#logan ff

She wonders where she would be now without it. Would she still be inside that little cabin on the hill? Nails coated with dirt and a heart never knowing someone else's love–other than her mother. Would she have known any differently if her mother hadn't become ill? The life that radiated and boomed within such a busy city. The windchimes, once a lullaby, are now replaced by the sounds of sirens. It’s frighteningly loud compared to the quiet of a far-off field. She makes peace with it for the sake of simple company. For the sake of a single voice to fill her space, rather than the emptiness her mother leaves behind.

Would she ever gain the guidance needed to survive what her eyes witnessed? The lingering souls of long-departed strangers as they roamed the earth. Unfinished business leaves them trapped until closure sets in or locked in repeated loops of time with an unsettled heart. Death stands at the girl's side, easing the pain of witnessing so much loss among the living. Unseen by all except for her.

Would she have gained a friend? A girl roughly her age giving up on the idea of finding another soul to share her space. Hoping to lessen the grief of money until Dawn shows up on her doorstep. “What?” She practically spits once the cigarette is pulled from between her painted lips. Dawn is so nervous that she forgets to speak. The paper crumbles in her fingers as she fights for the right words. 

“If you’re sellin’, I’m not buyin’.” Another long drag is taken, held tight in her lungs as she waves down the street to another building. “Don’t ask them. They’ll rob you blind. Buncha hagglers.” She warns. And within seconds, the door begins to shut in Dawn's face.

“Wait!” She cries out–a sudden rush of bravery that leaves the stranger stalled on the other side of the door. “Y-you’re looking for a roommate?”

The woman she would come to know as Charlotte narrows her eyes. “I-I was. How’d you know about that?”

Without hesitation, she offers up the newspaper clipping. An ad was put out for the public in case they were looking for a place to call home. All she ever found were perverts or untrusting women, ready to take all she had of value–which wasn’t much. Charlotte takes the tiny paper, and a smirk is seen on her face as she reads over the damaged print. “This is from months ago. How’d you-?”

“I found a newspaper in the trash,” Dawn states without thought. Thinking nothing of the action or the stares she received while elbow-deep in the bin.

Charlotte invites her in for coffee that day, and Dawn never leaves. They laugh through the brief interview, and it's an easy choice to welcome the girl under her roof. It had been years since she first stepped into that empty bedroom–now decorated with what a low salary could afford. 

Would she have ever met him?

The man with dark hair and a brooding atmosphere around him. An unseen barrier to keep all at bay–including the women who longed for company. They come and they go, and he seems mostly uninterested with his mind elsewhere. His replies are dull and douse the flames of any hope, leaving him by his lonesome at the bar each night. She sees him–but she's unsure if he sees her. Just a stranger too busy drowning his demons so he could survive another day–another second. 

She's lost track of how often he appears. Some nights he's long gone from her infrequent visits. Other times, he is miraculously there each night she makes her way through the front doors. Dawn's lived here for years now–her name comes easily to the bartenders as they smile and welcome her. A drink was already prepped and slid in her direction as she sat at the bar. Following the pattern they’ve built over time. 

“Happy birthday, kid.” Barry greets. His gentle smile was hidden away beneath a thick and aged mustache. His beard was untamed through the long and stressful hours of a rush, his fingers pulling anxiously. “It’s on the house.”

She gawks–jaw slacked with the quirk of a smile. “Really?”

The older man shrugs as he grabs a freshly cleaned glass, cloth wiping along the damp edges. “Call it a birthday gift.”

Dawn smiles and says her thanks, tipping the glass in his direction before he moves on with his shift. Some nights he stays to chat–barking orders in between the kindness he gives her. But with the business only half decorated for the holiday and the flow of traffic neverending, he’s needed elsewhere. She’s simply left to enjoy the comedown of a hectic day, oblivious to the early drunks and rambunctious conversations at her back as they challenge friends and strangers over card games and darts. Peace once looked like a quiet night by the fire–but as the years passed, she favored the noise.

