Logan, better known as Wolverine, steps out of the hotel and sighs heavily, his breath misting in the chill of the late fall air. The lights of New York twinkle down on the stocky Canadian as he plucks a thick cigar from his native country out of his pocket. He had spent the day playing pack mule as the female members of the team shopped and most of the night attempting to keep the younger x-men of different genders out of each other's rooms. He huffs another misty breath, amused; as if he wouldn't be able to smell where they spent the night. He lifts the cigar, loosening the tight grip he has on his senses the tiniest bit, just enough to enjoy the smell of the tobacco.
Logan pauses, nostrils flaring as he takes two quick sniffs of the alley air. Most of the scents are disguised under the filth of New York City and the cigar in his hand, but there's a heartbeat close by. Turning quickly, Logan scowls reproachfully into the shadows to his right, deeper into the alley. He hadn't thought he'd be able to find somewhere quiet per say, not here in the city, but an alley to himself shouldn't have been too much to ask.
"I don't want any trouble," he says evenly. Maybe the guy will just move on, leave him to enjoy the cigar in peace. A mental scoff. Yeah, and maybe Magneto will show up at the mansion and apologize.
"Good; I ain't looking to dish any out," a deep male voice rumbles as a pair of eyes suddenly shine out of the darkness. They're a strange shade of yellow-orange, a color Logan hasn't seen anywhere besides the Elf and Beast, and they're nearly seven feet above the pavement. Logan can just barely make out the mass of a tan trench-coat in the shadows, draped over the bulky figure of a fighter. The light in the eyes shifts from caution to curiosity.
"That a cigar?"
"Yeah," Logan responds carefully, wary but willing to let things play out.
"Where from?"
"Canada."
"Huh." The voice is thoughtful. "I've never had one from there; mostly stick to Cubans." Logan nods sagely.
"Haven't had a good Cuban in a dog's years, but Canadians got a flavor all their own." Orange-eyes move up and down in a nod as the sound of cloth over cloth meets Logan's ears. Something about six inches long and as thick as a man's thumb is gently tossed in his direction and the Canadian catches it in his free hand. One eyebrow arches in confusion before the other joins it in surprise as he takes a quick sniff of the cigar.
"Trade ya," the other man offers, and Logan lobs the Canadian cigar in the direction of the voice. There is a brief flare of light as the stranger strikes a match, lighting the cigar before putting out the light. It is done too quickly for Logan to see his face, but he gets the impression of deep-set eyes, a broad nose crooked from being broken, and mutton-chops out of the corner of his eyes before the spark fades. The Canadian reaches in his pockets for his own box of matches. Orange-eyes blink in slight surprise as his new companion curses quietly, searching his pockets once more.
"Dang," Logan hisses, flopping back against the alley wall. "I forgot, 'Ro took my lights."
His thoughts occupied with the white-headed weather witch, Wolverine blames his distraction for what happens next. Something comes at his head, and, reacting on instinct, he allows metal claws to slide through flesh and the projectile alike. Two halves of a matchbox clatter quietly to the ground as Logan turns with the motion, now facing the shadows full on with his claws shining in the light. The orange-eyed stranger doesn't move. A blink, and the Canadian returns to himself and quickly sheaths the weapons. Logan waits tensely for the other man's reaction as he meets him squarely in the eyes. He's surprised when the deep-voiced smoker laughs loudly.
"And to think I was afraid you would be scared of me," he chuckles, and Logan sees one eye crinkle as water from laughing is wiped away. When the stranger stops laughing he teases lightly, "Just don't use those pig-stickers on me, okay?"
He takes a step forward, and Logan can't help but cock one eyebrow as he examines this new development from head to toe. Two feet, shod in combat boots like he had worn way back in the Second World War, stand solidly on the pavement under a pair of slightly baggy grey cargo pants, also army issue. They are held up by a thick belt and tucked into them is a black shirt stretched over a broad chest. Topping it all is a tan trench-coat and gun belt that runs from shoulder to hip, lined with enough weapons to make Wade Wilson jealous. His new friend also has skin the color of cherry Kool-Aid and two circular growths on his forehead that look like they would be horns if they grew enough. His right hand looks to be made of stone, runes circling the wrist and all four of the fingers. Long black hair is pulled back from the face, what isn't restrained in a samurai bun fluffing out into mutton-chops and a goatee. A thick red tail is barely visible behind the man as it twitches a few inches above the alley floor, the picture completed by the lit cigar held firmly between red lips. Logan takes a moment to take it all in before taking a deep breath. The guy smells of sweat, something fishy, smoke like the cigar still in Logan's hand, and… He frowns, trying to place the last scent. Maybe a cat? Or cats, with how strong it is. The shorter man shrugs and stoops to pick up the remains of the matches.
"Sorry I diced 'em," he apologizes gruffly as he holds them out to the other man. The red-skinned being smiles as he takes a deep puff of the cigar and waves the Canadian off.
"Keep em, you need a light anyway." Logan nods and strikes a match on the tip of his Cuban. He hisses as the flame of the shorter match meets his fingertips and turns them bright red. Dropping the match and stomping it out, Wolverine scowls at the burned digits until his healing factor kicks in and they return to their normal color.
"Neat trick," his new friend remarks simply, eyes flickering from the previously burnt fingers to Logan's face. The Canadian grunts.
"Comes in handy; you got anything special?" The taller man scoffs lightly.
"Nope, this handsome mug is all I need." Now it's Logan's turn to scoff. He relaxes, shoving one hand in his pocket and leaning back against the brick.
"So, what do they call ya," he asks as he puffs on the Cuban.
"Hellboy, or Red if we're on a mission. You?"
"Wolverine, most just call me Logan."
"Because of the pig-stickers?"
"Call them pig-stickers one more time and I'll show you where I normally put 'em." Hellboy grins at Logan's threat before a beeping at his belt interrupts them. He sighs deeply as he plucks the device from his belt and pushes a button.
"Red here; what d'ya need, Blue?" The voice that emerges from the tech speaks with a proper British accent.
"I just wanted to let you know that Manning has discovered your absence and is ready to spit nails," the new man responds, an amused note to his voice.
"Sorry Abe, just had to go out for a smoke. I'll be back soon," Red says.
"You better hurry; Liz is getting rather irritated as well," Blue advises. Hellboy nods before he remembers that his friend can't see it.
"Okay, okay, I'm on my way. See you in a few minutes." Returning the device to his belt, Hellboy turns to Logan.
"I gotta go, but maybe we should do this again sometime," he explains.
"Don't worry about it, just look me up if you're ever around Bayville," Logan says, plucking a white card from his belt. He's glad for the first time that Chuck had made him carry the things around, just in case he ran into any stray mutants. Hellboy cocks an eyebrow as he takes the card.
"Xavier's School for Gifted Youngsters," he questions. Wolverine shrugs.
"It's a safe place for freaks like us. Just tell 'em that I sent ya; don't wanna give the kids a heart attack." Hellboy smirks and slides the card into his belt before saying good-bye and walking away. Logan relaxes back against the wall for a few minutes, enjoying the cigar and the silence before the door creaks open.
"Logan, I forgot to return these," Storm begins before stopping, surprised at the lit cigar stump held between scowling lips. "Oh, I see you found someone to give you a light."
The weather-witch is startled when Logan smirks and grinds out the cigar against the bricks. "I guess you could say that," he responds before heading inside the hotel, leaving the white haired woman to her confusion.