Chapter Text
The neon sign flickered like it was tired.
Logan hunched deeper into his jacket as the night wind scraped against his skin. His usual bar, The Rusty Nail, had finally banned him for good. A couple of busted stools and one too many broken noses pushed them past their limit. Not that he blamed them. He just hadn’t been in the mood for conversation. Or anyone touching his shoulder.
He sniffed once, readjusted his grip on the metal handle, and pushed open the door to the new place. The Hollow. Great name. Real inviting. He stepped inside.
Dim lighting. Worn booths. An old speaker behind the bar played low, bluesy guitar. There were maybe six patrons scattered across the room, heads down, nursing drinks like confessions. It was quiet. Unbothered. Logan could work with that.
And then he saw the bartender.
Tall. Sharp-jawed. Hair tied back in a bun like they hadn’t meant to impress anyone and still somehow did. Their black tank top showed off lean muscle. But what got Logan’s attention wasn’t the look. It was how they watched him, like they saw everything at once.
The bartender poured a drink for a guy at the end of the bar, cracked a smile that didn’t quite reach their eyes, and slid over to Logan’s end.
“What’s your poison?” they asked
Logan grunted. “Whiskey. Neat.”
The bartender raised an eyebrow but didn’t comment. A moment later, Logan’s drink hit the bar in front of him.
“Kevin,” they said, nodding once. “I work Tuesdays through Saturdays. Tips are appreciated. Sarcasm is not.”
Logan snorted. “Logan. I work with teenagers. Sarcasm’s survival.”
Kevin actually laughed at that. Brief, warm, genuine. Then they looked away and wiped down the counter.
Logan took a sip. The whiskey was smooth. Not cheap, but not the kind of drink trying to impress him either. He respected that.
They didn’t talk much that night, just enough for Logan to learn Kevin didn’t take crap from drunk customers, didn’t believe in small talk unless it was useful, and kept a baseball bat under the counter.
By the time Logan stepped back into the night air, the bar already felt like a place he’d come back to. Not because the drink was good. Not even because it was quiet.
But because Kevin had looked at him like he wasn’t a lost cause.
Logan showed up again two nights later.
Same barstool. Same whiskey. Same scowl like he was daring the world to give him a reason to leave.
“You again,” Kevin said, setting a glass down before Logan even asked. “Thought you looked like the loyal type.”
Logan shrugged. “Bar’s quiet. Drink’s good. No one’s tried to punch me. Yet.”
“Early night,” Kevin deadpanned, drying a glass with a rag that had seen better years.
Logan let a faint smirk crack through. That alone encouraged Kevin, who leaned on the bar with casual grace.
“So,” they said. “You from around here?”
“Close enough.”
“That’s vague.”
“On purpose.”
Kevin gave a dry little laugh, not offended. “Okay, mystery man. What do you do when you’re not glaring into a whiskey glass?”
“Teach gym,” Logan said, tipping back a sip.
Kevin blinked. “Seriously?”
“Yeah. Kids, weights, dodgeball trauma. Whole thing.”
Kevin’s eyes narrowed just a little. “You don’t move like a gym teacher.”
Logan gave him a side-eye. “And how do I move?”
“Like you’re used to people coming at you with knives.”
Logan’s jaw twitched, just enough to be noticeable. “Sometimes they do.”
They didn’t say anything else after that. Not uncomfortable. Kevin leaned back slightly, something flickering behind their expression. Like they were filing that comment away, adding it to a folder they hadn’t labeled yet.
It continued like that for weeks, Logan only coming on nights he knew Kevin would be there. Kevin would pour him his whiskey, maybe get him to laugh a little. It became routine.
Three weeks from his first visit, Logan came in later than usual, his jacket slung over one shoulder and his left arm hanging a little stiff at his side. Kevin noticed it before he even hit the barstool.
“You limping, or is that just your strut now?” Kevin asked, already pulling down a glass.
Logan grunted and eased onto the stool. “Arm. Caught a few stray free weights.”
Kevin’s brow lifted as he poured. “That a gym teacher hazard these days?”
Logan took the glass with his good hand. “When your new student can bench-press a car? Yeah.”
Kevin froze for half a second, just long enough for Logan to notice.
He turned the glass in his fingers. “I teach at Xavier’s. It’s a school for mutants.”
That earned him a real reaction. Kevin’s posture eased, shoulders losing the tension Logan hadn’t even realized was there. Their mouth ticked up, just a little. Almost a smile.
“Ah,” Kevin said. “That explains the dodgeball trauma.”
Logan snorted. “One kid can phase through objects. Another one throws fire. It’s like gym class meets hazard pay.”
Kevin chuckled, warm and quiet. “So you’re basically herding tiny disasters with powers.”
“Pretty much.”
They fell into a rhythm after that. Kevin didn’t press for more, and Logan didn’t mind the silence between sips.
Kevin slid over when the bar cleared out a little, tossing a rag over their shoulder. “So. Gym teacher by day, whiskey philosopher by night. You moonlight as a PI too, or just stick to brooding?”
Logan gave him a sidelong look. “What, you writin’ a novel?”
“Just trying to figure out how many noir clichés you can hit in one evening.”
That pulled a real laugh out of him. Kevin seemed pleased with themselves, but didn’t gloat. Just leaned on the bar again, casual as ever.
Logan shook his head, smiling into his drink. “You always this charming, or is it just Thursdays?”
Kevin smirked. “I make exceptions. When the customer bleeds quietly and tips well.”
Another silence.
Logan glanced sideways. “You ever meet any?”
Kevin blinked. “Mutants?”
Logan nodded.
Kevin’s eyes flicked away for a second, then back.
“Yeah,” they said. “A few.”
And that was all they said. Logan didn’t push. Didn’t need to.