It kept her mind busy.

“Celebratin’ alone?”

She doesn’t anticipate his voice–let alone to be looking in her direction, lips just hardly touching the glass filled with whiskey. Her face is warm–damn near scalding from his attention. For a moment she considers if he was speaking to another, but dark eyes peer just above the tilted glass, studying the lonesome woman with all intentions buried and impossible to read. Maybe the man had finally grown tired of the silence he was drowning in.

“N-no. I’m–well, it’s technically tomorrow.” She averts her gaze. The intimidation of his presence is dizzying, and she forces herself to focus on the chill of the glass in her hand, twirling it back and forth. “This is my ‘I’m stressed’ drink.” She ends with a laugh, risking a glance his way to see a lazy, crooked grin. 

He huffs out a laugh before the glass connects with his lips. The amber drink vanishes in one gulp. His tongue smacks against the roof of his mouth, sighing in questionable relief or bliss of the burn. “I’m familiar with those.” The empty glass sits small in his hand–extended outward in a silent plea for another round. Barry no longer hesitates in filling it, having spent many nights watching him stroll out into the night without swaying or stumbling. “I have a high tolerance,” he would claim, and prove it each time.

He speaks again, but his voice is lost in the excitement surrounding them. She’s not even entirely sure it was him, but the glass lowers with haste and spares a look his way, only to find him still locked on her. “D’you say something?”

His brow quirks in amusement. “I asked what had you so worked up.”

Hot air blows past her lips. The girl's mind scattered and raced as she relived her last few hours of work–and if she should confess it all to a total stranger. She was teaching class–boys and girls at their designated stations with bowls and ingredients, mixing and crushing. Combining everything into something delectable–something they could be proud of and eventually make on their own. 

A young girl takes a bite of her small cheesecake, immediately overwhelmed by the flavor and praise from her teacher, Dawn. But as the seconds tick on, her skin begins to flush. She complains about an odd itch on her tongue, and before anything else is said, Dawn takes the girl by the hand to whisk her down the hall to the nurse's office. The young girl is treated and her parents are called, while the teacher paces back and forth with a flickering focus as she searches for Death to show its face.

“Not this one,” she whispers on repeat. 

Maybe Death had heard her plea and chose grace–or maybe Fate had sewn together a long thread for the child. Expanding out into the universe until she grows old and weak. The girl is given epinephrine and carted to the hospital for overnight observation, but holds great promise for simply walking out by morning as if nothing happened. Despite her recovery, Dawn feels burdened by the guilt, all because of a Goddamn unlisted egg allergy.

“I failed,” is all that escapes her. The tone now shifted from something so lighthearted to something aching and painful. She feels the fist of disappointment clench around her heart, squeezing until it nearly ruptures. It brings a fresh wave of tears to just barely reach the surface before being wiped away. She’s already shed her sorrows once class had finished and on the drive home. It left her second-guessing if all she had worked for–all the trust she had earned–was for nothing. 

The stranger doesn’t seem to notice her sadness in the moment. By the time she looks back his way, he seems equally lost to wandering thoughts. Moving through his own journey that led him to where he was now. Demons were not left behind but instead clawed up his back to force a memory he wanted to forget. “Been there before.”

Dawn knows she should leave it. She should take this moment as a victory. The lone wolf finally peered outside of the shadows and into the light, and to simply leave it be. Corner an animal or push it beyond its breaking point, and you’ll only find the end of its claws dug through your skin and its teeth clamped around your throat. But she sees an opening–one that he’s carved out for her, and she takes the bait, entranced by the mysterious man who’s finally spoken more than six words.

“What about you?” She questions.

“What about me?” His tone is difficult to read–his expression even harder as his gaze lowers to hide in the shadows. 

She shrugs. A look of pure confusion and curiosity is written across her face as she leans in a little closer, folded arms stretched out across the space next to her. “What’s got you so worked up? Out here, drinkin’ by yourself?”

