By Kieri

***WARNING: This story contains some graphic violence and light swearing -- read at your own risk. If you're under 18...Well, it's no worse than you'd see on prime time TV, but you've been warned. ***

It was his annual trip out of the mountains and into Denver for supplies; he'd already spent a good hour dickering the owner of the General Store, a redheaded fellow named Collins, into a fair price on good tobacco and a few additions to his library. Denver was the sort of town where a man like Logan didn't earn too many sharp looks; they saw enough mountain folk and miners to hardly notice the short, gruff man clad entirely in buckskins and wool. It was Wolf they noticed, the great beastie of fiery auburn fur that tagged along after Logan like a giant puppy. Not a few ladies crossed the street rather than pass by Logan and Wolf, which suited the pair just fine. If it wasn't for some sorely needed essentials, like that tobacco, they wouldn't come out of the Rockies at all.

When they did come to town, they had a fairly well-established routine. First to the hotel to get a room for the night, then the store for supplies, then the bathouse for an hour-long soak, and finally...

"The Red Herring Saloon." Logan's voice rasped slightly as he flicked a smile at Wolf, "Only place in Colorado Territory that serves real Irish whiskey, and lots of it." Pushing open the swinging door, he stepped into the room with a light tread and Wolf at his heels. The Saloon was a long, wide room made hazy by smoke from sputtering lanterns and tobacco of all types. All of the furniture was made of hard, sturdy wood left rough and unfinished with the sole exception of the bar itself, which was a finely polished construction of dark oak that fairly glowed. Brass fixtures and a wide mirror reflected the dim firelight. The noise of a plinky piano and harsh, braying laughter filled the room as men and a few sloppy-looking women set about drowning their troubles.

The only person Logan counted as a friend in this town was tending the place, pouring drinks and buffing his cherished oak bar and yelling affably at his employees. Logan headed over towards him, Wolf's tail swinging hard enough to gain quickly hushed complaints from the other patrons. "Cassidy."

The Irishman looked up and grinned, "Logan, if it's nae the devil himself. Welcome back!" As he opened his mouth to reply, the stage erupted in the sweet melody of a young woman's voice. Blinking a bit, he looked at the stage in surprise to see a lovely young redhead crooning a Stephen Foster song to the drunken crowd.

Turning to the barkeep, he asked, "New floorshow?" Cassidy grinned with pride, "Me daughter, Theresa. Her mam sent her to me last fall, from the Old Country. She can sing like a lark, can't she?"

As Theresa entranced the crowds, Sean and Logan caught up with one another. The Irishman had served with Logan during the war, infiltrating Southern spy networks and gathering intelligence for General Grant and the President. After the war they had both migrated west to the Colorado Territory, parting ways when Sean settled down in the boom town of Denver, marrying a stubborn Scottish widow and making himself blissfully happy. Logan, on the other hand, kept roving into the mountains until he found a secluded canyon where game and fresh water were plentiful and mankind happily absent. He had seen enough butchery during the war to convince himself that "civilized" society was more trouble than it was worth.

"So, Logan, how's that mountain of yours? Still paradise?" The Irishman's brogue grew stronger in direct proportion to the amount of whiskey he consumed.

The shorter man grunted slightly, "Crowded. Bunch o' greenhorns started themselves up a ranch not more than a days ride away. Think it'll be time for me to move on soon."

A slight frown flickered across Sean's face before he replied, "I'll be sore ta see you go. We've been friends for a good fifteen years. Ye'll be missed." He quietly offered his hand, which Logan took in a shake that confirmed fifteen years of unsaid respect. "I suppose 'tis only fair ta tell ye that Moira an' I will be movin' on next year as well. Soon as the babe's old enough ta travel. She's got a hankerin' to see San Francisco, Moira does."

