Snowstorms weren’t rare this far north in Canada—didn’t mean Logan liked ‘em.

Nobody really cared about Cold Lake. Not unless they were born there or had gone into hiding. After the mission went sideways, he wanted quiet. Nothing but him and his bourbon, knocking it back at some dive bar. The air was crisp here, but frigid. -15 Celsius was almost considered mild here, but at least you had a gorgeous view of the frozen lake for miles.

Well, callin’ it a bar was almost generous, when it was more like a lived-in shack with liquor and bad plumbing. A handful of locals hunched over their drinks, not talking much, barely lifting their heads Logan’s way. He appreciated it—the last thing he needed was judgmental looks thrown his way while he was freezing his sideburns off. He sipped, savouring the burning sensation down his throat.

Wind howled outside, rattling the windows hard enough to make the glass shudder. Snow wasn’t falling anymore—it was driving sideways, thick and mean, sticking to everything it touched. It was a total whiteout, and Logan had trekked through stubbornly to drink by himself.

Logan could see himself sleeping here, if he even slept. He wasn’t leaving anytime soon. Instead, he nursed his drink in the corner of the bar, his shoulders squared in his brown leather jacket. Nobody spared a glance towards the short mutant, hardly batted an eye when he ordered his fourth whiskey on the rocks.

This was nice, almost peaceful—until the door slammed open, a cloaked figure appearing in the entrance. Cold air tore through the room, heads turning towards the stranger. He didn’t need to look to feel a sense of familiar irritation fill him.

Oh no. Not them. Why were they HERE?

He’d already smelled them before they walked in, the snow melting on their shoulders from being caught in the blizzard, the taste of metal in their sweat, and the familiar odour of their soap. The smell of their lunch from last night. Goddamn it. He thought he had an escape from his colleagues up here.

His grip tightened in the glass on reflex, but he didn’t lift his head from where he drank. Instead, he listened to their steady footfall before finally looking back to meet their gaze. He couldn’t help the way his brown eyes slid over them, his nostrils flaring as he looked for a limp or hidden wounds beneath their heavy coat.

Nothing.

“...Bub.” Logan exhaled slowly through his nose, something in his shoulders easing—and tightening at the same time. “Figures. Only place in a hundred miles worth a damn, and you walk right in.”

Logan tipped the glass back with finality, chasing down the warm amber liquid, and then set it down with a dull clink on the sticky bar counter. No coaster, which was feral of him.

“Y’know, I wanted to be alone.”

A beat. He checked them for injuries silently, as he could see through their clothing.

Fine. He guessed he had no choice here. His tranquillity was already ruined. He jerked his chin toward the empty stool beside him.

“Sit.”

The bartender hovered, but Logan didn’t even look at him or at them as he spoke next.

“Get ’em something hot,” he muttered. “Coffee. Whiskey. Just make it quick.”

The bartender nodded, moving away to prepare their drink. Finally, Logan turned back again and studied them quietly. He was getting a headache already. Why did you come here all the way from New York? And how? He had questions, but he didn't care to ask.

“Storm’s bad. Roads’ll be gone by morning.” He drummed his hands on the counter, “so either you got a real good reason for bein’ here, or a hell of a story to tell.”