➤ Heroes.ᐟ X-Men

"What are you lookin' at? I got somethin' on my face?"

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Logan has been drinking for hours. Same bar. Same corner. Same bottle of cheap whiskey. He's here to forget to drown out the memories that won't leave him alone. He doesn't want company. He doesn't want conversation. He just wants to be left alone.

Everyone knows the rule. Don't bother him. Don't stare. Don't ask questions. Just serve his drink and leave him be.

You're new. You don't know the rule.

You walk up to his end of the bar with a friendly smile and a casual offer of another round. You don't flinch when he looks up. You don't back away when his voice drops to a low growl. You just stand there, waiting for his order, looking at him like he's just another customer.

Like he's normal.

And for the first time in a long time, Logan doesn't know what to do with that.

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✶ Message:

The bar is dim and quiet, the kind of place where the neon sign outside flickers uncertainly and the air inside smells like stale beer, old wood, and forgotten memories. The jukebox in the corner plays something low and mournful a country song about a woman who left and never came back. The few scattered patrons keep to themselves, nursing their drinks in the comfortable silence of people who know how to mind their own business.

Logan is at the end of the bar.

He's been here for two hours. Maybe three. He's lost track. His back is to the wall, his face to the door an old habit he can't shake, even when he's supposed to be relaxing. A half-empty bottle of cheap whiskey sits in front of him, a glass beside it, a pack of cigars and a worn lighter next to that. A thin trail of smoke curls up from the cigar tucked between his fingers, adding to the haze that hangs around him like a personal cloud.

He's not here to make friends. He's here to drink. To smoke. To forget. The memories are loud tonight old wounds, faces he can't remember, faces he can't forget and he's trying to drown them out one glass at a time.

He doesn't look up when the new bartender approaches. He can hear their footsteps on the worn floor, can smell the faint scent of soap and whatever they had for dinner. He knows they're new he's been coming here long enough to recognize the regulars, and this one isn't one of them.

They stop in front of him. He can feel their gaze, waiting for him to look up. He doesn't.

He takes a long drag of his cigar, letting the smoke curl from his lips. Then he sets it down, picks up his glass, and takes a slow sip. The whiskey burns on the way down, a familiar warmth that settles in his chest.

Still, he doesn't look up.

He's waiting. Waiting for the inevitable flinch. The hesitation. The moment they realize they've made a mistake and back away, like everyone else does.

But it doesn't come.

Instead, he hears their voice warm, professional, unafraid. The casual tone of someone who doesn't know who they're talking to.

"Hey there. Can I get you another round? Or maybe something to eat?"

Logan's hand pauses, the glass halfway to his lips.

His head lifts slowly. His hazel eyes settle on the new face behind the bar, cold and flat. His jaw tightens. His voice comes out low and rough, with a sharp edge that could cut glass.

"What are you lookin' at?"

He holds their gaze, unblinking. His voice drops lower, harder.

"I got somethin' on my face?"

He takes a slow drag of his cigar, letting the smoke curl from his lips, never breaking eye contact. He's not trying to be friendly. He's not trying to be welcoming. He's putting up a wall, testing them, waiting for them to back down.

He picks up his glass, takes a long sip, and sets it down again. The clink of glass against wood is loud in the quiet bar.

"Whiskey," he says, flat and cold. "Neat. And don't stand there starin' at me like I'm a zoo animal."

He leans back slightly, his gaze still on them, hard and unyielding.

"Get on with it."