Hand to Hand, Hand to Mouth

Chapter Twenty-Five

I tapped Logan on the chest to get his attention. "Down, please."

Logan didn't argue, just gingerly set my legs on the ground without saying a word. He kept one hand on my back, though. I leaned against it gratefully while figuring out if my legs were going to cooperate. It turned out that they were weak, but mostly functional again.

"Okay," I said, breathing a bit unsteadily. "I'm all systems go. Well. Most systems go, anyway. Mostly. Most systems mostly go, is what I am."

Logan ignored me, cocking his head just slightly to the side, as he looked out at our unidentified enemy.

"I'm out of ammo," I continued, watching his face glowing in my mask's night vision, "but I still have my knife."

Logan lifted his nose and sniffed.

"I wish I was more prepared for this," I babbled on, "but none of that has been totally business as usual, you know? Maybe I should find a way to store more clips or use a different...hey!"

"Horse," Logan said, and, leaving me to stare incredulously after him, started off in the direction of the transport, as though he wasn't even listening to me at all. Not that that was a new experience, or anything.

"Horse?" My voice rose shrilly. "What the hell does that mean?"

Logan gestured back at me with a flat palm, indicating that I should stay put while he checked it out.

"Get bent, dude," I said and followed close behind him.

Nearer to the transport, I realized what had Logan meant. There was a horse. Crouching on the hard-packed ground was a man, shriveled and ancient, swaddled in thick, warm clothes. Behind him was a shaggy pony that looked like it was almost as old as the man. Upon seeing us, he jumped up.

"Please," the old man said in heavily accented English. He reached, fumbling, into a pouch that was hung around his chest.

Logan didn't seem alarmed. That was fine; I was alarmed enough for both of us. The man seemed harmless--and, like, who brings a horse to a fight, these days--but I'd seen enough weird shit and been sliced and punched at enough for one evening. I popped the gun out of my thigh rig like I was Wyatt Earp at the OK Corral. It wasn't loaded, but he didn't know that. Not that it mattered, anyway. The old man just stood there, facing my gun without fear, presenting what he had been looking for--a folded piece of animal skin.

"Please," he said and shook it at me. "Please."

Logan stepped between us, effectively interrupting my brief reign of terror. Though, to be totally fair, there's usually actual fear involved in a reign of terror. I was officially pathetic enough that even the elderly weren't afraid of me anymore. Irritated, I poked Logan in the back with the muzzle my unloaded gun. He ignored me and accepted the offering.

"Thank you," Logan rumbled to the old man.

"Please," the old man replied and, peering around Logan, gave me a toothless grin. With one last please to me, he clambered back onto his scruffy pony and rode out into the night.

I let my gun hand drop, my arm trembling and tired. Logan turned around, turning the bound up wad of skin over in his hands.

"What is it?" I asked.

Logan held the skin up to his nose and sniffed. "Dog."

I actually gagged a little bit, deep down in my throat. "That's disgusting and totally not what I meant."

Logan shook his head and handed the skin to me. "Let's get out of here first and worry about that later."

I took the skin gingerly between my thumb and forefinger, totally not interested in holding onto gross dog skin, even with gloves on. Logan lowered the ramp into the transport and, with a supportive hand underneath my elbow, steered us up into the relative warmth and safety.

On board, Logan went to the cockpit to get us into the air, leaving me to collapse into one of the seats in the rear. He didn't say where we were headed, and I didn't ask. Instead, I set about to unwrapping the mystery skin, trying to touch it as little as possible. It was tied up with a coarse, grey-brown yarn. It took some picking to get it unknotted even enough to get a good look at the skin itself. There was writing on it--symbols that I didn't recognize for a moment before they clicked for me. It was written in Greek. I sighed gustily and tossed the skin aside without bothering to open it further, Greek not being one of the languages SHIELD had pounded into me.

At the transport's first movement, I tentatively strapped myself in and ground my teeth together through the jarring lift-off, the harness jerking painfully at my chest. Once the jet felt even remotely level, I unbuckled the straps, taking the pressure off, and started trying to get out of my gear. Pulling my gloves off hurt, and the chest and thigh rigs were a struggle, but getting the mask off was pure agony. I came to the painful realization that there was no way I was going to get the suit itself off on my own. I was going to have to get Logan to help me--just another humiliation to add to the day's trauma total.