Logan nodded a bit, unsurprised. Frankly, he wouldn't be amazed if Moira ended up dragging Sean onto the first ship bound for Scotland. No one knew the full story about how the stubborn Scot had ended up in the Rockies, but it was fair knowledge that she still considered herself a Scot first and foremost and only a temporary resident of the United States. Sean put up with her temper with a warm affability that mixed well with her (in Logan's opinion) rather irksome nature. Despite Moira's well-known yen for the Highlands, he was a bit curious about the sudden timing. Moira had only given birth to the Cassidy's second child at Christmas, and her mother-bear protectiveness would normally keep her youngest from a long journey for several years.

Sean continued, "An' while the Herring's new owner is fair enough, it just feels like time ta be movin' on." Sean's brusque tone and slight fidgeting piqued his interest.

"New owner, eh? Old rat finally kick the bucket?" The previous owner, an arrogant weasel named Shaw, was not well-liked.

The Irishman abruptly tossed back another shot of whiskey, saying shortly, "Aye."

Logan raised an eyebrow. He could count on one hand the times Sean had lost his temper, and something had him might close to the edge of a full-out rant. Before he had a chance to question his friend closer, a soft rustle of silk and waft of spicy perfume interrupted him. He noticed Sean stiffen minutely as a soft voice said crisply, "Sitting down on the job, Mr. Cassidy?"

Even as he turned around, Logan figured out what had Moira in such a dither to get out of town. (( An' fer once, I agree with her. )) The woman before him had hair like captured sunlight, eyes of chilled glacial blue ice, and a demeanor to match. She wore white silk in an incredibly daring style that plunged where fashion dictated a gentle slope and rose high where common sense suggested a modest foor-length sweep. Despite this, there was no mistaking her for a saloon girl. Maybe it was the "touch me and prepare to lose a kidney" attitude that she fairly radiated.

Sean actually glared for a moment, an action somewhat dulled by the fact that it was aimed at the table top. With obvious control, the Irishman replied, "Me shift was over at half past, Miss Frost."

Logan watched in amused silence. The woman either needed a good whalloping, or a bodyguard. Feeling inclined to do neither, he merely tipped back in his chair and observed the proceedings.

Frosty, as the mountain man had mentally dubbed her, frowned slightly for a moment before saying magnanimously, "Very well. If you'll excuse me?" Without bothering to wait for a reply, she sauntered off to inspect the rest of the establishment.

Sean watched her go with a very mixed expression, before muttering, "Women'll be the death of me, m' friend. Just wait." He tossed back another shot while his friend nodded sagely.

"It'll be sooner than ya think, if ya come home to Moira drunk. Pass that bottle over this way."

As they drank, neither of the two friends noticed the quietly observing pair of eyes that watched quietly from the crack of an upstairs door, narrowed in rage. (( Soon...Very soon, this will be over, Logan. And I will be the winner. ))

*** The atmosphere of the Red Herring had gradually shifted as the night wore on; Sean and Logan sat quietly, catching up and playing the occasional hand of poker in between drinks. Customers moved in and out, the raucous drover crowd moving on to other pleasures while the hardened drinkers stuck it out, hunched over at their tables and the bar. The lamplight eventually was turned down, the music retreating into a single plinking piano in the corner. Theresa stopped by and said hello, giving her father a brief hug before slipping her coat and making her way out with a large Native American man, her arm in his. The dark looks sent their way were pointedly ignored.

Logan glanced at Sean, the light from the glowing tip of his cigar now visible in the gloom. He nods towards the departing couple, "That bother you? Theresa and the Indian, I mean."

Sean shrugs slightly, taking another sip of his whiskey. "Jim's a good lad, smart as a whip. He'd never do a thing tae harm my Terry, an' that's a fair bit more than I can say about any o' the others that have come calling. I've seen too much of that sort of racism t'wards the Irish in Boston tae hold it against him." The barkeep settled back in his chair, letting out a tired yawn. "Moira'll take a stick tae me if I don't get home soon, ye know." A half-grin tugs at his lips as he thinks of his wife...But even as he did so, Logan saw the way his eyes slipped towards the still figure in white, watching from the landing in front of her upstairs office. Even in the gloom she glowed, golden and starkly plain against the warm woods and red velvet of the saloon. Logan had known only one other woman who could captivate a room so thoroughly; the difference came from the fact that one, Emma, was as cold and glittering as a diamond...And the other was as warm and vibrant as flame.

