logan, then to you, then widen like they’re bracing for trouble.
Logan notices immediately. “Hey,” he says, keeping his voice deliberately even as he steps into the room. He crouches down instead of looming, resting his forearms on his knees. “We gotta talk for a minute. You’re not in trouble.”
The kid hesitates, then nods slowly, standing and following you both a few steps away to a quieter corner. You can practically see the worry rolling off them, shoulders tense, jaw set like they’re preparing for something awful.
“You did the right thing,” you tell them gently before they can speak. “Really. Thank you for telling someone when you were confused.”
That seems to help a little. “I didn’t mean to spy,” they say quickly. “I was just looking for cookies.”
Logan snorts despite himself. “Yeah, that tracks.”
He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out the Santa beard, holding it up between two fingers. The kid’s eyes lock onto it instantly. “This,” Logan says, “is the part where things got mixed up.”
He doesn’t drag it out. He doesn’t tease. He just lifts the beard and presses it back against his face, holding it there long enough for the realization to hit.
The kid blinks. Then blinks again. “That was… you?” they ask slowly.
Logan nods. “Yeah. Whole thing. Suit, beard, all of it.”
Their mouth falls open. “But you sounded different.”
“Fake beard messes with your voice,” Logan replies. “Also, I was tryin’ not to scare anybody.”
The kid looks between you, the beard, and Logan’s very familiar face as the puzzle finally clicks together. The tension drains out of them all at once, replaced by a flush of embarrassment so strong you feel for them immediately. “Oh,” they say faintly.
You smile softly. “It wasn’t Santa kissing me. It was just Logan. We didn’t see you there, or we would’ve explained.”
“I thought,” the kid starts, then trails off, face burning. “I thought you were cheating.”
Logan’s brows knit together, expression serious but not angry. “Nah. Not how that works. We’re good.” He reaches out and squeezes your hand, solid and certain, the kind of gesture that leaves no room for doubt.
The kid lets out a shaky laugh, relief flooding their features. “I’m really sorry.”
“You don’t have to be,” you say quickly. “You were looking out for someone you care about. That’s not a bad thing.”
Logan nods. “Kid did right. Even if it caused me a headache.” That earns a small smile.
From across the room, Scott watches the whole exchange with an expression that’s far too entertained for someone pretending to supervise. Jean elbows him quietly. “Don’t,” she murmurs.
“I didn’t say anything,” Scott whispers back, grinning.
The kid glances toward them, then back at you and Logan. “You’re not mad?”
Logan shakes his head. “Nope. Just maybe don’t tell anyone else, yeah?”
They nod eagerly. “I won’t. Promise.”
Logan lowers the beard back into his pocket and straightens, offering the kid a brief nod of approval. “All right. Go enjoy the rest of the night.”
As the kid heads back to their group, lighter and visibly relieved, Logan exhales through his nose and mutters, “next year, I’m vetoing Santa.”
You laugh softly, leaning into his side as you watch the room settle back into normalcy. The misunderstanding is cleared, the crisis neatly wrapped up, and for once, no one’s feelings are hurt.
---
Logan manages to get through the rest of the evening without further humiliation, which he counts as a personal victory. The suit is returned to Hank, the beard stuffed unceremoniously into a drawer, and the mansion gradually drifts into its calmer nighttime rhythm. Most of the kids are still buzzing, but the chaos is fading, leaving behind that warm, contented glow that comes after a successful event.
You and Logan slip away to your room, finally, gratefully. He tosses his jacket over a chair, rolls his shoulders, and lets out a long breath like he’s been holding it in for hours. “Never again,” he declares, kicking off his boots. “I don’t care if they draw straws or flip a damn car for it. I’m not wearin’ that thing again.”
You stretch out on the edge of the bed, amusement tugging at your mouth. “You were good with them.”
Logan gives you a look that says he refuses to acknowledge that. “They’re lucky I like them.”
You step closer, brushing your hand along his arm. “They’re lucky you’re you.”
He grunts, which is as close to flustered as Logan ever gets, and you lean in to kiss him—soft, steady, grounding—before he can argue. He breathes into it, fingers curling at your waist, the tension finally beginning to bleed out of him.
And that’s when it happens, the knock. Three taps, sharp and purposeful, followed by the faint sound of someone absolutely failing to contain their amusement.
Logan pulls back, narrowing his eyes. “If that’s Summers, I swear to—”
You place a hand on his chest. “Just open it.”
He opens the door halfway, just enough to see who’s bold or stupid enough to show up at this hour. No one is there, just an envelope, taped to the door at eye level.
Logan scowls. He rips it down, muttering, “This better not be somethin’ stupid,” and opens it with all the gentleness of someone disarming a bomb.
You step behind him to read over his shoulder. The card is printed on thick cardstock, the kind used for overly fancy greeting cards. Snowflakes border the edges. Inside, in elegant looping handwriting that is absolutely not Jean’s and suspiciously not Scott’s normal scrawl, is a single message:
Dear Mr. Claus,
Thank you for stepping in during our holiday staffing shortage. Your performance has exceeded expectations. Due to popular demand, you have been automatically enrolled for next year's appearance. Congratulations.
Love,
Management.
You don’t even get through the second line before you hear it—Scott’s laugh, distant but unmistakable, echoing faintly from down the hallway where he’s clearly hiding around a corner like a coward.
Logan goes utterly still. “This isn’t funny,” he says, voice low.
“It’s a little funny,” you murmur, unable to help the smile tugging at your lips.
“It’s not funny,” he repeats, even though the corner of his mouth twitches like he’s debating whether to yell or laugh or tear the card in half.
A second, smaller slip of paper falls out of the envelope and flutters to the floor. Logan picks it up. It’s a short list, written in the same fancy script:
Mandatory Training for Next Year’s Santa:
— Improve jolliness
— Reduce glaring
— Practice ‘ho ho ho’ (current attempt rated: 1/10)
— Wear hat correctly (see attached diagram)
Below the list is an incredibly detailed sketch—Hank-level detailed—showing precisely how Logan is supposed to tilt the Santa hat for “maximum cheery effect.” You clap a hand over your mouth to keep from laughing too loudly. Logan stares at the paper, then at the hallway where Scott and Jean are definitely lurking. “I’m gonna kill him,” he says calmly.
“You won’t,” you reply, leaning against him. “You’ll grumble, and he’ll make a joke, and then you’ll pretend not to enjoy any of this.”
He grunts. “You think I enjoyed this?”
“You didn’t hate it.”
He sighs, defeated. “I hated parts of it.”
You fold the card and slip it onto the dresser before pulling him back toward the room. “Come on. Leave Scott alone tonight. At least the misunderstanding’s cleared up.”
“Doesn’t mean he gets to sign me up for next year,” Logan mutters.
“He didn’t sign you up,” you say, nudging him playfully. “Management did.”
He gives you a long, slow look. “You’re not funny.”
“You’re a little funny-looking without the beard.”
He groans dramatically and drops onto the bed, pulling you with him as he mutters something using unholiday like language. But when you settle in beside him, his arm slides around you automatically, tugging you close. Outside, faint laughter drifts down the hallway—Scott’s victory lap—and Logan grumbles into your hair, “next year, I’m sabotagin’ the drawing.”