Snow was coming. It wasn't on the ground yet; in fact the sky was a beautiful azure that looked like it was AI generated. There was a sharp tang to the wind, however, that burned nicely in Logan's lungs. Cigar smoke countered it with a warmer burn. After a few more drags, he crushed the remainder out on the sole of his boot.
Hank had not been pleased when he put them out on the concrete railing of the balcony, so shoe it was.
He gave himself a shake, took another deep breath to capture that crisp clean air again, then he made his way back to the French doors. He could no longer slip through quite as easily when he'd arrived in early autumn. Hank had been endlessly insistent about “verifying that his corporeal mass remained within the acceptable parameters of homeostatic equilibrium, calculated by height and weight ratios whilst also ensuring caloric intake was calibrated to promote an optimum physiological state" (Doctor McCoy's words; Logan himself called it "bulking up for winter, like I'm a contender in that fat bear contest"), and the nagging paid off. Although he didn't have to use both doors to get through like Hank did, even just one had to be opened almost fully.
The chilled air accompanied and clung to him as it clicked shut behind him. Luckily neither man was overly affected by cold, which is why he cast a critical eye at the various pieces of a red velvet suit Hank had strewn over various surfaces in the bedroom.
