Jean's question sends a shiver of cold through Logan's guts, like being stabbed with a thin blade, because between the outfit and her assumption he's narrowed down her last moments to a couple he's pretty sure he can put money on. He fights down memories of heat and his healing factor fighting suffocation and his own death -- or something like it -- in the white realms of the sun. And the ugly business not long after, frying pan into the fire.

With an effort, he manages to look annoyed instead of grief-stricken.

"Don't be a goddamn idiot," is his only response to Scott, with a disgusted growl. "Come on. The amount of booze I need for this is goin' up by the minute."

He turns away to head out into the street, not pausing to orient himself but going in a definite direction, clearly more than a little at home here. Thankfully the Scratch isn't too far.

"By the way, what you two were doin' is illegal as well --" he mentions over his shoulder, hands going to the pockets of his denim jacket, "next time pick someplace that ain't got cameras pointin' at it."