He meets her gaze again, though it’s faulty. Attention flickering between her and the cigar he pulls from a leather case just next to him on the counter. He lights it effortlessly–the flick of the lighter happening so fast, she barely notices until smoke is spilling from parted lips. “Who said I’m alone?”

Dawn reacts without thought–quick in response as she pulls back, swiveling in the stool to fully survey the busy bar and the idiots that cheered over their silly games. Her lips purse and her nose crinkles in dissatisfaction. Beer spills down their flannels and into their mud-covered jeans, eyes filled with the madness of intoxication. “Which one’s yours? I gotta be honest; you seem like a guy with better taste.”

It’s all fun and games–and he catches on quick. By the time she glances back his way, he’s smirking again but says nothing in return. “I mean, no offense.”

He snorts–a refreshing sound, and the sight of his laugh lines gives a certain spark of warmth in her chest. The tall walls he built were breaking down before her very eyes, crumbling to dust in the space between them. “I'm just tryin’ t'find my way.”

There’s an eruption of noise off in the distance. Broken glass scattered along the ground as two men meet with faces red and veins protruding from scarred skin. Some unheard arguments between the pair finally come to a head. But before they can exchange blows, security stands between them and escorts them out with fists locked around their shirt collars. He nearly dusts his hands of the problem once they are gone from his sight.

“You’re sure one of them isn’t yours?” She questions. His toothy grin is vibrant as he takes another long drag of the cigar. Maybe it’s stupid–maybe she’ll live to regret it, but she closes the distance between them; both now sat just at the corner of the bar. “I’m Dawn,” she greets with a timid smile. Half expecting him to slap money on the counter and bid herself and Barry a goodnight. No more pleasantries and forced conversations as the wolf retreats into the night.

To her surprise, he stays, though seems uncertain. She can see the flex of his fingers as they briefly tighten around the glass and the curious raise of his brow. A silent conversation brewing within himself. He releases his drink all too quickly, reaching far down to his right for an abandoned bowl of pretzels, sliding it between their places. “Logan.”

They laugh and drink together. Sharing stories–or rather, she seemed to be sharing stories. Dawn would ask a question to better understand this man named by her side, and he seemed to have some gift of twisting it around to know her instead. He learned she was a teacher, and she managed to squeeze out that he was a freelancer. Anything to make a buck while he looks for a safe place to land. 

“I'm working construction right now,” he confesses in a cloud of smoke, dark eyes on her as she downs the last remnants of her drink. Maybe his gaze lingered a little too long as the tequila and orange juice dripped down her chin. The lick of her lips and the quick swipe of fingers along her skin.

“D'you like it?”

Logan is suddenly embarrassed–ashamed? Caught like a child, red-handed as he studies every delicate feature. The shape of her cupid's bow and the slight indentations of dimples, growing deeper whenever she smiled. He shakes himself out of the daze, leaning forward on folded arms. “The construction? Or working for hire?”

She hums in debate. Her body visibly tilting back and forth in thought before answering, “Both.”

Another stale pretzel, and he answers with a shrug. “It’s good for now. There’s no shortage of busy work, so I don’t think I’ll get bored too soon.” His eyes are wandering at the sudden realization the crowd has somewhat changed, replaced by a more rowdy group–and she doesn’t seem to notice.

But he does, and maybe it's stupid to worry about a girl who's lived here for far longer than him–but he still tries to make her aware of the passing time. “Don't you got someone waitin’ for you?” The question leaves an odd taste on his tongue. It's bitter and foul–nothing sweet like her. He's almost begging for her to run out the door and into her lover's arms, just to save him the trouble and give his mind some rest in the night instead of wondering.

But her face twists up in disgust, laughing almost too loudly, and Logan feels himself deflating from relief in the stool. “No,” she scoffs–but the realization tastes unfavorable for her, too. Thinking back to just how long it’s been since she’s even held someone's hand. “No, I–there's no one. Just my roommate, but she works late.”

