Kurt opens the door to him, stress etching tight lines around his mouth and eyes. He's on The Council, of course he's been briefed.
No questions, no surprise, he just leads him into the bathroom and sits him on the edge of the bath.
Logan stays there, meekly, mindlessly, as his friend works his gloves off, they are sticky with half dried blood and other less savoury bodily secretions.
He'd not bothered cleaning up before the debriefing, he'd gone in and stood before The Captains still dripping with other men's death.
He stinks of it. This is what he is, a cold hard, merciless end to their enemies.
No matter the cost to himself.
Kurt washes it all away. Gentle, always gentle. No need to explain or excuse.
The flannel on each finger, thorough, focussed, easing flakes of dried blood from under fingernails, sponging it out of the hairs on his forearms, across hard metal knuckles.
Logan looks down at him, soft dark curls, slender, strange hands, crouching before him. His tail curves out, the tip twitches, slightly. Logan knows what he smells like, he smells like death.
The soft hands urge Logan to stand and undress him without a word, dropping the rendered and ruined costume on the floor, there's not a mark on his flesh. All the abrasions and lacerations gone, all the bullet holes healed, as if by magic. The memory of the pain is still there.
Kurt slips out of his own clothes and leads him under the warm waterfall which makes the shower.
He runs the flannel across Logan's broad back, down his arms, across his chest, working the clots from in his chest hairs, blood and soap pool at his feet, he watches them idly circle the drain and disappear.
The water feels good, the cloth feels good, the gentle hands feel good, steady, familiar, secure, the sensations cut through the screaming in his mind, they start to break through.
Kurt is working on his legs, there's no rush, no hesitation, no fear of this killing machine before him. He looks up when he reaches Logan's groin, those golden eyes meeting his, he dreams about golden eyes, breath catches as the flannel runs across his balls, his cock twitching. Kurt knows him, knows every inch of him, his soft lips close around him and Logan hardens at the sensation of that beautiful, warm mouth. The darkness recedes, overwritten by the heat of lust. He runs his hands through the soaked curls. He doesn't deserve this, this kindness, this care, this love.
Kurt alway knows, always knows what he needs. When he needs to talk. To listen. Or just to feel, to reconnect with someone, human, something other than death and destruction.
Afterwards, in bed, Kurt curls up on him and cries, letting out his own hurt, anger and pain and Logan holds him, soothes him, strokes his hair, holds him together, so that the next day he can go and sit on The Council and be sure and decisive and strong.
And Logan can go back to being death and destruction.
It takes different a sort of strength, they couldn't change places, they are what they are, but he knows they are stronger when they have each other to lean on.