Logan had been brooding at the bar for about ten minutes by the time Martha got there. Not that he minded. He liked bars, and everything about them. He liked the greasy bar food, he liked the beverages available, and he liked the bar atmosphere. He supposed, on days when he was waxing a little more philosophical than usual, that it was the animal in him that drew him to bars and kept him there for more than just the alcohol. It was the watering hole atmosphere.
He'd downed most of his first beer by the time she arrived. He lifted his head and turned when he heard his name called, pinching the bottle between his index and middle finger. "Martha?" He fought the urge to smirk. She may not have been obvious to the civvies in the bar, but a man like Logan, with his long stretches in the military, attention to detail, and serious black ops training, was able to pick it out from the minute he set eyes on her. The way she was dressed, the way she carried herself, to someone that knew what to look for she absolutely screamed "military casual".
He hooked his foot around the front leg of the chair next to him and pushed it out for her. At the same time, he signaled the bartender. "Whatever she's havin' is on me." He'd tossed down $150 when he got in, so they would be set for a while. Then he turned back to Martha, noting the bag of rock salt. "Brought me a demon protection starter kit, huh?" He grinned at her. "Much appreciated."