“Roomies, huh?”

“Yeah, why? Lookin’ for a place t’crash?”

He smirks against the glass, mumbling a “no” in reply as he envisions nothing but trouble and awkward conversations. Even questionable looks and rumors between neighbors as he moves beyond the threshold.

The girl doesn’t take the rejection to heart, still wearing a kind smile that is quickly pried apart by a sudden yawn. It’s embarrassing, and she knows she’s been caught with her hand raised to conceal it. His brow is raised–amused as he taps the ash away into the nearby tray. “Didn’t mean t’bore you, sweetheart.”

Dawn’s eyes widen at the sudden nickname, her heart pounding as the name sinks in like an anchor in her unsteady waters. Some form of stability as the winds carry waves high into the clouds. Her face is flush, and her fingers are tight around her forearm to remain focused. Nearly getting lost in all of the excitement. “I’m not bored.” She defends. “You try waking up at 6 AM t’take care of kids all day.”

He eyes her carefully, thinking of that certain sparkle of pride seen in her eye when she mentioned working at a school. There was clear passion in it–a love that couldn’t be described. Yet, there’s a twist of frustration in her tone. “Thought you liked it?”

“I do! It–it’s just-”

The young girl’s look of fear fills her vision. Splotchy red skin spreads like a virus as her lips swell up in seconds. If she had waited any longer, her throat would have tightened, and that color would transition to purple and blue as she gasped for air on the floor, in Dawn’s arms. It would have been her fault.

Her fault.

Death meets her when the school bell rings. They stand out in the cleared hallways with the face of someone unknown. A woman–though all Dawn can see is the flickering creature using her as a puppet to make nice with any strangers to pass by. It’s a frightening sight at first. Dawn takes a step back with a hand clutched to her chest, her other arm guarding the door. A protective instinct, despite the room now being empty. 

“Jesus Christ,” she gasps, and with a subtle smile from the well-dressed woman, her shoulders relax, and she pulls at her bag a little tighter. “You couldn't have knocked, or something? Any warning at all.” Dawn moves without hesitation, knowing the space just at her side would fill with the Being that always crept in her shadow. 

“ɎØɄ'ⱤɆ ₦Ø₮ ₩ɆⱠⱠ.” It states in her mimicked voice. Eyes warm and welcoming–a complete contrast to the void of brilliance. The enchanting halo of light you follow into the afterlife. “ł₴ ł₮ ฿Ɇ₵₳Ʉ₴Ɇ Ø₣ ₮ⱧɆ ₲łⱤⱠ?”

Dawn nearly laughs–just nearly. Her lip twisted up into a scowl with a huff passing through anxiously bitten lips. “I thought you were going t’take her.”

“฿Ʉ₮ ł ĐłĐ₦'₮.” Death states plainly, reaching for the girl's elbow to halt their barely begun journey toward the exit. Their expression is unchanged at the sight of glistening eyes–reliving the fear and what could have been and what eventually will be. “ł₴ ₮Ⱨ₳₮ ₦Ø₮ Ɇ₦ØɄ₲Ⱨ?”

It was never enough. 

Dawn had put her trust in this Creature–her guidance through the horrors she had been forced to witness at such a young age. A mentor as she bends the darkness she once could not control. Taking a lost girl in a big world and giving her a purpose as the right hand of Death–a master of the undead.

But trust couldn't douse the fear of love and loss. To grow with someone and learn every flaw and gift, only to watch their soul stripped by the very thing that took such a fragile girl beneath its wing, and it was unstoppable. There was no malice or guilt–Death simply acted on what it was made to do. Granting peace to those suffering.

She sees this man as another heartache–whether by his hand or not. Another loss among the friends she gained she would have to tread through if Death didn't take her first. “It can just be tiring.” She continues with a weak smile. “Everyone has a limit, right?”

The man takes another hit, his focus unwavering and all too intimidating. “S'pose they do.”

