It was one of the rare quiet times, with no training, medicals or mission profiling to worry about. Reclining in a corner of the Special Task force's rec room, a bottle of Canadian Gold at his elbow, Logan occupied himself sketching with a soft pencil. He had numerous pads full of captured moments stretching back to the civil war, most stored in safety deposit boxes back in Alberta. Any military historian would have given their eye teeth for a peek at them. Supping reflectively at his beer, he busied himself with his latest drawing. Chewing the end of the pencil, he cocked his head, examining the shading. Finding it lacking, he rotated the page and began work on the required areas.
"Whatcha sketchin' this time?"
Shadow falling across the paper, Victor reached down and plucked the pad from his fingers, flipping it over to look. Grinning at the partially completed study of Helena Draven, the ghosted lines of her reclining form, he tossed the pad dismissively onto the table.
"Is she that good a lay?" he leered. "Usually they are if yer set ta sketchin' 'em. She's de-balled yer good, little brother."
Logan shrugged unconcernedly and retrieved his pad, pencil scratching at the paper as he resumed work. He shaded in the curve of her waist, adding depth and texture to her hair.
"No good being a sore loser, Vic," he observed, unable to keep the triumphant note from his voice. Sometimes, it was good to remind Victor the alpha throne was far from secure. "She made her choice an' it weren't yer. Get over it."
Creed visibly bridled at the comment. "Watch yer mouth, runt."
Logan looked up, twirling the pencil in his fingers, tips stained carbon black. He cocked his head and gave a slow smile he knew would infuriate his older sibling.
"C'mon, old man," he grinned. "Yer don't lose very often. Be a bit gracious. I promise not ta pinch the next one."
Black eyes narrowing with irritation, Creed's massive paw came up to cuff the smirk from his face. Catching his huge wrist in his open palm with a thud, Logan shook his head.
"No, not this time, Vic," he warned, tightening his grip until the bones creaked. "I'm done scrappin' with yer over women. We've done that too many times. It's gotten old, like us."
A nasty grin appeared on Creed's bearded features, filled with wolfish teeth. Sometimes it was good to remind his younger brother who the top dog was.
"Mebbe I'm gettin' older, but not slower."
He lunged, knocking aside the table like it was made of balsa. Diving from his seat to avoid the blow, Logan growled annoyance as Victor's claws rent the cushions, scattering yellow foam as he pulled back his fist. The damage would come out of their paycheques. Ploughing into his stomach, he drove him to the floor and backhanded him across the face. Creed's nose broke in a hot gush, reforming seconds later into its original shape.
"Sonofabitch!" he roared indignantly, rearing up to head butt his brother.
Wiping at his own repairing septum, Logan snarled, locking his hands around Victor's neck, throttling. Wrestling, growling and thrashing across the rec room floor, overturning tables, smashing chairs, they worked through months of unresolved tension. Purple bruise continents mapped their flesh, eroding to nothing before the rippling healing tide. Ribs breadstick snapped and reformed as torn hair regrew. Jumping to their feet, they boxed ferociously, insulting and taunting each other in ever more inventive ways.
"Yer fuckin'mangy ol' dog! Logan bellowed. "S'no wonder she passed yer over! Somebody needs ta put yer down!"
Dodging the accompanying left hook, Victor suddenly lashed out with his claws instead of his closed fist. Teeth bared in a vicious grin, he ripped back his hooked fingers to strike again, then froze, mouth a slack loop of shock. Bone glinting through the lacerations at the bridge of his nose, hairline and chin, blood dripping into his eyes, Logan numbly reached up and pressed the hanging flaps back into place. The brothers stared at each other in horrified silence, amidst the debris of the rec room. They never used their claws on each other, no matter how brutal the altercation.
"Jimmy, I..." Victor trailed off and grimaced, realising it could not be taken back or undone.
Wiping his bloodied palms on his combat fatigues, Logan held his brother's gaze for a long, intense moment. They stared at each other, breathing hard, stray dogs tussling over a meaty bone. Mouth turning down at the corners, Logan wordlessly turned and stalked from the room, leaving Victor in the wreckage. Fists clenching at his sides, his gaze fell to his boots.
"Shit," he muttered in dismay. "Never was that good at knowin' when ta stop."
Glancing up, he saw Agent Zero at the doorway, immaculate in a starched white shirt and black tie. The Korean regarded him inscrutably, omnipresent handgun in a holster at his breast. Zero folded his arms and leaned on the doorframe.
"We have an important mission coming up, Creed," he announced, ignoring the Canadian mutant's challenging glower. "Depending on the outcome, General Stryker believes we may have to subdue Draven. He also assures me we can count on your cooperation in this matter. That true?"
Flexing his spurred hands, Victor tongued his incisors, black eyes sparking with sudden interest.
"Reckon it just might be. Tell me more."
***
Peering down the titanium edge of his katana, Wade Wilson picked up a whetstone and began zinging it down the blade. He whistled as he sharpened the weapon, the familiar ritual serving to order his thoughts and keep the sword in pristine condition. The twin blade lay sheathed across his back, already sharpened. Sat in a ruined armchair, the cushion spilling foam guts and torn stitching, a can of Cola between his feet. He looked up as Helena Draven wandered into the rec room and stopped short, regarding the carnage.
