He was not an extraordinarily clever man and had never been very good at reading between the lines. It took longer than it should have for the sour and suspicious expression to fade to an understanding of her intentions. When he'd finally worked it out, he visibly relaxed. Much like a wound up beast, he'd seemed to have made his peace and was no longer ready to lash out. Instead he was picking up his part of a small meal comprised of canned sausages and fruit. Not fresh, but vastly superior to the kind of rations he'd endured in decades past.
"These previous inhabitants..." Logan rubbed at his stubble thoughtfully. "I ain't too keen to run into any of them."
She waited -- patient -- for the penny to drop. And when it did, she kept her satisfaction well below the tipping point of smugness. As smug as she wanted to be, she knew well enough to endure the vagaries of her own pride as easily as she endured pain. Her body ached still, after all; she ignored it as best she could and reached for a brine-bathed sausage. Vienna.
"With any luck, we'll find their metal guards have long out-lasted them." And (speaking of) she seemed intent to let her wrist brush his with grave intention. A spark of contact -- their first since the flare-up on the plateau.
They were playing a perilous game by neglecting the passcode for so long. The brush of skin was only a flicker of the energy it needed. When not activated, it was hard telling the strength of it. But that single moment confirmed that the strength in it was nearly waned entirely. Neither of them were likely to forget Howard's warning that came with it. The passcode could be recharged, but it couldn't be restarted. The moment it was allowed to die, there would be no bringing it back.
Logan stared at his hand and wanted to swear at it.
"Somethin' tells me their metal guards might be the least of it." Even without their dispute, Logan had been walking along the dried river with a growing feeling of instinctual dread. His senses told him they shouldn't be going that direction, but he'd been placing the mission ahead of survival. It was absurd how his notion of survival was as twisted as it was.
He chewed on a sausage and looked to the cave's entrance. "... the damn code's near gone out."
Handholding was one way of charging it, but certainly among the slower ways. Yet after the last few hours, he was in no hurry of proposing more efficient alternatives.
As pragmatic as she was, Peggy liked to think she had her limits. Linking hands had been a simple boundary -- especially if (as she'd initially planned) they'd made good on simply walking hand-in-hand for the majority of their time spent together. Then, she reasoned, they wouldn't need to even begin contemplating anything more. Problem was, she was already busted up. Hurting. As certain as she was that he could fend for himself and that she (when in good form) could handle most of her own safety, she knew her state left her wanting. She couldn't run. She couldn't fight. The passcode was more vital now than it had been an hour ago.
But she wouldn't steal more than a bare brush. Frowning, and chewing silently, she offered her whole palm. No words necessary.
He ignored the offered hand. At first it was because he was using both hands to eat. After that, it was because he knew it might not be enough. After that it was pride until necessity prompted him to rest his thick and calloused hands into her waiting palm. The hum of warmth in his wrist was nearly undetectable now, but it was enough to show that the key was still alive and active. Only at this stage they would need to spend several hours hand in hand if they didn't want to risk losing it completely.
Logan chewed on bland sausage for a little while longer ever looking at the cave's entrance. "It still ain't gone dark yet," he observed. "I'm getting real sick of waitin' for it."
She didn't feel it so acutely as he did. Indeed, to Peggy, it was a lot like holding hands with any other man: perhaps she felt a curious absence of any spark, but that had less to do with him and more to do with her own lingering love for a man long gone. But even now she willed herself to feel something: an itch or a thrill or any indication that there was some true purpose to all this...touching.
Peggy wiped her brine-damp thumb clean on her sleeve and then (on instinct alone) laid her second hand over his -- making a kind of sandwich of his callouses between her manicured fingers. The gesture forced her to lean forward, which made her ribs burn.
And burned more still when she turned her head to look in the same direction: the cave. Hemming and hawing: "I'd counsel you to scout ahead, but--" she shook their joined hands. "I am sorry."
She was the one holding up their expedition with her pain and injury.