“And right now…my limit is one Tequila Sunrise. Charlotte is going t'be a force t’be reckoned with by morning.” Regrettably, she’s easing herself away. Stepping down from the stool, though, in his direction to give him a final opportunity to stop her. Yet he doesn’t.

“Your roommate? Not even going t'let you sleep in on your birthday?”

She takes her time. Sliding her coat on with care, just to spare another second before reaching for her heavy book bag, filled to the brim with notes for class and little projects she’s constructed for the children. “It's Halloween. There's lots t'do.” 

Dawn begins to teeter in place–chewing at her lip as the reluctance to leave builds. It’s stupid to be so worried; she may never see him again. He’s still only a stranger and intends to keep it that way by how much he keeps to himself. Yet it doesn’t keep her from grabbing at a napkin and an abandoned pen for tipping and scribles down the address for him. “We’re having a party.” 

The paper is slid in his direction. Brown eyes follow its movements until it’s trapped beneath a single finger, pulling it in closer for inspection. He says nothing, but the smirk around the cigar is telling, along with the raise of a brow. He’s interested–or amused at least that she would be so bold. The napkin is folded up and tucked away into his pocket.

“Please don’t be a serial killer.” Dawn teases. Her knees are weak, legs reluctantly pulling away from the mysterious man who refuses to break eye contact with her. Maybe just to get one last look–not knowing if he'll see her again, despite the invite. “Goodnight, Mr. Logan.”

Finally, he breaks. Head dipped low just to hide a childlike grin as he spares a small wave in return. His fingers hardly lifted from the countertop, keeping it casual regardless of wishing she would change her mind and stay. But is that truly what he wanted? Needed? Another girl to confuse and break on his path of self-discovery, forgetting her name the moment he’s gone from the shared bed by morning.

Her name seems to stick like candy. Sweet with something sour–something to leave him wanting another taste, mouth-watering. Goosebumps of desire race along too-hot-to-touch skin as he speaks it again–just once more. “Happy Birthday, Ms. Dawn.

The smell of earth–nature. The smell of wood caught on fire–a delicious spice on her tongue as she drinks it in. A tired mind fights for recollection–a moment in time where she could place it. It’s there, just barely. In the dim light of night, the moon casts a glow through an uncovered window, adorning clothes from only hours ago laid out over the edge of a hamper. It’s a bizarre sign from the universe. Taking an unsettled mind and forcing it to think on something that brought her some joy–even if it was brief. 

The smell of Logan lingers, as does his rough but soothing voice. That particular look in his eye that says he’s curious–but keeping some distance for either his or her protection. It’s insanity the way his smirk suddenly fills her mind. Or the way his tongue glides along his lips after a shot of whiskey to collect the remnants.

The warmth of overworked nerves is replaced by something else–a scorching need building up in the pit of her stomach, spreading outward like a fire until she's squirming, seeking something–anything. She doesn’t even notice the sudden rotation of her hips. Acting on autopilot to quench a thirst–a desire between her thighs.

The gentle movements are enough to spark that small fire until it’s burning up her insides. The air sucked from her lungs as the smoke of lust creeps in–all-consuming and suffocating. Her cheek is damp from open-mouthed whimpers, but it's the last worry on her mind as desperation forces her hand. A gentle touch glides along the front of her underwear with thoughts drifting to him and what his hands would feel like. 

Was it soft and delicate? Sweet kisses masked by the scratch of his beard, heavy breath along her neck with passionate words pulling her in closer. Would he treat her like this? Knowing exactly where to touch and what to say. Letting her grind down into his hand until she’s come down from her high, whispering reassurance.

Was it rough and heated? Barely giving one another the chance to strip their bodies of clothing before she’s bent over and onto her knees. Would her skin grow flush from the contact of his hand? Bite marks of temporary claim that would be long gone by morning. Their bruises would be the only reminder it had ever happened. Would she ache for that breathless feeling? Chasing after one another until they’ve exhausted every ounce of strength.

