Nurse

Three A.M., deep into her movie queue, and someone knocks on Ha's door. She pauses the trashy romance flick, digs herself from her cushy chair, shuffles across the flat. A check of the peephole and she unbolts, unchains, and opens the door.

Logan tips an imaginary hat, steps through.

"What happened this time?" She shuts the door, locks it tight, heads for the washroom.

He follows, shedding his jacket. "Asswipe with a knife jumped me after the fights and opened, like, ten centimeters of my arm."

She looks back over her shoulder, rolls her eyes. "Why is it always you this happens to?"

Logan's lips twitch into a smile as he perches on the edge of the bathtub, folds the coat at his feet. "Maybe because I'm always the one with the most money at the end of the night."

"Ever consider losing?" Ha opens the cupboard under the sink and pulls out a black canvas bag.

"Never." Logan twists his right arm for a better view of the dried blood trailing to his wrist.

"How about retiring?" Plunks down on the toilet.

"Nope." Frowns as a fresh trickle passes his elbow.

"Quitting while you're ahead?" Snaps on surgical gloves.

"Nah."

"Lemme see the damage." Pulls up Logan's sleeve.

He hisses as the blood-soaked fabric peels away from his skin.

A low whistle. "He got you /**go-od**."

"You should've seen /**him** after I finished."

"I'm sure it was impressive." Ha digs into the bag. "You'll need stitches. Lose the shirt."

Logan wiggles free, drops the ruined cloth.

A bottle and a sterile pad. "Disinfectant. This'll probably sting."

Logan flinches. "Fuckin' /**ow**."

"Hold still," orders Ha, swiping again.

Logan growls.

"Suck it up, Buttercup. You know how this works."

Sniffs.

Ha sets the bottle aside, reaches into a bag for a tube of gel. "This's the best analgesic I've got, but you'll probably still feel most of this."

"You don't have any of the stickers?"

"Stickers don't work on cuts this deep."

Grumbling.

"If you don't like it, learn to dodge better." Puts down another layer of numbing gel. "Or stop pissing off guys with knives."

"I didn't /**touch** this one 'til he came at me."

"Whatever." Ha retrieves a curved needle. "I'll do you a favour and put in resorbable ones." Threads the needle. "Eyes on the wall. I'll let you know when it's safe to look."

"Thanks," mutters Logan, turning to study the wallpaper. He sucks air through his teeth as the needle punctures his skin.

"One down. Eleven-ish to go," says Ha.

Logan grunts.

Ha stitches.

Logan counts petals on the screen-printed flowers.

"And thirteen. It's safe."

Logan exhales, slouches, glances over.

Ha smiles. "You're on the bench until those completely dissolve." Stands, stows the bag, throws the gloves and leftover thread in the trash. "No fights. None of your usual jobs, either." Needle into a glass, dumps disinfectant over it, and then the lot goes in the medicine chest.

Grumbling.

"You'll just tear it open again." A beat. "Also, you're spending the night here."

"I can take care of it."

"You want another infection?"

Logan scowls.

"And I don't trust you to come back, so."

Logan snorts, waves dismissively.

"Oh, yea. I don't have a couch, so we'll have to share the bed."

"Whatever," yawns Logan, collecting his clothes, shoving to his feet, and scuffing to the door.

"Yea." Ha leads the way to her room, motions Logan through, points. "That side's mine."

Logan claims the other, unties his boots, sheds his socks, slides between the blankets.

"I'll join you after I finish my movie." Ha flips off the lights. "Sweet dreams, Buttercup."

Logan snorts. "'night."

Ha smiles and pads back to the main room and her chair, huddles up, and restarts the playback.

Seven hours later, Logan wakes up and takes stock.

Strange room, strange bed? No big deal.

Breath on the nape of his neck, an arm around his chest, a warm body pressed against his back? /**Definitely** a [big] deal.

The ache in his arm explains.

Fresh stitches and Ha.

Logan contemplates escape.

Ha mumbles, nestles closer.

Logan sighs.

More sleep won't kill him.