Gran Torino and The Wolverine: p.3
Spider-Man, Captain Britain, and all associated characters, are property of Marvel. My Hero Academia and all related characters are property of Kohei Horikoshi
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Harsh voices slowly stirred Gran back to conciousness. One familiar, one not.
"Just fix him up!" That was the familiar voice—the Wolverine.
"I already have, you brute!" Gran didn't recognize this woman, but she sounded pissed.
"Really? Cause it seems to me that you were just indulging some sick fetish! I thought you were a doctor."
"I am! It's how my Quirk works, you dick! I can accelerate someone's healing process."
"By kissing them?"
"…I'll admit it's not the most sanitary ability, at times."
The Wolverine groaned. "Last time I try to find a doctor based on the smell of disinfectant alone."
"I am a doctor!"
"Where at, the brothel down the street? Shit, you probably smell so clean because you have to scrub yourse—"
A hand slapped flesh. And…metal? "Gah!" The woman yelped. "Asshole! The hell are you made of?"
"Sterner stuff than you."
Whatever the woman was going to say next was cut off by Gran's groan. He was too stiff to press a hand against his forehead, so he settled for shutting his eyes tighter. "Will both of you please shut up?"
The Wolverine and the woman stopped arguing. Gran heard movement beside him, a slender, gloved hand falling on the right side of his face. That hand then pried open his right eye, shining a light on it.
"Ah, fuck!" Gran shouted. He tried to bat the woman away but was just barely able to clench his hand into a fist.
"Good. No sign of a concussion." The woman turned the light off, pulling away. Gran blinked away the brightness. He focused on the voice, finally able to see his other savior. She was dressed in what looked like a Pro-Hero uniform—a brightly-colored, form-fitting dress that ended just above a pair of neon pink leather boots. He didn't recognize her, so she was either new, or kept a low profile like him.
Gran looked away from her at the room itself. It looked like the backroom of an office lobby. The Wolverine was leaning against a wall, staring down at Gran with a pensive frown.
The vigilante turned to the woman, lips curling into a wry smirk. "Guess you aren't all talk."
"I told you"—the woman spat at the Wolverine—"I'm a professional! Pro-Hero, The Youthful Heroine, Recovery Girl."
The Wolverine groaned. "I almost forgot how much this country loves epitaphs."
Recovery Girl crossed her arms. "They're a means of inspiring hope in citizens and fear in criminals."
Gran chuckled. "No. It's a marketing ploy, like that skin-tight outfit of yours."
The woman grit her teeth. "Then aren't you in the same boat as me, with that skin-tight outfit?"
"Difference is"—Gran found the strength to lean on his elbows, a smirk on his lips—"I'm not dumb enough to parade around in broad daylight like this."
The Wolverine pushed off the wall. "Well, if you're well enough to crack jokes, you're well enough for an interrogation."
Gran blinked. "What?"
"What?" Recovery Girl echoed.
"C'mon." The Wolverine moved over to Gran. "Why else would I save the life of a so-called Hero?" He pressed a closed fist against Gran's throat, his two outer claws popping out on either side of Gran's neck, scant centimeters away from cutting into flesh. "Not like we're friends or anything."
Gran glared up at the vigilante. While he appreciated the excuse, he could have done without the threat of bleeding out.
"Excuse me." Recovery Girl scoffed. "Do you think I'm stupid?" Before either Gran or the Wolverine could speak—the vigilante no doubt wanting to make another dig at her—she said, "I saw your face when you dragged me over here. You trying to tell me that concern and fear was a ruse?"
"Sure." The Wolverine smirked. "Would you have helped me otherwise?"
Recovery Girl set her hands on her hips, psyching herself up for a rant.
Gran cut in. "Listen, Recovery Girl. You seem nice, and I'm thankful that you patched me up. But trust me, you're gonna wanna take the out."
The woman faltered. She stared between Gran and the Wolverine. Whatever argument she'd created in her head, she abandoned as she let her shoulders fall. "Fine, I've been in the game long enough to know when to leave." She gathered her things, shouldering her bag. "You'll have maybe five minutes before the authorities get here." She walked towards the door, only to pause, snapping her fingers. "It'd be weird if I somehow got away scot-free, wouldn't it?"
Gran arched a brow. "Depends. You a skilled fighter?"
"Not in the slightest."
The Wolverine grunted, pulling his claws away from Gran's neck. "Smash a bottle of ethanol in my face—that's a good enough excuse."