By morning, Dawn is glowing. You couldn’t tell the girl had lost an ounce of sleep, smiling from ear to ear. Her roommate pried for the details over coffee–not getting a solid enough answer, which only aggravates Charlotte more. She wears a look of pure annoyance, glancing in the other woman's direction as they decorate for the upcoming party. It’s when she asks about the potential of meeting someone that Dawn finally breaks and confesses the details of her night. No matter how small they were.

“You invited him over?” She asks with a look of pure joy and surprise.

“It’s not that big of a deal.”

Charlotte leans against the door frame, arms folded across her chest with streamers hung from her fists. “You’re over here smilin’ like a schoolgirl with a crush, and it’s not a big deal?”

Rolling her eyes, Dawn steps down from the ladder, rolling away the spare pieces of tape stuck to her fingertips. “I hardly know him. It’s just…fun, s’all.” 

Fun is hardly how she would describe it. She was antsy–fidgeting or pacing nonstop as she searched for something to do–anything to pass the time. Dawn was giddy and full of excitement about the possibility of seeing him. The entire scenario is playing out in her head like a silly movie. She’d be lost in the music–no longer focusing on his arrival as she takes another shot, and he’d part the dancing bodies like the sea.

But by the third hour of the party–the real party, he’s not there. There’s no thunderous knock of his large fist against the door or the smell of his cigar. He’s not standing just at the corner of the room, watching and imprinting every sight to memory. The man named Logan is simply a story, and she can’t hide from the look of pity Charlotte gives her as she pours another drink into an empty cup.

Maybe she's a little hurt–maybe she feels foolish for being so affected by his absence. He's a stranger, after all. But she's already tipping that red cup back and singing along to another song. She's living without care–or is it a mask to hide the fear? A wary eye on the image of Death, hoping the night won't end in tragedy with a friend splayed out across the floor, blue in the face.

The following day, he's a distant memory–at least, for a short while he is.

Dawn is too lost in her hangover to acknowledge the ache of disappointment in her chest. Already forgetting hazy dreams where she reaches out to him, just to feel the heat of his body. But her bed is cold just like the day before–and long before that. In some way, it almost feels like every smile he spared was only a figment of her imagination. There had never been a Logan she shared salty snacks with at the bar. She chased after a hallucination. Thighs dampened by an illusion.

But the smell of his cigar stuck to every fiber of her coat, taunting her as she debated over tossing it into the washer with the rest of her dirty laundry. It’s the only proof she has of him.

When the day passes and the apartment is cleaned, she makes up some excuse to brave the cold winds of November. Charlotte is too tired to question–laid out along the sofa with legs dangling over the edge. She simply waves her hand dismissively, eyes half-opened, as she fights off an overdue nap.

Dawn can’t help but scold herself for the slouch of her shoulders once she enters that bar. There’s no leather jacket and wisp of black hair among the crowd. New faces and familiars fill up the space–but it surprisingly feels empty. He’s gone–and it’s disheartening. Why is it disheartening? The woman knows little to nothing about him, yet there’s still a tug on her heart, seeking to pull her right out the door and into the night. Maybe it’s just the excitement of something new. She can’t quite understand it.

She takes up her usual spot on the stool with a defeated sigh. She was slumped forward between two bodies that engage in separate conversations, loud and full of energy. There’s a forced smile in Barry’s direction, shaking her head as he holds up a glass suggestively. One Halloween and birthday bash was enough for the remainder of the week.

“I'm just tryin’ t'find my way.”

Maybe that was it. Maybe that was all it ever would be. Just two souls passing in the night, and she’d have to accept that. Add his face to the list of people she admired but could never touch.

Maybe it was better that way.

Iced water lands before her, kindly offered by the owner with an all-knowing smirk of just how intoxicated she had been the night before. She tilts the glass in thanks, and as it hits her tongue, something in the air seems to shift. The bell above the door chimes as another customer strolls in–the smell of something deliciously familiar in the distance. That familiar spice filling her senses and washing over her tongue. She’s hardly given the chance to inspect before his voice pulls her from scattered thoughts.