There was a basic med-kit in the transport--basic by SHIELD standards, anyway. It was probably better stocked and had more advanced equipment than most hospitals. I sometimes wondered how much of a difference SHIELD could make if we focused even a fraction of our resources on helping individual places and people in need. Humanitarianism wasn't exactly our specialty, but maybe if there weren't so many desperate places, there wouldn't be so many desperate people and there'd be less need for the stuff that we did specialize in.

I'm just a dumb kid, though, so what do I know?

"We're up," Logan said, making his way to the back of the transport. "You look at that skin?"

"It's all Greek to me." I frowned at it again. "Like, seriously, it's in Greek. Can you read Greek?"

Logan shrugged. "Sure."

"Sure, he says, like it's no big deal." I tossed the skin over to him and went back to my perusal of the med-kit.

Logan took a look at the writing on the outside of it and snorted. "It's addressed to 'the Little Death'."

"They know you pretty well, huh?" I pulled out a pair of surgical scissors and a bottle of antiseptic, the sight of which made me grimace. Docs always said that the antiseptic wouldn't sting, but it always did. In my experience, anyone in the medical profession was a pathological liar.

"Maybe, excepting that it's feminine--the little means little girl." Logan made a quiet, humming noise. "I think it's addressed to you, darlin'."

I looked up at him quickly, wincing when it pulled at the cuts. That was a phrase that was becoming much too familiar. Little Death. Poor, little dead girl. Like in my dreams. Like Jia Li had called me. I looked down at the surgical scissors that lay flat in the palm of my hand and wondered what it all meant. Wondered if I should tell Logan about everything--about the nightmares I had never stopped having and the dead woman who, it seemed, had broken into my head. If I wasn't crazy, that is, and the crazy was a very real possibility.

With so many secrets inside of me, it was getting hard to tell which ones I should keep.

Logan untied the skin and opened it quickly, his eyes narrowing as he looked it over.

I tried to swallow, but it stuck in my throat. "Who's it from?"

"Hand."

"Really?" I made a scrunchy disbelieving face. "How do you know?"

Logan held up the skin so that I could see the inside. There was a handprint in red ink on it.

"Oh," I said, taking a shaky breath. "You'd think ninjas would be more into subtlety."

Logan grunted, his attention already back on the skin.

"So," I said after giving him a moment to read it. "What's it say?"

"Invitation," Logan growled. "Looks like we been granted an audience."

"An audience? With who? Elektra?"

"Fucked if I know. I'd hoped the Hand got put to bed a long time ago."

"So, essentially," I said, squinting at him, "we're taking a meeting with no idea who or what or why or how many ninja guys we're gonna have to eviscerate or shoot up when we get there?"

Logan snorted. "Essentially."

"We've come a long way, baby."

"Done worse. Known less." He pondered the slashed fabric that covered my chest. "How bad does it hurt?"

I grinned. "Felt worse. Died from less."

There was a moment of shocked silence before Logan crossed his arms over his chest and gave an icy glare that I hadn't found unnerving since I was eleven. "Not funny."

"Oh, come on. Little bit funny."

Logan scowled. "Not funny at all."

I stuck my tongue out at him. "You're going to want to lighten up a little bit, 'cause I'm going to need your help."

"Didn't realize a cheerful disposition was a requirement."

"In this case it is. I need you to use your Edward Scissorhands and cut my uniform off of me."

Logan gave me a look that said, in no uncertain terms, that I was totally not amusing.

I dropped the act and sobered. "Seriously, though. I need you to just cut it down the front. That'll be the easiest way for me to get out of it, I think."

Logan nodded, getting it. "Now?"

"Probably best to just get it over with," I said, sitting back down in the seat I had vacated.

He popped one claw and sternly said, "Don't move."

"No worries there, dude."

I futilely tried to relax in the chair, my grip on its cold arms tightening involuntarily. Having already been on the business end of his claws once already, it made me nervous to have one so near me again. Keeping my eyes on Logan's face as he crouched in front of me, I avoided looking down at what he was doing. He looked up at my face once and then, with a clenched jaw, he set himself to work. The adamantium cut through my nearly indestructible suit like it was made of plastic wrap. He lay it open, slicing first down the front and then a diagonal cut to each side, and then sat back on his heels, pulling his claw back in. I let go of the breath I'd been holding in a big, noisy gush.

"See? No worries at all," I said, trying to keep the atmosphere light. It sounded forced, even to me.

Logan didn't try to do the same. He was grim when he said, "Yeah, darlin'. No worries."

He stayed still while I peeled the cut up remnants back, but couldn't contain a flinch at what lay underneath.