There was a tangible difference to be felt in having a second hand present. It was a simply solution, but it seemed to have a desired effect. There were memories tied with a gesture like this. He recalled how once, a long time ago, Rose had held his hand like this. That made for a nostalgic memory, but one he didn't care to explore. There was never any comfort to dwell on the past. For all the long years he had lived, he often thought it might have been easier to simply take on a blank slate and erase all the miles behind.
He shook his head. "You ain't the one who went tumbling." Much as it might have helped to scout ahead, he did not feel the pressing need to do so. The one thing he didn't regenerate was energy. His stamina might have been greater than most, but even he needed to rest. "The city'll keep. We could both use the sleep."
"Aha," she vocalized a thin thread of agreement. A low-sinking sun still cast ample light into the riverbed, and his proposal of a good kip made some sense of why he kept his eyes on the cave's mouth. Darkness. More than that: it would provide the necessary cover to let the both of them get in a good rest. Although the action had ramped up in just the past brief moment, they had spent the better part of the day simply walking in the direction of these spires. She wondered whether he tired like other men tired -- but had the good graces not to ask.
"And here I feared you'd want to press onwards." A thin smile that didn't touch her eyes. "Certainly -- a rest would be appreciated."
It was such a chilly negotiation. Distant -- and perfunctory above all. It stood in sharp relief against the tenderness displayed between her two hands.
Having gained her agreement, Logan was the first to stand. With he at his best still, it became his responsible to carry the burden caused by the injuries he had inadvertently caused her. He lacked the ability to share his healing factor with her, but he could at least pick up the slack. When he rose, he pulled her up with him. Even though he would need to make a place to sleep (crude as it would inevitably be), he still needed her to maintain a connection with him. Even with both of her hands to charge the key, it was still in too dire a state to risk severing the connection early again.
"I think..." He frowned at their hands. "Yer gonna need to find some other part of me to hold. Til I get us sorted out."
"-- A pragmatic suggestion," she half-praised and half-lamented. Peggy curled her fingers against his skin, almost reluctant to forfeit what was the easiest mode of contact. But now that he'd committed to a necessary escalation aloud, she was beholden to it. Beholden to common sense and practicality. Her wrists skirted his a moment. Knowing now what hid there beneath the skin, she felt an inconvenient dread. An unjust dread. She fought it by willingly (and gently) pressing her thumbs against the tracework of veins found there.
Standing was not such a challenge when her movement was supported by thick-corded arms. Peggy broke the connection of one hand when she followed his sleeve up past his shoulder and when she laid her palm against the bare back of his neck, she fancied she felt a tingle along her nerves. Was this the elusive passcode? Or human nature?
"Tactical gear doesn't display much skin," she apologised. Perhaps a side or even the lower half of his back might have been a better place to rest her fingers -- but invading the sanctity of his shirt seemed a little too much without invitation.
Logan had lived months not knowing how to control when his claws came racing out. It had taken years to gain the mastery he had over them now, but he knew there was a time that a light trace like that would have been all that was needed to trigger an explosion of bone and flesh. There was no such danger now, but she had tickled an animalistic desire to release the beast inside. The neck was perhaps the better choice. He felt the tingling sensation that came with this strange pragmatic tenderness.
"Next time I have a passcode, I'll request some nice beach mission." He grinned wryly and knelt to the work. They did not keep with them bedrolls, but there was a tarp wide enough to give them somewhere to lie down that was dry. Each of them had a second pair of clothing that could be rolled up for pillows. A second blanket was there for cold nights, but it was too humid to have much need of it in this cave. So Logan folded that in two so that it provided a second layer of cushion on one side of the tarp. When he was done, he turned his head round and up to look at her. "That's you, teacup. This as posh as it gets in these parts."
The heel of her palm was warm against his neck. The distance was ideal -- while he knelt, she supported her fractured frame upon the solid cornerstone he offered. Peggy's fingers rooted briefly into the space beneath his hairline, curling into dark hair as a means of anchoring herself in place.
