It hasn't been easy to see Logan unwell. Not only because of the disruption it brings to the cabin, but also the way it awakens difficult memories, times that Kurt would rather forget. Times when the health of the strongest of the X-Men was not only a personal fear, but the barometer for the safety of their entire species, too many fates resting on those weary shoulders. It brings back most strongly the reminders of those final days before Logan had disappeared for the last time, before they'd all learned that he was gone for good. As it had been then, it's hard to watch him carefully measuring out his strength as if he's feeling every year of his age, suffering through the days and nights, and knowing there's nothing anyone to help.

So when Logan suggests he's feeling better, even as a joke, Kurt is all too eager to seize upon it and hold the gruff words close in his heart. If Deerington has taught him anything, it's that moments like these are meant to be savoured, talismans to grip in the face of whatever's waiting in the future. He's too aware, now, of how quickly it can all be taken away, or changed for good into something warped and strange.

He lets out a long, shivering breath of gratitude and pleasure as Logan digs his fingertips into his fur. He shifts on the bed, lifting his legs up so he can put his knees over Logan's wide shoulders, an easy position for a lifelong gymnast and a familiar one besides. The wandering tail in question slips down between them, the tip of the spade trailing slowly down the muscled curves of Logan's stomach.

"I don't know where you learned these terrible lines, Liebling," he points out, his voice low and soft, "but you had better not stop there."