Irish

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</noinclude>

Logan's eyes flutter closed. He starts, bonks the back of his head against the wall.

"Aww ... is baby up past his bedtime?" coos the meathead beside him.

Logan rounds on them, fully awake now, eyes blazing—

""Oi! Kid! You're up!"" hollers the hall monitor.

—jerks to a halt, pivots, stomps toward the mats.

""I got saved by the bell, ay?"" snickers the meathead.

Logan grumbles, stretches.

The hall monitor yells, "Irish! Get over here!"

Logan bounces on his toes as a bluey closer to his dad's age than his moseys over.

Irish stops short, blinks. "The [heck's]—" Waves a hand at Logan. "—/**this**?"

The hall monitor sighs. "That's your opponent."

"He's a {fuckin'} /**baby**!"

Logan steps closer. "Afraid I'll break your hip, [Grampa]?"

"I'm more afraid of snapping /**you** in half, kiddo."

Another step, nearly nose-to-nose. "Then how 'bout ye quit yapping and give it your best shot?"

Irish keeps eyes on Logan, says to the hall monitor, "I'm talking to your boss about this."

Logan rolls his eyes.

The monitor makes a note. "You know the rules, gents. Get to it." Backs out of the way.

Irish and Logan separate, check their footing.

"You got a name, kid?" Circles.

"You wanna know who's kicking your ass?" Tosses his head, pivots.

Irish sighs, keeps circling. "I'm trying to be /**friendly**, Junior."

"I'm not here to make /**friends**, Grampa."

"Why /**are** you here, then?"

"To /**make** a name." Smirks. "And have some fun." Logan charges—

Irish blocks too slowly and he's on his back foot and the fight's on.

Ten minutes of trading blocks and blows—

"Time's up!" yells the monitor. "Draw!"

The crowd groans.

Logan holds his side.

Irish limps, wipes blood from under his nose. Takes a deep breath, bows.

Logan bows-kinda, swallows a hiss, aims his feet for a quiet corner.

Irish follows.

Logan whirls on him, growls, "You wanna'nother go?"

Irish gestures 'no threat'. "Was actually wondering if you'll let me treat you to food."

Logan frowns.

"As payment for that bruised rib I gave ye."

Sniffs, relents with an exaggerated sigh.

"There's a place two stations over with a great pork sandwich."

Logan grunts, grabs his backpack, tilts his head 'after you' to Irish.

Irish leads.

Logan tap-tap-taps his toes on the train{, adrenaline making him edgy and masking the ache in his side}.

Irish side-eyes him. "This on your way home?"

"Is now."

Grunts. "How old /**are** you?"

"[Sixteen]."

"Jesus. No /**wonder** you're all elbows and ribs." Scratches his nose. "You got a place to sleep tonight?"

"Easy enough to find [one]."

Irish nods. "Spare couch in my garage, if you want." Bumps Logan's shoulder. "Would rather not have a dead kid—or worse—on my conscience. So."

Logan grunts.

[Irish rubs] the back of his neck. "Got family?"

"Granny up the coast's the only one who'll have anything to do with me." Shrugs. "I can take care of myself."

"Yea, you probably can."

Logan sniffs. "Took care of you just fine."

"That was what we call a 'draw', kid." Smiles. "You know what that means, ay?"

Raises an eyebrow.

"Neither of us got the job done, so neither of us got paid."

Logan sighs. "It'll be the last time that happens, old man."

"It's 'Jimmy', kid." Grins. "An' you're certainly welcome to try."

A glint in his eye, Logan says, "You bet your ass I will."