“Lookin’ for somebody?”

He stands tall at her back–an intimidating presence with a smirk on his face. She could hear it in his tone.

“That depends,” she begins. Her body easily twists to get a better look at him, proving her suspicion right as the cigar hangs from between his lips. “Do I have somebody t’look for?”

His smile is unwavering, though his gaze shifts to the stranger at her side. Smoke comes spilling out as he speaks, “Hey, bub.” A firm tap on the man's shoulder, luring in hazy eyes and seeming almost startled by him. “D’you mind if I-?” His finger gestures towards the girl and the occupied seat, his tone suggesting but eyes demanding–and the man doesn’t hesitate.

“Oh! Yeah, here.” He pulls himself away, beer in hand, as he effortlessly transitions back into his previous conversation, though casting a glance or two over his shoulder, unnerved by the once silent bystander.

“You didn’t show.” 

The words fly past her lips before she’s even thought it all through. Not even a “Hello” before she’s digging through misplaced feelings and biting her tongue. He doesn’t seem bothered, though. A thick brow raises with curiosity, a silent encouragement for the woman to continue. “I was looking forward t’see your costume.”

He chuckles, and it’s like a song. Working every string in her soul until she feels the flutter of soaring notes within her chest–a choir. A familiar feeling from that night creeping in, leaving her cheeks flushed before she was downing her water in large gulps, desperate to beat the heat.

“Do I look like a costume kind of guy?” he questions before taking another drag. It's an awful habit some women turn their noses up at. But there's an odd sense of comfort in the smell–thinking back to cozy fires in a home that no longer existed.

“Maybe.” She answers with a casual shrug. “Maybe like a…pirate or something.” 

He gives her a pointed look. Amused by the thought of where her mind has wandered in their short time apart. “You'd look good in a patch.”

It happens before she can stop it. A sudden drop of the lowest level compliment possible, and still, she has to turn away and hide her embarrassment. Unaware of the crooked grin he wears or the sudden spark in his dark eyes. Dawn wanted to crawl into a hole and forget it ever happened. While he found it endearing and sweet.

“You think so? No hook or nothin’? Peg leg?” 

She swallows her pride, along with the racing heart that is suddenly lurched up into her throat, just to face him again. She wears a brave face, but the stutter and weariness in her voice betrayed her. “D-dancin’ with a peg leg sounds…hard. Especially while drinking.”

He snorts, averting a blazing stare down toward the end of the bar, a simple raise of his fingers asking for a drink. It’s a well-known look for the frequent flyer. “M’not really a party kind of guy.”

“Then what kind of guy are you?”

The glass meets his palm, filled with ice yet still warmed by the water from being recently cleaned. He thinks of the fresh blood on his hands–he can see it even now. The blaring music turns into the sound of gunfire and the clash of blades–the crackle of a roaring fire. The eruption of laughter at his back transitions into the cries of pain and horror from his past–the thing he runs from. 

The lives he's taken–whether by his own hand or from a failure to ever speak up until it was too late. Until the body count had grown and towered high above him and every mercenary he stood alongside. He couldn’t live in peace knowing what he'd done. Unable to enjoy a stupid party with a pretty girl without the flashbacks of war plaguing his mind. He wasn’t the kind of guy anyone should want–or have. Logan was a monster.

“I’ll tell you what I think,” she begins, successfully pulling him out from the darkness of his mind, looking to the ray of sunlight at his side. “I think you enjoy the noise. You do busy work–loud work. Nonstop, all day. But you don’t go home–you come here instead. Then, when you get home, the radio goes on. The TV, anything–but it’s low. Loud enough to keep your mind busy, but quiet enough t’let you fall asleep on the couch. You just hate socializing.”

It’s the first time his smile falls in her presence–though not out of offense or disturbance, more so…intrigue. “And you’re sayin’ I could be the serial killer?”