Sean turned his gaze away from his employer, taking another small sip of his drink before standing. "Will ye be stayin' with us, Logan? We've got an extra bed for ye anytime, an' frankly, I could use the back up." He grinned widely, good humor only a bit strained.

A rough laugh burst from his friend as Logan tipped back his hat, finishing his drink and getting to his feet, "Thanks for the invite, but I'll leave you two lovebirds to yourself. You can handle yourself just fine, bub, without me gettin' involved. Remember that time in Charleston, when the Rebs came near to breakin' your cover? It took Chuck and me a week to get you clear, and you were still tickin'. You can handle one screamin' wife...I hope." He grinned again, puffing on his cigar.

Sean laughed softly, a bit ruefully, "Aye, well, I'll not forget that I had tae spend that week holed up in a basement of a sympathizer...The smell of moldering cabbage still makes me ill tae this day. Are ye sure ye can't come? Moira'll be disappointed." The Irishman's eyes twinkled at that; despite the fact that Moira never let the opportunity to nag his friend pass, he knew there was a genuine regard there. Probably because she knew that Logan had saved Sean's life more than once.

The shorter man nodded, tipping his hat back a bit. "I think I'll have a few more drinks before headin' back to the hotel. Might play some cards." He puffed softly on his cigar, "I'll stop by in the mornin' to pay my respects to that wife of yours."

Sean laughed again, getting to his feet, "Aye, ye do that. This time try not tae scare her half to death, aye? Findin' ye on her front porch sharpenin' that sword ye call a knife damn near took ten years off her life." Shrugging into his jacket against the cool spring night, the Irishman grinned a bit. "Tis good tae see you, Logan. Try not tae get into too much trouble tonight."

There was a faint glint in Logan's eyes as he nodded at Sean, "You've got my word I won't bust the place up too bad." His grin was just a touch feral, but Sean merely laughed, "I'm glad tae hear it. Frost'd have my hide if ye did." He put on his hat and headed for the door, whistling a jaunty Irish reel.

Logan tipped back in his chair, slipping his knife from it's sheath at his side with a soft whispering sound. Eight inches of near-perfect, gleaming steel glinted sharply in the dim light, a double-edged dagger that came to a wicked point. It was called an Arkansas Toothpick by most, the preferred knife of the plains and mountains of the West -- sharp enough to pierce the hide of a buffalo, to awl leather and straps, and strong enough to keep an edge keen enough to shave by. Logan's was no exception. A rough hand fished into his pocket to pull out a small whetstone, slipping it up the edge of the blade with a soft ringing sound, a drawn-out snikt.

The cherry of his cigar kept glowing as he puffed, a cloud of smoke wafting above him as he continued to sharpen the knife, up one side, then the other, rhythmically bringing the edge to razor keenness. The saloon was mostly deserted now; even Frost had retreated to her office. One table of grungy, devoted card sharks kept playing into the night, drinks untouched as the serious business of high-stakes poker reigned.

Logan kept an eye on them, for the most part keeping to himself as he nursed his drink and kept sharpening his knife. Wolf slept on at his feet, keeping herself neatly out of the way under Logan's table.

One of the poker players, a dark-skinned man with a fidgety manner and the odor of a body that hasn't bathed in months kept looking over at Logan, eyes squinting into the dark of the corner. "Dios, mister, ain't that knife sharp enough yet? Quiet it down, we're playin' poker." His voice was tinged with petulance, and even from his corner Logan could tell the man's hands were sweatily clutching the cards.