I looked down and took a sharp breath. "Oh, boy."

The ragged fabric had hidden three cuts from view. They were clean, not jagged. Perfect slices. Had the situation been a little bit different I might have admired what precision weapons Logan had beneath his skin. As it was, though, I looked like the star of a slasher movie. My white bra had been stained red and brown with drying blood. The cuts themselves were still oozing through caked-on dirt and grime. I sincerely hoped that there wasn't any ninja-dust making its way into my bloodstream.

I was lucky, though, that Logan had had such a quick reaction. The cuts weren't terribly deep, and they shallowed out from one side to the other. Angry wounds on one side were barely worse than paper cuts on the sharp-ridged bone of the opposite shoulder.

I looked up at Logan. He had a great poker face, but I could still see the horror in his eyes.

"I don't think it's as bad as it looks," I said, but my voice quavered.

Logan remained unconvinced. "If you could see yourself right now, kid," he said, his rough voice soft.

I offered him a shaky smile. "I'd quit my glamourous life of spy and run for the nearest spa?"

Logan didn't reply, but his hands clenched and unclenched at his sides.

"Stop it," I said quietly. "I might not be amongst the almighty caped-ones, anymore, but I'm not made of glass. I can take some abuse without having to go sit on the sidelines."

The hands clenched again. "That abuse shouldn't be from of me."

I sighed. Always the disciple, never the martyr. I'd forgotten how exhausting it was, being the cause of Logan's self-flagellation. It was a wonder that Jean hadn't been pooped all of the time. Luckily, I had the perfect remedy for it--a genuine need to take my clothes off. What better way to change the mood from morose to awkward than having to ask Logan to take my bra off for me?

To his credit, he did so without any comment. He pulled the rest of the top of my suit off with an uncharacteristic gentleness and unhooked my bra without flinching. I turned away from him as I shook it off over my arms, trying to preserve some sense of modesty.

Opening sealed bottle of antiseptic, I spoke over my shoulder. "I'm probably going to yell, now. At the very least, there's going to be swearing."

Logan looked over my shoulder at the bottle. "That shit hurt?"

"More than anything that's supposed to be good for you should," I said and squirted the bottle over my chest. It burned so badly, I saw spots.

"Jesus...fuck...whore," I sputtered. My knees trembled. I felt the bottle removed from my hand and Logan's hand on my arm, guiding me back to the seat I had vacated. I hardly had the presence of mind to use one arm to cover my bare breasts.

When I could breathe again without wanting to scream the breath out, I opened my eyes to Logan crouched in front of me again with a sterile cloth in his hand. He was looking straight at me, an unspoken question in his eyes. I nodded, just a little wiggle of my head, and Logan pressed the cloth to my wounds. It felt cool and soothing.

"What's that?" I asked.

"Saline," he replied, patting at my chest with an easy, soothing rhythm. "Should've used this first. Maybe cut the antiseptic with it. Would've made the burn easier to take."

I watched him look the cuts over with a discerning eye. He went back to the med kit and searched though it with practice.

"Where'd you learn all of this?" I asked. "I mean, it's not like you need to know it for yourself."

Logan grunted. "War."

"Which one?"

"'Nam."

I was surprised. "Really?"

After pouring out more sterile saline onto a fresh gauze, Logan returned to crouch before me. "I was a medic."

"Really?" I responded again, this time with more forceful incredulity.

"Posed as one, anyway." Logan patted discriminately at me, searching for and gently removing debris. "Had to learn enough to keep my cover."

I nodded. "Makes sense. So, what were you really doing there?"

"Nothing you want to know about." He pressed too hard, making me gasp at the sudden pain. "Sorry," he muttered.

"Of course I want to know," I said, trying to ignore the painful result of his reaction. "There's nothing I don't want to know. Secrets are always worse than whatever it is that's being covered up."

He looked up at me then, his eyes wide and sad and startlingly, disarmingly young. "Then I don't want to tell you. Not about that. Not about a lot of the things I done."

"Okay," I whispered.

He went back to work, finishing in silence. Finally, he stopped. We both looked down at the dirty, bloody gauze in his hand. He recoiled at the sight of it, jumping up to dispose of it.

"Clean yourself up," he said gruffly. "I'll help you bandage when you're done."

