[ The guy looks about as healthy as Logan had expected from their brief conversation. Maybe a little worse. Illness rolls off him in waves, the too-sweet smell of infection covered in sweat and dirt and an ozone bitterness that reminds Logan, suddenly and unexpectedly, of Ororo. The smell of her hair and skin after a fight.

He pushes that particular brand of heartbreak aside to focus on the present. On the pretty, dishevelled, mortally wounded young man not quite sprawled on the couch. Sassing him. ]

Neither. [ Logan tosses the plastic bag onto the couch beside the kid's leg. If Eliot looks in the bag he'll see a couple of battered cardboard boxes of generic high strength painkillers. And a bottlecap. ]

Beer ain't gonna put a dent in that. [ He points at Eliot's gut. ] Believe me.