Sniiiiiikt. The whetstone was drawn slowly up the length of the toothpick, the sound Logan's only reply. Anger flashed in the swarthy man's eyes at the insult.

Another of the players grinned just a bit, a flash of white teeth in the shadow his hat cast across his face. "Eh, Rodrigo, play de hand. I be dis close to winnin' dat horse of yours." The other players laughed, and Rodrigo turned away from Logan with a drawn-out glare. The swarthy man leaned back in his chair, coat slipping back as if to adjust his gunbelt. Only Logan from his vantage in the corner saw the dirty hand slip towards the fancy tooled boots and slip the card into the palm of his hand.

Skikt...The whetstone slipped up one side of the blade...THUNK. Before Rodrigo could even flinch, the blade was quivering in the wooden floor, pinning his arm to the floor through his boot leather. The Mexican yelled, almost a scream in agony as the Toothpick speared into him. The card slipped from his twitching hand, landing on the floor as blood slowly dripped onto it.

Logan's gruff voiced echoed from the corner table, "Guess it's sharp enough now." The other poker players pushed their chairs back, leaning to see the Mexican's hand pinned and bleeding, the counterfeit ace lying beside his hand. "Look like we got ourselves a cheater, mes amis." The speaker stood up, pistol smoothly drawn up to point at the wide-eyed and sweating Rodrigo. "Remy say we make sure he don' cheat no one again." The speaker was a tall man, slender and dressed as a professional gambler. The way he held the gun spoke more than his clothes did as to his skills beyond cards. The other players eased back, one of the shorter men (a banker or merchant from the looks of him) venturing, "The Marshal doesn't stand for any killin' in this town, not even card cheats."

Even as the banker spoke a smooth voice echoed from the door, "That's right, I don't. Put the gun away, LeBeau. I'll handle it from here." The Marshal strode into the saloon with the air of command that Logan remembered so well from the officers he served under during the war, a stiff sort of justice that held up even under the toughest of decisions. He was dressed neatly, his shirt almost unnaturally clean. A brown Stetson rode easily over short-clipped brown hair...But it was the black patch over one scarred side of his face that caught Logan's attention the most.

The Cajun didn't spare a look for the Marshal, "He a card cheat. You gonna hang him, Summers, or let him go like you did de last time?" His voice was slightly mocking, although his finger did ease away from the trigger.

Marshal Summers' voice was cool. "That's for the court to decide, not me. Put the gun away, LeBeau, and sit down." He walked over to the still-shaking Rodrigo, starting to haul the man to his feet but stopping as the Mexican screamed in pain. LeBeau smirked, "De short man pinned him to de floor with dat Toothpick. Reckon you just near cut his hand off, Marshal." The gambler nodded pleasantly towards Logan, still seated amongst the shadows of the corner.

Summers' glanced at Logan, who stood and walked over to draw the knife free of the Mexican. Blood immediately begin to spurt from the wrist of the very pale Rodrigo, and the Marshal swore softly to himself, tugging off his bandanna to tie off the wound tightly, and not too gently. He pulled the Mexican to his feet and fairly dragged him out of the saloon.

Before passing through the door the Marshal turned to Logan, "Be at my office at two tomorrow afternoon. I don't take kindly to people spearing folks in my city." Blood dripped slowly through the bandanna onto the floor as Rodrigo and the Marshal left.

LeBeau got to his feet lazily, moving with cat-like grace as he walked over to Logan. "Nice knife." Logan grunted a bit, cleaning the blade off neatly on the sleeve of his shirt before slipping it back into the leather sheath at his side. "Thanks."

Wolf slipped out from under the table, awakening at all of the commotion and the smell of blood. Whining softly, she nudged at Logan's leg, indicating that she wanted to go outside. Nodding a bit towards his companion, he glanced at LeBeau. "I don't like cheats." Nodding amiably, Logan strode towards the door, slipping a new cigar from his pocket and whistling softly for Wolf to follow.