Logan faced away from me while I used gauze and saline to wipe off the rest of the blood, not turning around until I needed him again. He then expertly applied ointment and bandages, wrapping my chest securely. While I managed to pull a pair of fatigues on myself, I needed Logan's help to pull a SHIELD-issue black tank top over my head. For him to help me, I finally had to uncover my breasts. Logan made a very obvious show of not looking too far down. Not that my boobs were anything to write home about in the first place, but I felt vaguely insulted.

"You're not even going to try to sneak a peak?" I asked as he helped my struggle into the shirt.

"Your boyfriend," he said stressing the title, "might beat me up."

I gave him a hard look. "You know, I wish you'd just come out and tell me why you hate each other. I know that's not the way it used to be. You used to, at the very least, respect each other. And it can't be that bad. Not so bad that you should be afraid to tell me. I'm resilient, particularly when it comes to you."

I stopped talking, shutting my mouth with a snap. Logan's gaze was intense; he looked at me like he'd like to shake some sense into me. When he finally spoke, his voice was dark and harsh; I could hear the growl in it.

"You should get away from him--as far and as fast as you can."

"Logan," I sighed. "Come on. Cut it out."

"You don't know him like I do," he persisted.

"And you don't know him like I do."

"He don't deserve you. He ain't good enough for you. Not by half."

"Do you hate him that much?"

"The shit that man done to me, it ain't forgivable. You don't understand."

"So, explain it to me. Make me understand. I want to understand." I grasped one of Logan's hands in my own two; he looked down at them with a puzzled expression, but didn't pull away. He opened his mouth, as if to say something, but abruptly shut it again, shaking his head.

"You should get away from the both of us," he said, the sadness back again. "Go far away from all of this. Be a normal woman. Live a good life."

"Logan," I said, holding his hand harder and peering around to look him in the eyes. "I do live a good life. I mean, sure, my ops are black. But they're not that black. I have friends, a best friend, even. Her name is Sashenka. She's my Human Resources liaison. I've got my family's place in China and an apartment in Brooklyn. And, as much as I whinge about it, I like my job. I get to do a lot of good. Logan, you should meet Sasha. You should see my apartment. You should see that I don't need to have a normal life to have a very nice life."

And it was true. I hadn't realized that until I actually said it. Logan took a deep breath, opened his mouth as though he were going to speak, but exhaled instead.

"There's coordinates in that note," he finally said very quietly, still not looking at me. "I set us on course back to Huairou. You're going to stay there while I check it out on my own."

I tilted my head again, looked straight into Logan's eyes and firmly said, "No."

"No arguments," was his equally firm reply. "You ain't in any shape to be heading into a dangerous situation."

"Oh, there's not going to be an argument. You can't tell me where I'm allowed to go and what I'm allowed to do."

"Wanna bet?"

"You can't. And you know why? It's because you, my friend, are not the boss of me."

Logan snorted derisively.

"You're not. SHIELD's the boss of me, and SHIELD doesn't give a shit. I could be at death's door and they'd ask if I couldn't just get some paperwork done before I go."

"Well, that sure do make me feel better about it," Logan said, crossing his arms.

"Don't it just?" I said cheerfully, releasing his hands, finally. "Now, let's get this bird turned around. We got a prom date with the devil to get to. Don't want to stand Ninja Barbie up; she might have to put on a thong and kill us."

It was the best material I could come up with at the time, but it didn't even get a smirk out of Logan. I patted him on the shoulder and then shoved him toward the front of the plane. He glowered at me, but moved in the proper direction.

"Oh, I so totally always get my way," I gloated, as I followed behind him.

"Ain't spanked enough as a child's my guess," Logan offered.

"Still taking applications for the job," I returned, lightly.

Logan snorted. We both strapped into the cockpit chairs and Logan took back manual control of the jet. It dipped a bit and then I felt the jet haul around sharply as he changed direction.

"So," I asked, "where were the coordinates to? Did you recognize them?"

"General location, yeah." Logan's hands clenched around the yoke. "Somewhere in Siberia."

"Siberia. I wonder," I began and stopped, thinking better of it.

Logan looked over at me, a nudge in a glance. "You wonder what?"

I sucked my lips in and shook my head. "Nothing. It's nothing."

He raised an eyebrow. "It's never nothing with you, darlin'."

Acquiescing that point, I said, "It's just that I've never been to Siberia. I just wonder if it's everything people think it is."

"What's that?"

I turned my face to the glass. "Cold and dead."

"Well, I guess you'll have to find out for yourself."

Outside the jet, there was only the endless black of night. My eyes strained trying to find a shape or a point of light in the nothing. My voice was quiet when I replied, "I always do."