"Don't let the Received Pronunciation fool you; you know better than most how dreadful an army cot can be." And yet she'd endured those often enough during the war. "But you'd best nudge the 'pillows' a little nearer to one another," she hemmed. "As a precaution."
He didn't need telling. She knew so. But if she didn't say it aloud, then the necessity of it would live in this strange unacknowledged space between them. And space between them would be their downfall.
The pillows were close enough as it was, but now they sat side by side. Were this a proper kind of bed, it would have looked intimate enough for a pair of lovers. Instead it was a flat and less than comfortable resting place for two soldiers to keep their only hope for survival burning through the night. When it was all done, Logan turned to offer a hand to her and so guide her to the blanketed half of the tarp. Ordinarily he might not have bothered, but the injured were deserving of a little extra consideration.
"Don't go complainin' about me treatin' you gentle like. I ain't doing it cuz of yer pretty complexion. Even busted up soldiers get some special treatment."
"You'll hear no grousing," she promised. Hand-in-hand and fingers-to-neck, she took her sweet time in crouching low -- addressing a controlled tumble onto her knees. Strong or not -- independent or not -- Peggy was all too aware that she needed help. And help would not be turned away, so long as they needed to be together regardless of the situation. "I'm not afraid of a little well-meant charity, Logan."
After all, he hadn't fussed before now. Not truly. So he couldn't have cared that much to see a woman busted up and bruising -- not any more or less than he would a comrade, and she respected that restraint.
"The spare blanket might be a bit much, however," but she made her criticism with a dry smirk. Having a bit of a laugh at his expense, because to laugh at her own was (perhaps) a little too tragic. Either way, she can't have minded the blanket overly much because she was willing enough to sink down and lay on her side.
"Yeah, yeah. Don't get used to it. It'll be all mine next time." There would never be a time where Logan accept praise (even disguised as criticism) without deflecting it. He was not a man for soft favors or tenderness. Yet that could be hardly believed when he took his place beside her on the tarp so that her back was to his front. He rested one arm underneath the pillow, but the other wrapped around her abdomen so as to keep their hands together. It was a strange kind of intimacy, but war made for strange bedfellows. Literally in this case.
"God, but I could go for a smoke right about now."
"For God's sake, light up," she relented. "I don't care. Not truly. Only...blow the smoke away from my face, if you can manage it."
Laughable, really. The tender construction of their nearness -- their very touch -- had a broader (and chillier) negotiation bordering each soft gesture. Peggy's breath caught in her throat and to spare her lowest ribs she sidled his arm lower on her hip. Fingers linking between his with yet again another electric thrill, as though knowing about the razor-edged claws below inspired jitters in her stomach. Adrenaline surged, and she wondered if she could ever sleep. Spent though she was, there was little relaxation to be found tucked against someone's body.
She practically laid on the hand that was linked with his. Her other arm -- the one unpinned by her body still -- ventured afield, because she couldn't comfortably reach his neck any longer. Well-trimmed and red-painted nails caught the bottom hem of his shirt, twisting the heavy tactical material around her fingertips. But ultimately she went no further, uncertain of how to ask permission for something both so daft and clinical all at once.
"Would if I could." He hadn't brought more than the one cigar, which he had intended to make last as long as possible by rationing it. Logan was a professional soldier, but not a particularly wealthy one. He lived primarily by the clothes on his back and had little in the way of personal possessions. The cigar and the vodka had cost him more than they were worth thanks to the army base's general having a particularly strict policy of no tolerance when it came to certain vices. It had been a marvel Logan managed as much as he had.
But not even a smoke would have made this arrangement more comfortable. Both of them were hot and a day's labor under the sun left neither of the two smelling particularly pleasant. The thick tactical gear, much of it stained in blood, made it harder still to get comfortable. A soldier eventually learned to sleep in any position, but generally they had more freedom to pick one most suitable. The rumble from him throat was not a growl, but a thoughtful hum of what might be considered priority here. The twisting of his shirt suggested she might be coming to the same thought he was.