The cold spring air swirled around him with harsh and sour scents of men and horses as he stepped out of the Herring's doors, the half-shades flapping slightly from his passage. Wolf whined again, prancing slightly and looking off down the street, swinging her head around to look at Logan as if seeking permission. Grunting a bit, he nods, "Go on. Try not to eat anyone." He grins a bit as the giant wolf loped off happily to stretch her legs, a soft howl echoing over the street. A drunk weaving his way down the boardwalk staggered out of the wolf's way, yelping and swearing loudly before Wolf vanished around the corner of an alley.

Lightly sniffing his cigar, Logan glanced up and down the street before pulling out a match and striking it against the doorpost, leaning idly against it as he bent his head to ignite the cigar, the match cupped in his hand against the breeze, the red glow lighting up his cheeks. Even as his hand touched the tip of the match to the end of the cigar, he felt a prickling sensation that sent his head jerking back, cigar unlit...Until it exploded as a bullet zipped through it and smacked into the doorpost with a sharp zinging sound. Even before the splinters erupted from the post Logan was on the ground, taking cover behind the water trough along the mired streets. Mold and manure filled his nose as adrenaline kicked his senses into overdrive, his pistol slipping silently free of it's holster of it's own accord, the smooth barrel of the retooled Navy Colt .44 becoming an extension of his hand. It was dark, so dark he couldn't see beyond the dimly glowing windows of the Herring to his right, and to his left shifting forms of spooking horses filled his view; he could hear the tack clinking as they stomped their hooves into the mud. Still...The prickling sensation continued...Even as he heard the muffled thump of someone tripping on something in the alley just behind him and around the corner.

As quickly and silently as the shadows he moved in Logan was up, crouched and walking slowly to the corner of the alley. Pistol and eyes went around the edge of the building simultaneously, even as the fleeing form in black caught the glint of metal and fired a wild shot towards him. Eyes keen, squinting into the night he fired a single shot, square at the man's retreating back, dropping him into the mire as the bullet's soft chunk of lead ripped through the man's heart, blood spraying forward and beginning to pool around the body.

Logan stepped quietly, cautiously into the alley, eyes peeled for any other pursuit. At the silence, he moved over to the body and rolled it over, checking for breath even as he knew the man was dead. He reached forward to open the man's coat, seeking a clue as to who would be trying to kill him...Or more accurately, which of his enemies was after him this time...Even as he moved, the sound of a footstep had him spinning and bringing up his own weapon. Before his finger tensed to fire, he focused on the image of the shotgun barrel leveled neatly at his chest, both hammers cocked and ready to fire. The shooter was obscured by shadow, what little light silhouetting him against the blackness.

His voice was low, dark, and utterly lacking in emotion...From ten feet away Logan could smell the dried sweat and stench of rotting tobacco juice that filled the air around the armed man. "Thanks for killing him, Logan. I didn't want to share my fee with him anyway." The hired killer took a step forward, his gait easy. The shotgun never wavered from it's aim, more deadly for each inch the muzzle came closer. "Time to die..."

Some rational, observing part of Logan's mind noted the way the man's hands caressed the gun, almost lovingly as it lifted just a fraction in preparation of firing, the way the fingers gently stroked towards the trigger...

And vanished from sight as a blur of snarling red-furred rage slammed into the gunman, throwing him to the ground. Two steps had Logan to the edge of the alley, turning to see Wolf pinning the gunman to the ground with her weight square on his chest, powerful jaws clenching around the pale throat. The gunman's eyes were wild, eyes dilated as he tried not to swallow the spit that foamed on his lips. Wolf's saliva dripped down his throat, cold against the air even as her breath plumed outwards and away like smoke. Yellow eyes, inhuman now with rage, waited for the slightest command to crush the killer's throat.