"Did the SAS rampage through here and nobody told me?" she asked, nudging aside a broken stool with her boot.
Wade shook his head, whetstone still screeching down the sword blade. "Nope. The Brothers Hairy decided to hold an impromptu therapy session. Maybe they weren't breastfed as babies, who knows? I'm sure it was very instructional."
The English mutant sucked her teeth reflectively, brows climbing towards her hairline in apparent surprise. Picking her way through the destruction, she opened the refrigerator and selected a carton of orange juice. Popping a claw, she opened the top and filled one of the few unbroken glasses.
"Y'know," Wade continued conversationally. "Stryker's taking the damage costs outta all our paycheques. Bolt had his little heart set on a scale replica locomotive..."
Draven shrugged and leaned back on the counter, glass cradled to her chest. "So? We earn more in a month than we know what to do with."
Giving the whetstone a final, decisive slice down the blade, Wilson tucked it into his pocket. Rising to his feet, he gave an experimental flick, spinning the sword in a dazzling arc. Grinning, more to himself, he gestured to her with the deadly point.
"Gotta hand it to you, sweetcheeks," he observed mildly. "I've seen those boys get stabbed, shot up and outnumbered ten to one, but nothing rattles them like you do. I'm kinda jealous. I used to have the monopoly on scary crazy around here."
She smiled, shoulder lifting nonchalantly. "Well, I've got two little somethings you haven't, Wade."
"Oh?" he asked.
"Boobs."
They both laughed at that. Sheathing his sword across his back, the blade hissing into the scabbard, Wilson summoned his best charming smile.
"When you get bored, come talk to your Uncle Wade," he invited, giving his patented twinkle. "I've a private yacht in Miami and I mix a mean Manhattan. I'm sure you've got an itsy bitsy bikini or two."
Sipping her orange, Helena shook her head. "Come off it, Wilson," she scoffed. "Your ideal woman is California blonde, has the intellectual capacity of a parsnip and boobs like zeppelins. I don't fall into any of those categories, thank God. You just wanna piss off those two sufficiently so you get to see if you can kill them."
Wade beamed and snapped his fingers in mock frustration. "Damn, rumbled. Though, Jimmy, I kinda like. Victor, on the other hand, I'd happily ventilate. No appreciation for the finer things in life. Yourself being the exception, natch."
Chuckling, Helena kneaded the bridge of her nose in faux despair. "You're completely outta your bloody mind, mate. That gob of yours just operates independently from your brain, doesn't it?"
Stealing her glass to take a swig, Wilson smacked his lips and handed it back.
"What can I say?" he announced with an eye roll. "I always wanted to travel to far off places, meet new, interesting people, then kill them. It's why I became a merc. I love my job. Don't you?"
Green eyes hardening like agate, she pushed herself away from the counter top. "At this precise moment? No, I don't."
Making her way to the door, she paused and turned back to the talkative mercenary.
"You keep that killer instinct directed where it should be, sunshine. Else you and I will be having words."
Wilson cocked a crooked smile and threw her a salute. "Yes Ma'am. Wouldn't dream of spoiling your fun, Ma'am... Still reckon we'd have more on my yacht, take a little cruise, see if we can get that English rose skin to tan up from blue to white."
She sniffed disparagingly, but took a step away from the doorframe. Hand on her cocked right hip, she allowed her gaze to travel appraisingly over Wade Wilson, who grinned and preened at his sandy hair. Eyes tracking over lean waist and muscular chest, lingering over his sinewy swordsman's arms with apparent interest, she met his gaze. After a few moments, Wade began to feel uncomfortable, vaguely threatened in the same way he later realised women must when faced with uninvited sexual attention from men. Just as he opened his mouth to rattle off a smutty comment, to relieve the unaccustomed feeling of objectification, she deigned to break eye contact.
"Sorry, Wade," she declared with a quarter smile and mock solemnity. "I'm afraid you're too, well, vanilla for my tastes. That, and a little young... probably still wet behind the ears. I'm twice your age."
Wilson stiffened with indignant umbrage. "Vanilla?!"
She laughed uproariously, stepping forward to tweak his nose like he was an uppity schoolboy.
"Poor love," she clucked. "There's such a thing as batting outside your league. Try Lieutenant Singer again, she's blonde and easily impressed."
Realising he was being played with, like a cat plays with a fledgling fallen from the nest, Wilson scrunched his mouth petulantly.
"Oh, that's rich," he muttered. "I'm gonna take my ball and go home now. Don't wanna play with the big girls anymore."
Watching her shake with silent laughter and head once more for the doorway, he inclined his head.
"Do you ever wonder if you can die?" he directed the question to her departing back. "I'm curious."
Helena Draven stopped short, slender fingers curled at her side, the points of her claws tenting the skin between her knuckles. She looked back, old eyes in a young face.
"Every bloody day."
