Disclaimer: I don't own anything you recognize. I own my oc, the plot, the bar, and such. Not the lyrics, the character Logan, or anything like mutants and such.
Premise: One shots revolving around my oc and Logan/Wolverine. It's not in chronological order, unless it's a little mini series, but covers the time when they first meet to when they die.
What'da say to makin' some mem'ries? Out of the old, comes somethin' new.
They met at a bar outside Westchester on a cold winter evening. She'd been working there for three years, and this was his first time coming to this part of New York. It certainly wasn't a part of New York frequented by the rich, nor the innocent, but neither of the people who've been mentioned seemed out of place.
He was wearing his trademark leather jacket over a flannel shirt, a pair of grubby jeans, his boots, and he had a cigar sticking out of his mouth. Hopping off of his bike, which did seem out of place on this street, he knocked ash off the end of his cigar and swaggered to the door of the bar in front of him: Crimes. It sounded like his kind of dive bar, and it didn't seem to be to packed, which was surprising since it was near ten o'clock.
He waltzed in, opening the door, and letting it swing back with a loud bang. The first thing that caught his eye was a woman lugging an unconscious man toward the door, and him. He moved out of the way as the woman huffed the man out the door with little problem. This surprised him, and he followed her back into the bar. Sitting on a rickety stool, he watched her have a short talk with another man at the bar. He took this time to look at the rest of the bar.
It was a shit place, but it seemed to get business. There were plenty of drunks sitting in the dim lighting, at least seven, but there wasn't enough chairs to occupy them all. He guessed the regulars – the ones that never left and were piss drunk all the time – sat on the floor, always nursing a bottle of some shit or other. There were only three tables, and those barely fit, and only four chairs. The floor was dirt coated, and the walls were slightly blood stained. It smelled worse then it looked.
The women finished talking to the man, and turned to him instead.
"What can I do ya for, sweetie?" she asked, sauntering over and raising an eyebrow at him. She was dressed in jeans - just as grubby, if not grubbier then his - ratty sneakers, and a blue, stained two-sizes-to-small t-shirt that read: Trust Me I'm a Jedi, covered by a black flannel shirt. The interesting blue shirt stretched across her chest, and lifted up above the top of her pants to show the smooth, pale skin of her stomach. He noted she was tall – he pinned her at about five ten or five eleven - and muscular.
"A beer," he answered gruffly, puffing at his cigar.
"What kind?" this time an accent floated into his sensitive ears, and he thought Britain or Ireland.
"Don't matter," the women shrugged and squatted down to a pull a beer from a mini fridge behind the counter.
"Ya want anythin' else?" she asked as she popped the top with her fingers, letting the head spurt out and cover her hands.
"Yeah, an ash-" Thump. The sound of a fist connecting with a face sounded throughout the bar, and drunks with bloodshot eyes looked up to witness a man wiping blood from his nose with another standing looking smug, if wobbly.
"Hey, if youse gonna fight, do it outside," the woman shouted, glaring at the men and wiping her hands on a towel. They ignored her, and the already bloodied one took a swing at the gut of the other. It connected solidly, and he doubled over in pain.
"Fuck! I said get outta here," she ordered, walking out from behind the bar and towards the men. The others had gathered around the fighting men, but parted ways to let the woman through. She stood before the two, before she struck at both of them. Her fists connected hard with their faces, and they flew to the ground. "Get out," she demanded, pointing at the door.
Both men tried to gather their bearings, before they scurried out the front door. The other occupants of the bar went back to their drinks, and the woman righted a fallen chair. The man at the bar heard something jingle as the woman walked back over, and saw dog tags that had previously escaped his notice now jingled on a ball chain in full view. There were three of them. He softly fingered his own, before taking a swig of whatever crap she'd given him. It was terrible, but it was beer.
"What were ya saying, hon?" she asked, as if nothing had happened. She wasn't even rubbing her knuckles, and he knew they should be bruised from how hard she hit those men.
"An ash tray."
"Eh, right," she muttered, turning her back to him, and grabbing a used ash tray of the shelf behind her. She set it down next to his beer, and then wiped the counter to collect any last traces of beer foam.
Ten minutes passed as the women pulled a stool up from next to the shelves, and placed it a few feet near his, on the other side of the counter. She pulled a crumpled pack of cigarettes from her pack pocket, and pulled one through the ripped top. She opened a pack of matches tapped to the side of the cigarette pack, and lit one off her eyebrow. The brown hair got singed, but grew back. The man with the beer and ash tray noticed, but was sure no one else did, he was the only sober one here besides the woman.
"Nice trick," he commented, taking another swig. The woman looked at him, wary now of this man who she knew was sober.
"Learned it in the army," she said, lighting her cigarette, and taking a drag. So her dog tags were legit. Interesting. He tried to get a good look, but only caught a few letters before she stuffed them back down her shirt.
"Including the freaky hair growth thing?" she turned to him, and smirked.
"No," she said, blowing smoke out her nose. She looked at him and took another drag. Stepping off her stool, she moved it to face him. Sitting back on it, she flicked ash off the end of her cigarette into the ash tray. "That's just God given talent, hon."
"Your fists aren't hurt either. "
"Keen observation, chops," she raised an eye brow and cocked her head, giving his face a once over.
"I try, skinny."
She smirked and puffed smoke out the side of her mouth, dropping more ash into the tray.
"Ya got a name, good lookin'?" she asked, finished her cigarette and pulling out another. She repeated her trick with her eyebrow, and he watched as her hair grew back. Just like his when it was singed.
