Title: The Wolfling
Author: Diebin
Email: diebin@hotmail.com
Fandom: X-Men (movie)
Rating: PG-13 for Logan POV (He swears)
Disclaimer: I don't own him. And I'm never letting him babysit.
Archive: Sure, but only as stand alone.
Explanation: OKAY! This is kinda weird. I'm writing about something that happened kind of in my Love Letter's series, but it didn't REALLY happen. But someone *points at StealthBunny* kept slinging the bunny my way until I just had to write it. So I'm officially AU-ing my AU. Umm, did that make sense? If not . . okay, umm, just imagine this is it's own story that references the fact that Logan found a baby and had to take care of it for a day. Really, it's just an excuse for a funny story. AND NO SEQUEL.
Dedicated to: Stealthbunny . . . this one's for you. ;)
Eternal thanks to: Carina, Shanababes, Mistica, and Nanciwan for their ever present support.

I never really thought about how hard it would be to ride a motorcycle while holding a baby.

I mean, it wasn't like I was ever planning on having one. Even now, when I know I'm in love and am so damn gushy and mushy that I make myself sick--I still don't think about it that much.

I'm not exactly going to bring it up with Marie. Somehow I think that might hurt her a little.

So I got my girl Marie, but I'd never really considered adding another girl to my life.

Especially not one that cries and has diapers and hasn't figured out yet that my sideburns aren't just well placed handles. I mean shit, I've considered shaving because of this kid.

That'd be a sight. I'd come home and everyone would think I was a pansy like Scott.

I've been totting this kid around for two hours, because the contact up here who I'm supposed to drop her off with is out of town, and her husband looked even less capable of handling a kid than me, if that seems possible.

Of course, I'm a badass. He was just plain stupid. And he didn't look like he was too excited to have a little green-skinned baby hanging around the house, and I'm not a monster. I didn't want her to get killed or anything.

So I've got this damn baby, and I don't have a fucking clue what to do with it.

The worst thing was the diapers. I had to buy them, with that baby tucked in my arm--and the looks I was gettin' made me think everyone who saw me thought I'd stolen the kid or something, because I guess they don't see too many guys like me slinging babies around.

So I bought the diapers, and the lady at the counter--she was real nice. I was standing there, looking at the back--and you know, I was kind of feeling bad for every time I'd made fun of stupid stuff that has directions on it--because damn if I wasn't having a hard time figuring out exactly what to do with the damn diapers.

And figuring it out was only half of it. Then I was going to actually have to do it, and the fact that Marie and I would probably never have kids was looking better every minute.

It was late though, and there weren't too many people in the store. I'd made sure of that--never know when I'm going to bump into someone I recognize, and the last thing I need if I'm ever in a cage again is to have people slingin' insults around about me being a pansy.

So the woman just kind of smiled when I stood there and stared at the directions, and I had this damn kid kinda tucked in my arm and on my shoulder, because I didn't really know how else I was supposed to hold her.

The lady didn't even say a word. Bustled up and snatched the kid right off my shoulder, and I guess it's good she looked so motherly, because usually when someone snatches something out of my arms, I react with a lot of violence.

She blinked when she saw the baby's face--but she must have been one of the nice ones, because she just clucked at me and took the baby over to the other side of the counter and snapped her fingers at me with a frown.

I damn near jumped. I shoulda unsheathed my claws and informed her that no one snaps at Logan--but I was so grateful that someone was actually going to take charge of the kid that I bustled right over and dropped the diapers on the counter.

"I don't know where your lady is," the woman said, shaking her head, "but she'd better teach you how to do this next time she leaves town."

I get an image of Marie changing a diaper, and I nearly choke. Of course, that's not nearly as funny as the image of myself changing a diaper.

Or maybe it's a lot more funny. Because I'm going to have to do it--and I'm not really looking forward to it all that much.

"Watch me," she snaps, and I jump again. Damn my wits are getting dull.

This whole diaper changing business is not a pretty sight, but she just whistles as she does it, and lets the baby grab her finger and coos a little, and she keeps looking up to make sure I'm watching.

I am. I'm sure the look on my face is about as far from enthusiastic as they come. I've also got the collar on my jacked turned up, and I'm hunched down as far as I can go.

This is really fucking un-manly.

So eventually she hands the baby over, and turns off the light on her register and looks at me and says, "I suppose you don't know how to do anything else either."

And next thing I know, she has a shopping cart and is taking me up and down the aisles, pointing out teething rings and bottles and formula and all this shit I really don't even want be caught dead thinking about, much less buying.

So I just kind of growl, and she rolls her eyes and throws it all into a bag and smiles as I slap some money down on the counter.

"Test the formula on your arm, make sure it's not too hot or too cold," she calls after me, and I swear to god I'm blushing as a few customers turn and smirk at me, walkin' out of the store with a baby in one hand and a bag of baby shit in the other.

So I got back to my hotel room and managed to get the formula into the bottle, and of course when I tried to test it on my arm I squeezed to hard and the whole fuckin' top came flying off and coated my arm with that awful stuff.

Guess they didn't design the bottles with people like me in mind.

