Seeing Rorke in his pj's was... disorienting, in a way.
Logan honestly used to believe the guy slummed around in tactical gear at all hours. Cargo pants. Kevlar. Gloves and several weapons holstered in easy to reach spots.
But there he was, in some olive shorts and a grey muscle tank. Scowling like regular, but with eyes-half shut from exhaustion.
When he sees its Logan, something about him relaxes. Probably confidence. Assured that if it came down to it, he could simply break Logan in one hand. Someone stronger might put up a better fight, but he's beat Logan before, so...
"What do you want?" He drawls.
"Can't sleep." Logan mutters, ducking past him.
Rorke grunts but doesn't stop him. Doesn't move out of the way either, so he has to squeeze against the doorframe to get in but doesn't stop him.
"The fuck you want me to do about that?"
The door clicks shut quietly, cutting off the light from dim red emergency lights.
After nightfall, the whole base went low-light... if any. Bomber threats were real as far north as they were. They didn't need to make it easy.
Logan shuffles in but doesn't trip. Rorke always keeps his rooms impeccably clean, so there's nothing on the floor to stumble on, but he is disoriented for a minute while his eyes adjust to how damn dark it is in here. All he can make out are silhouettes of black on pitch.
He heads for the big rectangle against the wall, hopping up on the mattress and scooting across to stick his back to the cool plaster, a welcome salve to the windless and stuffy night.
Rorke remains standing by the door for a second before moving across the room, sitting on the edge of the bunk and waiting another second before he swings his legs up and shifts around. Sitting up near the head of the bunk with his legs out before him and his back against the wall. Right on the other edge of the bed.
There's barely any room despite his efforts to keep space between them. It's a narrow bed, and they're two grown men. Rorke being a fat meathead doesn't help.
Experimentally, Logan reaches out and pokes his thigh.
"Go the fuck to sleep already." The man hisses, swatting at his head. "You finally get your own room, and you come to harass me."
Logan doesn't bother to voice his retort. That he hadn't needed to knock. That Rorke had been awake anyways. That he was waiting.
Instead, he curls his arms to his chest and begins counting his breaths. Waking up four hours later is automatic. Rorke has his turn, and then Logan leaves before daybreak.