"Ooh, good one!" Recovery Girl strode forward, pulling a half-full bottle of ethanol out of her bag. "…Are you sure about this? I mean, I'll admit, I want to wipe that grin off your face, but this will really hur—" The Wolverine grabbed the bottle, still in her hands, and smashed it against his face.
Gran winced as the heavy scent of ethanol drifted down to his nose. And if he felt bad, he could only imagine the sheer agony the Wolverine was in.
Recovery Girl stepped back with a gulp. "…Bye then." And ran off without another word.
The Wolverine waited the door closed behind Recovery Girl before turning around. Gran sucked in a breath at the multiple shards of glass sticking out of the vigilante's face. "Ugh, that looks bad. Maybe you shouldn't have sent her—what the hell?" Gran stared in shock as the Wolverine's skin knitted itself back together, the glass pushed out of his face, looking good as new.
The Wolverine's lips curled into a wry grin. "Yeah, I've got a pretty impressive healing factor. I'm basically immortal."
Gran chuckled, patting his previously wounded shoulder. The flesh was still tender, but Recovery Girl's healing Quirk did its job. But considering how quickly and effortlessly the Wolverine healed himself..."So, I'm guessing I didn't need to take that hit for you, huh?"
"Nope." The Wolverine looked down, scratching his cheek. "But…thanks." Gran arched a brow. "When people know that you can get up from any blow, they tend to…not care if you get hit. It's been a"—the Wolverine cleared his throat—"been a fair while since someone cared enough to try and save me from something as small as an arrow. So yeah"—the Wolverine looked back up at Gran, a soft smile on his face—"thanks."
Gran frowned at that. Sounded like a pretty shitty life. He remembered that one of the best things about working with Nana, before her death, was the knowledge that he had someone watching his back. Someone he could trust to pull him out of a sticky situation.
He hoped he'd live long enough to experience that with Toshinori when he finally returned home.
Gran, with only a bit of pain, managed to reach a sitting position. "You end up hitting those gunrunners?"
The Wolverine huffed. "Your little fireworks display put an end to any and all of my fun for the night. Not to mention gutting the asshole that flung that arrow at you—you're welcome, by the way." He ran a hand through his hair. "Nakamura's definitely burrowed underground by now."
"Nakamura?" Gran parroted. "You mean…Nakamura Oda, of the Hiragana family?"
"Yeah." The Wolverine furrowed his brow. "You know him?"
"Tangentially—I've been keeping an eye of the Hiragana family, his name popped up a few times. He's a real up-and-comer."
"Yeah." The Wolverine's face twisted into a snarl. "Riding on the coattails of Harada Shingen!"
Gran clicked his tongue. "…You got a safe house in Tokyo?"
The Wolverine blinked, staring down his nose at Gran. "I've mainly been hanging out in the sewers. Why?"
"…There's a bar in Kabuchiko, near this major construction site and across the street from a park. Meet me there in a week and I'll give you whatever dirt I can dig up on Nakamura."
The Wolverine crossed his arms over his chest. "Why?"
"Aside from the fact that you being you makes my life easier?" The Wolverine chuckled. "You dug me out of that rubble and got me patched up afterwards. Probably saved my life. I owe you a huge debt, and I plan on repaying it." Gran looked down, clenching his fists. "…And just giving you one man won't be enough to even the scales. So, if you ever need to find anyone else, let me know. I can help you out."
The Wolverine shook his head. "Not that I don't appreciate the offer, but you want to think this through a little? Shingen"—the Wolverine took a deep breath—"is a monster, but he's an influential one. I'm already wanted by both sides of the law, if he finds out I'm getting help from someone—"
Gran cut him off with a scoff. "You think I'm some neophyte? I can take care of myself, trust me. Trying to take down someone as big as Harada without even one person in your corner is suicide." Gran extended his right hand. "You need help, Wolverine."
The Wolverine stared at Gran's hand for a long moment. Eventually, he sighed, reaching out and shaking it with a firm grip. "Maybe you're right. But please, call me Logan."
Gran smiled. "Sorahiko. But you can just call me Gran."
Logan released his grip, smiling back. "Sure thing, Gran." He rubbed his chin. "…I hate to spoil the mood, but if we're going to sell that I interrogated you—"
"I need to get beat up a little, yeah." Gran rolled his shoulders. "Feel free to break my nose, crack a rib or two." He sucked in a breath. "…I can handle a slash or two."
Logan snorted, cracking his knuckles. "Oh yeah, we're going to get along great."
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A/N: Thus officially starts the beginning of a wonderful friendship.