Logan took a half-breath, pistol still at ready as he walked to crouch down next to the fallen man. "Looks like we gotta have a little chat, bub. Seein' as how you're indisposed, let's just make it easy. Blink once for yes, twice for no. Maybe I won't let her kill ya when we're done." Stark terror ruled the man and he blinked once, flutteringly in panic. Logan looked up and around, noting the deserted streets with care, pistol still cocked and ready to fire. "You're a hired gun?" Blink. "Are there any more of you?" Blink blink. Logan grinned ferally, and Wolf tightened her grip a nudge, sharp teeth piercing the thin skin of the gunman's neck. He grew even more pale, twitching uncontrollably in utter fear. "Sure about that?" Two blinks. Logan looked up and around, warily, and even as he did the gunman moved, jerking his arm up into Wolf, who clenched her jaw spasmodically at the pain as the knife ripped into her. She fell away, whining softly as blood seeped into her coat. The gunman choked as his windpipe collapsed, turning purple as he lost breath as well as began to bleed furiously. Logan's pistol finished the job, one shot ending the man's life even as he picked Wolf up and moved her to safety behind the trough, tugging off his bandanna and pressing it to her side. "Shh, darlin', it'll be fine...Logan'll take care o' ya." His head came up again, -knowing- there were more gunman out there...But no sound comes. Slipping out of his sheepskin coat he gently covered Wolf, getting to his feet and crouching. Tracks were impossible to follow in the mire of so many booted feet, but he could tell enough from the other gunmen's arrival to know that whoever was left was close...

The soft growl from his left as a figure stepped out of a doorway made his searching useless. "Miss me, runt?" The hulking body moved with inhuman grace. He carried no gun, but the glint of a long Bowie knife was visible even in the dim light from the buildings.

Logan's nostrils flared at the scent of the man, instinctively crouching as his eyes darkened with rage. "Creed." The larger man laughed, a harsh, mocking sound that brought back raw memories. Creed had been in his unit during the war, before he was recruited for intelligence. He had nearly killed Logan in a brutal fight, after Logan had stopped him from raping a Southern woman found near the battlefield, trying to care for her dying husband. They had fought, bayonets ripping holes into each other until the lieutenant had finally shown up and had them torn apart by half of soldiers under his command. They had been sent to separate hospitals to heal; while he was there, Logan was recruited by Charles Xavier to be a part of his growing spy network in the South. Logan had accepted...And never seen Creed since.

His growl rumbling throughout his body, Logan threw himself at Creed, his knife already flashing out to finish what had been started so many years ago. Steel and sweat combined as Logan's blade slammed into Creed's shoulder, slashing downwards. The bigger man howled and threw himself forward, his own knife burying itself into Logan's right side.

They pulled free at the same time, stumbling back to begin circling each other warily, each swiping outwards at the other and missing by mere fractions of an inch. Blood seeped through his clothing, dripping slowly into the mud.

Dimly he could hear the soft whines and whimpers of Wolf nearby, but he could not allow himself to be distracted away from Creed...Only his wits kept him alive. He lashed out with a low kick at Creed's legs, swiping them out from underneath him and dropping him hard onto his back in the mud. In a moment he was on top of him, knife swooping in for the kill.

Creed's powerful arms were up and held his wrist at bay, the knife glistening with blood just inches away from Creed's throat. With a hard lurch, Creed spun the smaller man away and rolled, mud sticking to the leather of his clothing as he traded positions with Logan, knife pressing inward to cut Logan's throat. Creed was the stronger of the two, pushing closer and closer, even as Logan managed to force his own blade up into Creed's side with his free arm, leaving the blade to fall loose as he dropped it to use both of his arms to keep Creed away.

Logan's muscles began to tremble from the strain; Creed was twice his size and weight, and had the upper hand...His hands became slick and knotted from the strain, arms slowly starting to lose ground to Creed, the knife growing closer and closer...

