Ever since he learned how to talk, and maybe even before that, Remy LeBeau has been incredibly persuasive. The result is that he has encountered very few problems in his life that he couldn't talk his way out of. Logan, on the other hand, has encountered very few problems in his life that he couldn't fight his way out of.
Yet Logan's nightmares are a recurring problem for both of them, and it seems they cannot be talked or fought away.
Bad weeks, Logan wakes up every night with his claws out, fighting someone or something that isn't there. Remy wakes up with him, does his level best to reassure him. "Ain't nobody here but the two of us, cher," he says.
He doesn't say, "You're all right" or "Everything's fine" because Logan's enhanced senses mean he always knows when Remy is lying. And Remy, an expert interpreter of poker faces, believes he can tell when Logan is lying. So Remy and Logan only say true things to each other. But Logan doesn't say all that much to Remy, or to anyone.
Logan says, "Christ, Remy. I should just sleep on the couch."
"Non, Logan, I don't want you to." Remy pauses. "I hate sleepin' alone."
Remy says, "You wanna talk about it?"
Logan never says "yes" or "no." He never replies at all except to turn away from Remy. But when Remy puts his arm around Logan, he doesn't reject it, and Remy figures that's good enough.
Until one night when it isn't enough. It's been a bad week for both of them; Logan's been having the dreams more than once a night. They're both surviving on little sleep, but Remy doesn't have a healing factor and he thinks that sleep deprivation may actually drive him insane.
So after Logan calms down, Remy says, "You wanna talk about it?" He can hear that sleeplessness has made his normally silky voice sound rough.
After a pause, Logan says, softly, "You know I ain't much of a talker."
It's an understatement, to be sure, but it's still more of a response than Remy's accustomed to. So he says, "Might do you good. To talk about it."
Logan says, "I ain't like you, Remy," and Remy knows what is meant by this. Remy processes things by talking about them. Remy has been known to spend more time talking about what he might make for dinner than he will actually spend cooking. When Logan cooks, he opens the refrigerator and pulls out the first thing he sees, then he cooks it in the simplest way possible. Outwardly, things seem easy for Logan, but Remy knows that difficult things have happened to Logan.
But difficult things have happened to Remy, too, and Logan knows all about them. Remy doesn't know whether he wants Logan to talk to him because he genuinely thinks it might help Logan, or if he is simply tired of this informational imbalance. That's a lie; he does know. It's both.
And so he's relieved when Logan starts talking, haltingly at first, and then the words spill out of him with a kind of quiet desperation. And then the words slow to a trickle, and he lies against Remy, spent.
And because Remy knows he cannot lie to Logan, he rubs his lover's shoulders and says true things. "Ain't nobody else here but the two of us. But you're not alone, mon coeur." Then, softer, "Je t'aime."
The words hang in the air for a quiet moment, and then Logan says, "Yeah. Love you too, Remy."
It is the first time either of them have said it aloud, and it seems to settle something. The faint, painful dissonance Remy has been feeling in his chest lately dissolves. He tightens his arm around Logan and falls asleep with his head on Logan's shoulder, and they both sleep well into the morning.
When they finally awaken, Remy says, "What d'you think about omelets for breakfast, cher? Maybe sausage on the side? Or I think there might be some bacon?"
Logan says, "Coffee. But not yet. You talk too much." Then he takes Remy's face in his hands and kisses him. Remy kisses back, hungrier for this than he is for sausage.
That morning, like every other morning, they only tell each other true things.