Bruce owes him a few things, Logan decides. An explanation. A beer. He skipped out on getting a drink due to a sense of intrigue and it always takes so long and so many for his body to even register the toxins of alcohol. But the latter probably isn't forthcoming, so he fishes out a cigar he's been working on, thumb nail edging against its blunted black-burned end.

A glance back, following a glance up a down, taking in physical signs and cues not wholly consciously.

"You got a problem with what happened to your leads?" he asks, ever gruff, ever impatient in some way or another. The cigar goes into the corner of his mouth, stapled with blunt white teeth, other hand dipping into a pocket to find a matchbook. He can still talk. "Little late."