I was getting pretty damn pissy by the time I got the formula into the bottle a second time--and the baby was starting to cry where I'd left her on the bed. So I walked over and handed her the bottle, and she dropped it.

I was not going to pick her up and fucking hold her while she ate. That was just a little to reminiscent of the whole breast feeding thing, and I'll be damned if I even go there.

So I handed it to her again and she dropped it again, and I guess that she was just too small to take care of it herself, but how the hell am I supposed to know these things?

I locked the door and closed all the curtains before I did it--damn I'm feeling paranoid, but if I ever, ever get caught . . .

I opened a beer and set it on the table next to the bed before I sat down and tried to get her in my arms, and I managed to get the bottle balanced against my chest enough so that she could eat and I could have a free hand for my beer.

That didn't work either. Guess the beer bottle was shiny or something, because next thing I knew she was tossin' her bottle out and wailing and reaching for my beer.

I was tempted. Damn was I tempted. Maybe she'd be less fussy drunk. But even I knew better than that, so I sighed and put the beer down and picked the bottle back up and sat there fucking holding it while she ate away.

Marie would be laughing herself sick right about now.

Well, no, she wouldn't. Because if Marie were here, I'd be making her do all this. Call me a sexist pig till you turn blue in the fucking face--just get this kid away from me.

I finally managed to feed the little thing, and then comes the greater question.

Where the hell is she supposed to sleep.

I'm uniquely unqualified to have anyone sharing bedspace with me, especially someone small and likely to make loud, startling noises. Of course, I can't just let her sleep in the bed--I have no idea if babies know better than to roll of the bed and knock themselves out on the floor. I'm not really willing to take the chance.

And if I put her on the floor--chances are fair to good I'll forget all about her and step on her in the morning. Which would not be good.

As I saw it, this didn't leave me with a whole lot of options. So I tucked the baby under one arm, picked up a pile of quarters, and went to find the closest payphone.

It took me a while to get her number out of directory assistance, because I couldn't remember her last name, and I wasn't about to ask for Storm. But finally I got a number, plugged a few more quarters in, and listened to the phone ring in a building I'd left a long time ago.


"Hey, Storm--uh--Ororo, I mean--"

"Logan?" Wow. Guess that growly voice is pretty damn distinctive.

"Yeah, listen, I've got a problem here." Right on cue, the baby started to cry.

"Logan--is that a baby in the background? Where are you?"

"Okay, listen--don't tell Mar--Rogue I called, okay? I just need to ask you a question. I've got this kid--" The kid was bawling her eyes out now, and I was starting to get funny looks from the other people in the hallway. "I have to take care of her for the night, and I don't know--well, how do babies sleep?"

I swear I hear her laugh, but she's hiding it pretty well. "Same way as grown ups do, Logan. They close their eyes and dream."

I let a growl slip, and the kid's bawling jumps another level. "I know that," I snarl. Not a good idea, she's really screaming now, kicking and trying to slither out of my arms. I'm afraid to hold her too tightly though--god knows what will hurt her. "Where do I put her? I can't exactly sleep with a baby, Storm--I'll roll over and crush the thing."

"The thing?" Her voice is definitely mocking now. I'm going to give her one for when I get back . . . that's for sure. "Logan, she's a small person. You just treat her like you'd treat any other child."

A recorded voice comes on and asks me to feed more money into the phone. Figting back another growl, I plug another quarter in. "I'm running out of time here, Storm. I don't know how to treat any other child. Where. Do. I. Put. Her. To. Sleep."

Storm laughs outright. "Open a drawer in your dresser and line it with blankets and put her in there. She won't be able to go anywhere, and she'll be comfortable. Just don't close her in."

"I'm not stupid," I mutter. "And Storm--"

"Yes, Logan?"

"If you tell anyone about this--"

She laughs again. "Our little secret, Logan. See you soon, I hope."

I grumble and hang up the phone, growling at the woman who is standing behind me and giving me a funny look.

The baby is still kicking, and in case I haven't noticed her yet she grabs a fistful of my beard and starts pulling.

I just grind my teeth and bring her back to my room.

So that's how I found myself sitting on a bed, a baby attached to the side of my face and trying to chew on my thumb as I used my spare hand to spread blankets out in the bottom drawer of my dresser.

With the curtains closed and the door locked, of course. I do not even want to think about what this would do to my reputation if it ever got out.

It's a while before she goes to sleep, and I humiliate myself further by rocking the damn drawer until she stops crying and drifts off.

I've almost finished my beer when she wakes back up.

I rock her back to sleep in my arms and put her back in her bed.

She wakes back up.

I rock her back to sleep.

She wakes back up.

By three in the morning, I've gotten all of ten minutes of sleep, and the baby has gotten two bottles and a diaper change, not to mention unlimited time chewing on my hand and pulling my beard out.

Every time I try to put her down, the crying starts. So now here I am, five in the morning, sleeping in a chair with a baby on my chest, her tiny hand curled into a death grip in my beard. She's got a damn strong grip--probably a match for me. She's like a little Wolfling or something.

Oh now that's great, I've given her a pet name. Very manly, Logan. Very tough.

And the fact that she's even starting too look kinda cute is the worst part of all. I guess I finally picked up a new last name.