So he unlinked his arms from around her and sat up. The outer layer was unzipped and set aside. The second and third layer, a tactical turtleneck and undershirt respectively, were pulled over his head and piled up beside him. His bare chest was a thicket of black hair, but remarkably unscarred for a career soldier. It was a small sacrifice for him to make. As a man near impossible to kill, a few layers of clothes would not make a difference in a fight. If anything, he always fought better when he was allowed to cut loose. He said nothing about it, but simply took his place back along the tarp. The connection was severed in that time, but he resumed it by touching his hand to the nape of her neck.
She'd felt only a tentative want to skin her palm across his side. To settle it -- firmly -- where abdomen met waist. It would have been an additional point of contact: another saving grace. But a soft hum of her own admitted to his good intent and fine-planning when he stripped down to bare shoulders. Peggy felt no similar drive -- out of cultivated modesty, or else a desire not to show her blooming bruises and reddening cuts. Stripping down to her skin meant inviting infection; she stayed wrapped up.
But she twisted. Ginger-like, so the pain wasn't unbearable. But Peggy leaned into his touch so she felt hard fingers against her neck. And her own fingers curled almost possessively into the flesh of his side. A fistful of security, taken not out of lust or greed but because she knew they both needed to survive.
"You only brought the one," she breathed her laughter. Poor unfortunate soul. "We make it through this and I'll promise you a whole case of the finest."
Logan would have been dishonest if he claimed that he wasn't disappointed she didn't reciprocate the exposure. There were plenty of good and solid reasons not to, but he hadn't been joking when he told her what his idea of living looked like. It was not quite this, but it was damned close. Even so, he continued to scrape at those few loose hairs at the base of her neck. It was idle curiosity more than it was anything more intimate.
"You'll soon regret it. I ain't a cheap smoker." Though the cigar he had brought had been far from being described as the finest. "But there's something you've got me wonderin' about. How exactly do you receive pronouncing anyhow?"
Her laughter was a delicate thing. Head tilted, she watched as her breath stirred a loose fibre on the spare blanket beneath. "It's how the King speaks," Peggy explained. "Although I suppose the current example isn't an exceptional one."
She swallowed up her playful treason. Carter had been out of British intelligence for a long while, but that didn't make it any less awkward to begrudge His Royal Majesty any of her respect and due deference. No matter how much he stammered -- or how much trouble he had with his speeches. She weaselled her way through the joke's explanation in halting tones, as if pausing to enjoy the slight touch upon her nape between words.
"It's considered quite posh -- albeit artificially so. I meant only that you shouldn't let the sound of it cause you to believe I'm anything less than hardy, Logan. Perhaps not so hardy as you, it turns out--"
But hardy. Hale. A laughable thing to argue now, curled up so tenderly beneath his touch.
Edited (forgot a sentence; caught it on the reread; so throw me in jail.) 2015-05-23 19:37 (UTC)
He continued to stroke her hair until his thumb began to stroke the helix of her ear. There was no intention in this gesture, only something old and familiar and thoughtless. Kings and speech didn't matter all that much to him, though he didn't feel her explanation truly answered his question.
"Yer hardy enough. Any dumb bastard can get a bullet in 'em. It takes nerves to heal the long way 'round. I've been shot, burned, stabbed, crushed, an' killed in more ways than I remember. It ain't never took me any longer'n a few hours to heal from the worst of it. Sittin' around waiting for it to heal the natural way? I ain't done that since I was a kid scrapin' my knees."
She liked it. His touch. Not in some crass fashion, though it would be foolish to deny a frisson or three down her spine when his thumb curled just so across the shell of her ear. No -- what she liked instead (to her slow-growing realization) was the simple existence of companionship. Once upon a time, Peggy had been more comfortable with the people around her. Freer with her friendship and her affection. The war had made her better and stronger and more faithful by far, but it had also hollowed out small and unexpected parts of her very self: the parts that once found it so easy to lean into a lovely touch. The parts that had blazed back into life so briefly only to be extinguished again.