Without warning explosive lights erupted between the two, banging and popping and causing both of them to flinch back and away in pain. Smoke filled the air as yet more explosions of light and color went off, whistling and screeching. Fireworks pelted Creed as he tore himself away from Logan, falling back into the mud. From a perch on the boardwalk a young, slim figure kept lighting her little bundles of fireworks, throwing them hard at Creed.

The larger man howled, his eyebrows and face badly singed and burnt by the explosions. Half-blind he stumbled away into the darkness, away from Wolf and pursuit.

Bleeding and exhausted, not to mentioned stunned by the explosions himself, Logan lay in the mud for hare's breath before rolling to his feet and lurching, almost as if to pursue Creed into the night. Blood soaked through his clothing. If not for the whines and yips of Wolf, he would have stumbled along after the blinded Creed. As it was, he swiveled roughly and made his way to Wolf, kneeling beside her. Once he had assured himself that the wound to his companion wasn't too serious, he looked up to thank the fireworks-thrower...Only to see a young female form race off around a corner, bright yellow coat flapping in the breeze.

Turning his mind to what was important he carefully picked up his knife and gun, putting them away and reaching down to pick up Wolf and began striding wearily towards Sean and Moira's, steps dragged down by both his own wound and the weight of the wolf in his arms.

An eternity later he arrived on the Cassidy's doorstep, collapsing onto the front step while still managing to put Wolf down with a bit of gentleness. Pounding wearily on the door, he waited as sounds of footsteps and hushed inquiries murmured around inside the house. He felt rather than saw Sean slip to the window, gun at ready to check for threat. He heard his friend exclaim as he saw them both on the porch, the door opening seconds later to a worried Sean. Moira hovered behind him briefly before shoving him gently out of the way, "Och, Logan, what 'ave ye done to the puir wee animal...? Sean, carry the beastie tae the kitchen, put her on the table. Logan, get into that chair an' let me have a look at that side." Her voice was brisk and filled with lecturing worry, "Ye cannae be left alone for an hour without gettin' yourself torn up somehow, can ye now? Hold still, let me take a look at it." She peeled away the blood-soaked cloth around the wood, staring at it with a lamp closely up held. "Ach, tis naught but a scratch. Ye'll be fine in a day or two." She turned on him dismissively, pushing up her sleeves and striding into the kitchen, "Sean, get the kettle going and turn up the lamps. Let me see to this puir wee creature..." Not even commenting on the 'wee' wolf's size, Sean quietly turned up the wood stove and stoked it, adding more water to the kettle from the handpump in the kitchen.

Even as the water heated Moira was gently probing Wolf's wounds, carefully inspecting the damage and clucking softly to herself. Logan got himself up and leaned in the doorway, exhausted and shaky from lack of blood, but still in control. "How is she?"

Wolf whined softly as she saw her companion, yelping harshly as Moira probed a particularly tender spot. "She'll need time tae heal, a quiet warm place." A pair of level, sharp eyes flicked to Logan, "Which means ye'll nae be draggin' her off to the mountains again anytime soon, Sassenach. She needs quiet and a home, not prowlin' around after ye crazy antics."

Logan grunted, accepting the lecture without comment, and looked tiredly to Sean. "Got any coffee, Irish?" At the mention of coffee Sean winced, making sure Moira wasn't looking before vigorously shaking her head and making little choking gestures. Logan managed a tired grin, muttering, "Whiskey, then. And pass some of that water over here so I can get this cleaned up." He picked up a rag and soaked it, cleaning off his own wound thoroughly while Moira cleaned and bandaged Wolf. The redhead looked up, scolding slightly, "Get tae bed, Logan, before ye collapse. And I'll be wantin' an explanation as tae why ye showed up tae bleed all over my kitchen at half-past two in the mornin'." Logan grunted again, snapping off a mock-salute before turning and heading back into the sitting room to collapse onto the sofa. Sometime later, a quiet feminine form draped a blanket over him, letting him to sleep.