The coffee in the stained pot looked, and smelt, like it had been there for at least 3 days. Logan gave it a cursory sniff and decided not to risk it. He settled for a can of soda from the small, noisy cooler sat by the mess table. Flicking open the ring pull, he dropped into a corner seat, automatically positioning himself so he could see the open door. Green uniformed soldiers occasionally tramped by, smelling of distrust, gun oil and patriotism. Taking a slurp from the can, he glanced around the large rec room. Victor was nowhere to be seen, on the prowl for food and female company, if it could be had. Of the two brothers, he was keen about the idea of a mutant-only special task force. Logan had reservations. A lot of reservations. Victor's appetites for everything were starting to get out of control.
Nah, been outta control for a long while, he thought, watching Fred Dukes shovel in a hotdog the size of his forearm. Vic, bro, what are we gonna do about you?
Settling himself more comfortably in the worn armchair, Logan crossed his ankles and scowled. Yet another training exercise was booked for later that afternoon, under the watchful eyes of scientists studying the mutant condition. He harboured a deep distrust of the scurrying, white-coated medics, who probed and measured and questioned, peering into his very DNA. Wade Wilson, however, loved showing off. Loquacious, charming and deadly, Wilson would spin his twin blades as he danced, almost en pointe through confrontations. If he ever got injured, Logan never saw it.
Sensitive ears picking up Wilson's never-ending chatter down the corridor, Logan groaned softly. He did not dislike the perpetual comedian, just wondered how anyone could talk so much. Dukes snuffled a little as he scoffed down the last of his hotdog, mopping up a splodge of mustard with his stubby index finger. He looked up and met Logan's gaze, eyes rolling disparagingly as he heard Wade's voice grow closer and louder.
"May I just say you look lovely in black, a flattering colour for all ladies. I myself am in touch with my feminine side – take this shirt, for example..."
Logan paused with the half drunk can part way to his mouth. There was another mutant in the hallway with Wade. A feral, like him, like Victor. A woman. He set his can down and waited for them to come into view, alert, curious.
"Wilson, you've got the worst case of verbal diarrhoea I've ever come across." The voice was English, but not the cut-glass vowels of BBC, more the soft-sharp patter of John Lennon or Paul McCartney.
"I'm in touch with my feelings," Wade insisted, not put out in the least. "I express myself."
A soft snort, "Nah, lad, you're so full of shit it's leaking out of your ears."
Logan gave a quick bark of laughter. Wade stepped through the rec room door and gave an exaggerated flourish to usher the guest through. A tall, pale young woman in motorcycle leathers sauntered through the door. Her hazel green eyes flitted about the room, a leisurely glance in appearance only. She was scouting the area, taking in information, assessing risks. A solider, not a civilian or a scientist. She moved with long-limbed, economic grace. Logan watched and waited as she was introduced to Fred Dukes, who blushed like a raspberry.
"Freddie boy, meet Helena Draven," Wade beamed. "Ms. Draven is a volunteer like us. One of our British neighbours... what did you say your background was...?"
He trailed off and looked expectantly at the Englishwoman, who merely smiled thinly and picked a strand of wind-blown grass from her long dark curls.
"I didn't," she said, fixing him with a piercing gaze.
Wade found himself dropping his eyes, unable to hold eye contact. For a brief moment, the sunny facade dropped and something cold and calculating passed across his handsome features. Noting the reaction for future reference, Logan mentally added Helena Draven to his list of dangerous people. Anyone who could phase Wade Wilson with a single glance was worthy of a place. Recovering his composure, Wilson ambled over and threw out a hand.
"And finally, one half of our very own Laurel and Hardy double act – James Logan. Jimmy – Ms Draven, Helena, Jimmy."
Wiping the soda condensation from his palm on his combat fatigues, Logan stood and offered his hand. She took it, grip firm, fingers sliding over his wrist, a dominant gesture that surprised him.
"Helena," he nodded tersely, quirking an eyebrow.
"James," she murmured, still keeping hold of his hand. "Heard a lot about you and your brother. Apparently you're the best at what you do."
Logan flashed his best charming grin, "That's right, darlin'."
Her lips twitched in a slight, wry smile. "Well, get ready to be knocked off that pedestal, Canuck. You lads have just mucked around in the sandbox. Let's see how you measure up to my standards."