Most importantly, she didn't overthink it. Just as he held no intention, she assumed none. But her breath evened out. And her fingers skated the skin of his side in sudden slow lazy circles -- their apex always matching exhalation.
"Kind of you to say, truly, but--" there's nothing brave about biology. There was nothing about this punishment she was choosing to endure. It was a thing that must be survived. Peggy sighed. "Does it still hurt? It does, doesn't it?"
She threw the attention back on him. A clumsy gesture -- but one that might as well have been taught in any introductory training for intelligence work. At least at the heart of the question was a kind of genuine concern -- for all he'd shrugged off his injuries, he hadn't ignored them. Not perfectly.
"When it happens?" He nodded in the clumsy and awkward way one does when their head is against a pillow. "Sometimes the healing hurts worse than the cause. People ain't made to live through the things I have."
Each event held its own trauma for him and by all rights, he should have been a broken man. He could not truly claim to understand what it was that allowed him and his brother to survive those things with their minds in tact. A romantic might claim it was these moments that allowed him to retain his humanity and if not that, it was the booze and vices that did it for him. It was possible that even a shattered mind could be made to stitch itself back together.
People weren't made to live through -- no. That path brought her to sour thoughts. Heartache. So much so that it threatened the precarious sense of peace that had until now pervaded the moment: the kind that comes only at rare times, where a moment of mutual surrender was shared with someone.
Selfishly, she wanted to let sleep take hold. If they slept, then she could pretend like the peace had never been disturbed by the crystalline understanding that his 'gift' was likely an ungenerous one. It took from him -- that's what she understood (feeling her by instinct) from what he said.
"So we will both of us be a little more careful from hereon in," she vowed. As though his transient pain was about as unacceptable to her as scars or bruises or wounds that would be harder to heal.
He feigned bewilderment. "Who me? I'm always careful."
Sleep would come easier for him however. He closed his eyes and began to run his thumb along her ear again. This was where he'd decided was the most calming for him. He had her most attention this way and though he knew she would not admit to it, Logan was convinced she was enjoying it. For all the trouble he'd caused her with the fall, it seemed the decent thing to do would give her a more pleasant distraction.
"Try'n sleep. If there's danger coming, I'll know well before you do, asleep or otherwise."
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munebox2015-05-16 10:12 pm
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"These previous inhabitants..." Logan rubbed at his stubble thoughtfully. "I ain't too keen to run into any of them."
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"With any luck, we'll find their metal guards have long out-lasted them." And (speaking of) she seemed intent to let her wrist brush his with grave intention. A spark of contact -- their first since the flare-up on the plateau.
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Logan stared at his hand and wanted to swear at it.
"Somethin' tells me their metal guards might be the least of it." Even without their dispute, Logan had been walking along the dried river with a growing feeling of instinctual dread. His senses told him they shouldn't be going that direction, but he'd been placing the mission ahead of survival. It was absurd how his notion of survival was as twisted as it was.
He chewed on a sausage and looked to the cave's entrance. "... the damn code's near gone out."
Handholding was one way of charging it, but certainly among the slower ways. Yet after the last few hours, he was in no hurry of proposing more efficient alternatives.
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But she wouldn't steal more than a bare brush. Frowning, and chewing silently, she offered her whole palm. No words necessary.
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Logan chewed on bland sausage for a little while longer ever looking at the cave's entrance. "It still ain't gone dark yet," he observed. "I'm getting real sick of waitin' for it."
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Peggy wiped her brine-damp thumb clean on her sleeve and then (on instinct alone) laid her second hand over his -- making a kind of sandwich of his callouses between her manicured fingers. The gesture forced her to lean forward, which made her ribs burn.
And burned more still when she turned her head to look in the same direction: the cave. Hemming and hawing: "I'd counsel you to scout ahead, but--" she shook their joined hands. "I am sorry."
