"Guess that's it then."
Logan ran a hand through his messy hair and turned toward the door.
"If you run into trouble, send a letter to 114-51-4 Brooklyn Street, Metropolis. Someone'll get it to me."
His steel-toed boots thudded on the wooden floor as he pushed the door open, muttering, "But it's almost the 21st century, Lock. Get yourself a flip phone already. What, you waiting for smartphones or something?"
"Heh."
Lock leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed.
"Says the caveman who can't even work a microwave. If I got a phone, would you even know how to check a message?"
Logan, now on the porch, shrugged, moonlight casting a silver glow on his back.
"Who knows."
He pushed the door wider, the night breeze carrying the scent of wheat.
"See ya, Lock."
With that, he melted into the darkness, just like last time, like a lone wolf vanishing into the night.
Lock sighed.
Last time, they barely knew each other, so he could watch him go without a second thought.
But… this time it was different. This was a friend from the future.
Grumbling to himself about getting soft like Martha, Lock called out, "Hold up."
Logan's steps paused.
"Tomorrow's Dio and Clark's birthday party."
Lock's voice carried a hint of exasperation.
"Stick around for it."
In the moonlight, Logan's mouth curved into a wide grin, though he quickly forced it down.
He trudged back to the living room, flopping onto the couch and propping his combat boots on the coffee table. "Night, farmer."
The words barely left his mouth before thunderous snoring filled the room.
"…"
Lock's temple twitched.
"How's this guy so comfortable already?" he muttered. "Can I get the cool, standoffish Logan back, you jerk?"
Shaking his head, Lock flicked off the living room light and headed upstairs.
The wooden stairs creaked faintly, his footsteps fading down the hallway.
Moments later, in the dark, Logan's eyes snapped open.
His steel claws slid out silently, glinting in the moonlight.
"Logan, Logan," he muttered to the ceiling. "How'd you get so soft?"
The Wolverine felt like he was done for.
A strange warmth kept nagging at him—this rundown farm living room felt safer than any of his safehouses.
He rolled over, annoyed, burying his face in a cushion that smelled like sunshine.
"Must be that future me's leftover thoughts," he grumbled. "Damn it, now I'm feeling all cozy and homey."
Outside, an owl hooted, and a cow let out a lazy moo.
Logan took a deep breath, clenching his fists like he was making a vow. "One last night."
He declared to the empty room, "I'll stay for the party tomorrow, then I'm gone. No trouble for my friend."
But the word "friend" slipped out so naturally, like they'd known each other for years.
Irritated, Logan ruffled his hair and buried his face deeper into the cushion.
What he didn't notice was…
In the shadows of the upstairs hallway, Lock's lips curled into a quiet smirk.
Free labor +1.
---
The next morning, Logan woke to blinding sunlight.
Blinking groggily, he saw Lock standing over the couch, holding a steaming mug of coffee.
"Rise and shine, Sleeping Beauty," Lock teased. "Sun's burning your butt."
"Shit."
Logan shot upright, his claws popping out three inches on reflex—
Only to realize he was in Lock's living room.
He scratched his head, embarrassed. "I slept that hard?"
Taking in the cozy, sunlit room, Wolverine didn't immediately go on high alert—a rare thing for him.
Screw it. One day of indulgence.
He stretched, his steel joints popping. "Alright, Lock," he yawned. "Let me sing the birthday boys a song. Gotta make a good impression on the Emperor so he doesn't mess with me later."
"Too late," Lock said, handing him the coffee. "They left for school at eight. It's nine now."
Logan took the mug, scratching his nose awkwardly. "Fine, I'll help with the party prep. I can whip up a mean Canadian maple syrup cake—"
"Martha and Jonathan are handling it," Lock cut in mercilessly.
Logan's face was a riot of emotions.
He ruffled his hair, his claws leaving fresh scratches on the couch armrest. "Nothing's good enough for you, huh, Lock? Do you even see me as—"
Friend.
The word stuck in his throat, too embarrassing to say out loud.
But seeing the grizzled mutant warrior sulking on the couch like a kicked puppy, Lock finally cracked up.
"My friend," Lock said, suddenly serious, "we do have a grand mission today."
Logan's eyes lit up. "Now you're talking! What are we waiting for?"
"Been waiting for you to say that!"
Lock pulled a sharp sickle from behind his back, tossing it to Logan with precision. "Let's go, buddy! It's harvest day. Time to have some 'fun' in the fields!"
Sunlight streamed through the window, glinting off the sickle's blade in a dazzling flash.
Logan's expression froze.
He looked at the sickle, then at Lock's innocent grin, his claws popping out instinctively. "F!" Wolverine growled. "You're really my best bud, huh, Lock!"
"Right back at ya," Lock said, pulling on his work pants and filling a jug with iced lemonade. "Didn't someone say they'd keep an eye on me last night?"
Grumbling, Logan stood, his claws slicing the couch again.
He froze.
Staring at the dense claw marks on the armrest for a couple of seconds, he realized he'd slept too comfortably last night.
Glancing at the busy farmer behind him, Logan quietly slipped a few crumpled bills onto the coffee table.
Ahem. Friends, right? A few scratches shouldn't matter.
Plus, he left cash.
"Let's go, Lock," Logan said, slinging the sickle over his shoulder and striding toward the door. "Time to show you the 'Canadian Harvest Legend.'"
Lock grinned, following him.
With a flick, Star Platinum slipped the cash back into Logan's jacket pocket.
Wonder what Dio and Clark are up to…
Lock remembered them asking for two lemons this morning, something about a school experiment.
An experiment, huh?
Well, good luck to the kids.
And since it's their birthday, maybe he and Jonathan could pick them up later.
---
At Smallville's only elementary school…
"Alright, class, today we're extracting lemon juice and slicing lemons for observation," the chemistry teacher, thick glasses perched on her nose, said, tapping the chalkboard. "Follow the lab manual carefully and handle the tools with care!"
Below, Dio was elegantly adjusting his test tube rack, a playful glint in his red eyes.
Because his lab partner—
New transfer student and rich kid Neil Worthington—was sneaking glances at his setup, a smug smirk on his face.
Even without saying a word, Dio could practically smell the guy's attitude.
Like frozen pork chops gone rancid.
Sure enough…
"Hey, Dio," Worthington whispered, "accidentally" knocking over Dio's beaker.
"Heard your dad's a farmer? No wonder you always smell like… manure."
His words were followed by snickers from the two or three lackeys nearby.
Dio calmly righted the beaker, his fingers tapping the desk lightly. "Worthington, your dad runs the town pharmacy, right? Or is he a doctor?"
"You should have him check you out. Your hands are shaking so bad cutting those lemon slices, I thought you were Old Lady Joni."
Worthington froze.
Was there a Joni in this class?
He glanced at his cronies, who just shook their heads.
"Who's Joni?" he asked, confused.
"Oh, she's the eighty-year-old lady by the road. Her lemonade's awful," Dio said casually. "Heard it's because of her Alzheimer's."
Alzheimer's? What's that?
Was he being insulted?
Worthington's face flushed, unsure.
But then…
Half the class burst into laughter behind Dio.
They were all his crew.
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