Wade smirked as the grin dropped from Logan's features, replaced by indignant disbelief. The English mutant smiled like a cat in a mouse nest, dropped the Canadian's hand and leisurely strolled from the room. Watching the sway of her leather-clad hips as she departed, Wade's mouth turned down at the corners.
"Y'know, Jimmy," he observed, tone approaching serious. "I think this lady is gonna be trouble. I mean, any girl that's immune to the Wilson charm's gotta be a little nuts." He broke off and grimaced. "I hope you can keep a rein on your brother while she's around."
"Whaddaya mean by that?" Logan growled, instantly defensive of Victor.
Wade shrugged, toned muscle rippling beneath his faded green t-shirt. Slinging himself into the recently vacated armchair, he crossed his ankles.
"I mean ol' Vic isn't exactly a shrinking violet and she's alpha female in leather," Wade smiled, running scenarios through his mind. "Mmmmm leather... anyways, I'd hate to have to explain the mess to Stryker."
Logan scowled, "Victor wouldn't be stupid enough. He may rag on her some, but he's likin' this new billet too much to screw it up by hurtin' the newbie."
Opening the small flick knife he carried in his boot with a muted click, Wade began absently cleaning his nails. He looked up, sharp blade poised before his thumb.
"Not her I'm worried about, man," he shrugged and carried on examining his nails. "I'm sure the lovely Ms Draven can look out for herself. I've seen her personnel record."
Dukes snorted a laugh from the far side of the rec room, beginning to make inroads on his second hotdog. "And how in the hell did you manage that?"
Closing his knife, stowing it securely in his left boot, Wade twinkled a little, cocking a crooked grin.
"Lieutenant Singer in records isn't anywhere near as immune to the Wilson charm," he revealed. "That and I might've kinda stolen a peek while her back was turned."
"And?" Logan demanded.
Crossing his ankles, hands beneath his head, Wade regarded the ceiling nonchalantly, playfully whistling Yankee Doodle.
"Telekinetic, advanced healing factor, sense of smell, hearing and sight," he recited in classroom fashion. "Decorated in ten different combat zones, speaks eight different languages. The girl can lift a tank without lifting a finger. Oh, and wait for it – she's got claws."
Dukes almost choked on his hotdog, "I didn't see no claws. Just a pretty pair of-"
"Eyes!" Wade glared, mock primly. "And mine are prettier!"
He angled his head at Logan. "She's got bone skewers, just like you, my man."
Grin widening as he saw the furious incredulity on the Canadian's face, he pursed his lips reflectively.
"So feral mutie boys meet feral mutie girl."
Wade pantomimed simpering, hands clasped beneath his chin, eyelashes fluttering.
"Oh boys, whoever will I choose?" he sighed, falsetto. "Oh, no, don't go scrapping over little ol' me! Wait, I gotta dive in there, cause a whole heap of shit, then discover handsome, talented, dreamy Wade Wilson..."
Guffawing, Fred stumped to the counter to help himself to a large cup of sludgy coffee as Logan stormed from the rec room, muttering darkly. The furious report of his boot heels echoed down the corridor, ending in a slammed door.
"What makes you think they'll set to fighting, Wade?" he enquired.
Wilson shrugged, "they gotta. It's in their nature. Vic's the alpha in this psycho Brady Bunch, or so he likes to think. And I don't think she'll be happy until she's established her own pack order. And knowing Victor Creed, he'll go one of two ways – find some way to permanently get rid of her, or try and bed her. Either way, he wins. The guy's a freakin' animal."
Fred shuddered. " Don't think Jimmy'll be able to pull him back on this one?"
Wade shook his head, "Nope. Those boys have lived a long, long time with women who come and go, age, get sick and die while they stay just as butt ugly as ever. Dontcha think they'll both be a little bit curious over a hot chick in leather who's just like they are?"
A crisp ten dollar bill appeared in his peripheral vision. Wilson smiled and plucked it from Fred's pudgy fingers.
"That's on Creed," Dukes stated. "And I betcha he'll kill her."
The bill disappeared into Wade's pocket, replaced by a battered notepad on which he quickly drew up betting odds with a stubby green pencil.
"My money's on her," he revealed. "Let's see what the rest of the team think. If nothing else, it'll entertain me."
***