She was the one holding up their expedition with her pain and injury.
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He shook his head. "You ain't the one who went tumbling." Much as it might have helped to scout ahead, he did not feel the pressing need to do so. The one thing he didn't regenerate was energy. His stamina might have been greater than most, but even he needed to rest. "The city'll keep. We could both use the sleep."
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"And here I feared you'd want to press onwards." A thin smile that didn't touch her eyes. "Certainly -- a rest would be appreciated."
It was such a chilly negotiation. Distant -- and perfunctory above all. It stood in sharp relief against the tenderness displayed between her two hands.
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"I think..." He frowned at their hands. "Yer gonna need to find some other part of me to hold. Til I get us sorted out."
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Standing was not such a challenge when her movement was supported by thick-corded arms. Peggy broke the connection of one hand when she followed his sleeve up past his shoulder and when she laid her palm against the bare back of his neck, she fancied she felt a tingle along her nerves. Was this the elusive passcode? Or human nature?
"Tactical gear doesn't display much skin," she apologised. Perhaps a side or even the lower half of his back might have been a better place to rest her fingers -- but invading the sanctity of his shirt seemed a little too much without invitation.
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"Next time I have a passcode, I'll request some nice beach mission." He grinned wryly and knelt to the work. They did not keep with them bedrolls, but there was a tarp wide enough to give them somewhere to lie down that was dry. Each of them had a second pair of clothing that could be rolled up for pillows. A second blanket was there for cold nights, but it was too humid to have much need of it in this cave. So Logan folded that in two so that it provided a second layer of cushion on one side of the tarp. When he was done, he turned his head round and up to look at her. "That's you, teacup. This as posh as it gets in these parts."
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"Don't let the Received Pronunciation fool you; you know better than most how dreadful an army cot can be." And yet she'd endured those often enough during the war. "But you'd best nudge the 'pillows' a little nearer to one another," she hemmed. "As a precaution."
He didn't need telling. She knew so. But if she didn't say it aloud, then the necessity of it would live in this strange unacknowledged space between them. And space between them would be their downfall.
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The pillows were close enough as it was, but now they sat side by side. Were this a proper kind of bed, it would have looked intimate enough for a pair of lovers. Instead it was a flat and less than comfortable resting place for two soldiers to keep their only hope for survival burning through the night. When it was all done, Logan turned to offer a hand to her and so guide her to the blanketed half of the tarp. Ordinarily he might not have bothered, but the injured were deserving of a little extra consideration.
"Don't go complainin' about me treatin' you gentle like. I ain't doing it cuz of yer pretty complexion. Even busted up soldiers get some special treatment."
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After all, he hadn't fussed before now. Not truly. So he couldn't have cared that much to see a woman busted up and bruising -- not any more or less than he would a comrade, and she respected that restraint.
"The spare blanket might be a bit much, however," but she made her criticism with a dry smirk. Having a bit of a laugh at his expense, because to laugh at her own was (perhaps) a little too tragic. Either way, she can't have minded the blanket overly much because she was willing enough to sink down and lay on her side.
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"God, but I could go for a smoke right about now."
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Laughable, really. The tender construction of their nearness -- their very touch -- had a broader (and chillier) negotiation bordering each soft gesture. Peggy's breath caught in her throat and to spare her lowest ribs she sidled his arm lower on her hip. Fingers linking between his with yet again another electric thrill, as though knowing about the razor-edged claws below inspired jitters in her stomach. Adrenaline surged, and she wondered if she could ever sleep. Spent though she was, there was little relaxation to be found tucked against someone's body.
She practically laid on the hand that was linked with his. Her other arm -- the one unpinned by her body still -- ventured afield, because she couldn't comfortably reach his neck any longer. Well-trimmed and red-painted nails caught the bottom hem of his shirt, twisting the heavy tactical material around her fingertips. But ultimately she went no further, uncertain of how to ask permission for something both so daft and clinical all at once.