"Logan," he answered shortly, finishing his cigar, and pulling another from his jacket pocket.
"Rory," she smirked, offering a match. He took it from her, and lit it off his chops.
"Nice trick," she smirked, taking a drag.
"Learned it in the army," he replied. She smirked wider, and grabbed another two beers from the mini fridge. She popped them open with her hands, and handed him another.
"On the house, cause your sober and good lookin'," Logan took it and watched as she took a giant swig from hers.
"Is there anything else you can do besides beat the shit outta guys twice your size and light a match off your eyebrow?" he asked after a few minutes of silence. Rory look at him in surprise, the bottle halfway to her lips. Her gray eyes grew guarded and wary.
"Maybe," she spoke softly, her eyes flickering to the door as it swung open loudly. Her eyes grew wide, and she set the beer down hard, denting the wood bar. Logan looked at Rory with a tense stare. This women could dent wood, what next?
"Rory," the new man roared as he stumbled through the door and towards the counter. Rory jumped off her stool, and walked around to face the man.
"What, asshole?" she asked, jutting out her hip and slapping both hands on her hips.
"You left," the man slurred.
"No shit, dumbass," was her short retort.
"Come back," the man pleaded, falling on his knees, "I miss ya."
"No way in hell, Jared," she tapped her foot impatiently. The man's, Jared's, eyes grew dark, and he stood, swaying in his place.
"Ya bitch," he spit out, "Ya ain't got not where to go, you freak."
Rory stood stock still as the words left his mouth. Her jaw hung loose as his words set in, and before he could react, she had sent a roundhouse kick to his chest, sending him through the door. The drunks all looked up, and stared as a hole in the door let in a cold draft.
"Son of a bitch," she muttered as she turned her back. She walked away, towards the back door, but Jared was not done sharing his opinion. Logan watched as he lurched to his feet, pulling a gun from his pants clumsily. Logan jumped from his seat as he took aim, and dove to intercept the bullet from hitting it's target. Jared might have been drunk, but he had damn good aim.
Logan fell to the floor as the bullet tore through his stomach and left through his back. Rory turned quickly, and was by his side faster then he thought possible. She immediately put pressure on his wounds, and turned to the drunk she knew was not as drunk as the others. "Hold your hands on this," she commanded. The man fell onto his knees and took over the job of clogging Logan's wounds.
Rory stood and walked to the door. Not bothering with the handle, she walked through the Jared sized hole in the door. Logan's ears picked up the sounds of someone getting dragged ruffly through the snow and sludge. The next minute there was a short scuffle, and then the sound of a gun went off. All looked towards the door, but relaxed as Rory walked back in, dusting off her blood stained shirt.
"Bastard," she swore, hurrying over to Logan. She eased the drunk's hands off Logan's stomach to assess the damage. She looked taken aback as the wound was gone. She looked at Logan's face, and helped him off the ground.
"Wait on minute?" she asked, gripping his jacket as he made his way towards the front door. Logan stopped, turning to her. Satisfied he was staying put, she jumped the counter, dragged a holey duffel from somewhere, along with a Letterman jacket, and vaulted back over. She hurried over to him, and led him out the door.
"Ya leaving?" he asked, as she pulled the orange and black jacket on.
"Yeah, to many people seen mutants and killin' tonight, people'll start talkin'; askin' questions and such," she turned towards another bike, the one next to his, and swore loudly.
"Damn son of a bitch fucked with my bike," she stared at the alley where his body lay, and spit into it. Logan watched her start walking, but before he could say anything, she turned and looked at him. "Thanks, by the way, Logan. Nobody risks their lives for me anymore, it felt good, " she confided. He nodded, knowing how she felt. She turned again, trudging through the snow.
"Rory," he called, kicking his bike off it's stand and steadying it with his hands. She turned to look at him, her cheeks already red from the cold.
"I got a place you can stay," she barked a laugh once, but stopped walking. It was damn cold out.
"Depends on the place, honey," she started walking towards him again, her feet already soaked to the bone.
"A school," she started laughing, but he continued talking, "for people like us."
This shut her up, and she cocked her head, "People...Like us?"
Logan nodded, hoping she was actually a mutant, and not just some freak of nature woman. Wait, that was a mutant, never mind. She pursed her mouth and looked at him skeptically.
"Nobody takes in mutants, hon," she stopped walking and stood next to her damaged bike.
"This guy, Charles Xavier does; he runs the school," she laughed again, but humorlessly.
"This better not be some way to get me to your house and in your bed, Logan. Cause I'll kick you ass if it is," she warned walking closer.
He smirked, and got on his bike, patting the seat behind him, "No, I've got morals, kid."
She laughed again as she threw her leg over the black leather, "You can't call me kid, I bet ya I'm a hella lot older then you, kiddy."
He scoffed as he kicked the bike into life, "I'm over a hundred, kid."
"I'm over two hundred, you fetus," Logan looked back at her in surprise, raising his eyebrows.
"Holy shit," he muttered, dragging his feet on the ground to get them facing the right direction. She barked a laugh again, gripping his waist and ducking into his back to protect her from the wind.
He liked it.
So did she.
Note: It's a few years after The Last Stand, and Logan has found out a bit more about himself. He's talked to people he's found files on (Gambit, Sabertooth, Emma Frost ect.) And they've given him info of what they know about him. He got a lot of info from Sabertooth, with some bribing.
Also, Jean, Scott, and Xavier don't die. Neither does Sabertooth, as I assume he did in the first movie.
Kudos to anyone who can guess what song the lyrics are from without having to look them up on any search engines.