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But not even a smoke would have made this arrangement more comfortable. Both of them were hot and a day's labor under the sun left neither of the two smelling particularly pleasant. The thick tactical gear, much of it stained in blood, made it harder still to get comfortable. A soldier eventually learned to sleep in any position, but generally they had more freedom to pick one most suitable. The rumble from him throat was not a growl, but a thoughtful hum of what might be considered priority here. The twisting of his shirt suggested she might be coming to the same thought he was.
So he unlinked his arms from around her and sat up. The outer layer was unzipped and set aside. The second and third layer, a tactical turtleneck and undershirt respectively, were pulled over his head and piled up beside him. His bare chest was a thicket of black hair, but remarkably unscarred for a career soldier. It was a small sacrifice for him to make. As a man near impossible to kill, a few layers of clothes would not make a difference in a fight. If anything, he always fought better when he was allowed to cut loose. He said nothing about it, but simply took his place back along the tarp. The connection was severed in that time, but he resumed it by touching his hand to the nape of her neck.
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But she twisted. Ginger-like, so the pain wasn't unbearable. But Peggy leaned into his touch so she felt hard fingers against her neck. And her own fingers curled almost possessively into the flesh of his side. A fistful of security, taken not out of lust or greed but because she knew they both needed to survive.
"You only brought the one," she breathed her laughter. Poor unfortunate soul. "We make it through this and I'll promise you a whole case of the finest."
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"You'll soon regret it. I ain't a cheap smoker." Though the cigar he had brought had been far from being described as the finest. "But there's something you've got me wonderin' about. How exactly do you receive pronouncing anyhow?"
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She swallowed up her playful treason. Carter had been out of British intelligence for a long while, but that didn't make it any less awkward to begrudge His Royal Majesty any of her respect and due deference. No matter how much he stammered -- or how much trouble he had with his speeches. She weaselled her way through the joke's explanation in halting tones, as if pausing to enjoy the slight touch upon her nape between words.
"It's considered quite posh -- albeit artificially so. I meant only that you shouldn't let the sound of it cause you to believe I'm anything less than hardy, Logan. Perhaps not so hardy as you, it turns out--"
But hardy. Hale. A laughable thing to argue now, curled up so tenderly beneath his touch.
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"Yer hardy enough. Any dumb bastard can get a bullet in 'em. It takes nerves to heal the long way 'round. I've been shot, burned, stabbed, crushed, an' killed in more ways than I remember. It ain't never took me any longer'n a few hours to heal from the worst of it. Sittin' around waiting for it to heal the natural way? I ain't done that since I was a kid scrapin' my knees."
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Most importantly, she didn't overthink it. Just as he held no intention, she assumed none. But her breath evened out. And her fingers skated the skin of his side in sudden slow lazy circles -- their apex always matching exhalation.
"Kind of you to say, truly, but--" there's nothing brave about biology. There was nothing about this punishment she was choosing to endure. It was a thing that must be survived. Peggy sighed. "Does it still hurt? It does, doesn't it?"
She threw the attention back on him. A clumsy gesture -- but one that might as well have been taught in any introductory training for intelligence work. At least at the heart of the question was a kind of genuine concern -- for all he'd shrugged off his injuries, he hadn't ignored them. Not perfectly.
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Each event held its own trauma for him and by all rights, he should have been a broken man. He could not truly claim to understand what it was that allowed him and his brother to survive those things with their minds in tact. A romantic might claim it was these moments that allowed him to retain his humanity and if not that, it was the booze and vices that did it for him. It was possible that even a shattered mind could be made to stitch itself back together.
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Selfishly, she wanted to let sleep take hold. If they slept, then she could pretend like the peace had never been disturbed by the crystalline understanding that his 'gift' was likely an ungenerous one. It took from him -- that's what she understood (feeling her by instinct) from what he said.
"So we will both of us be a little more careful from hereon in," she vowed. As though his transient pain was about as unacceptable to her as scars or bruises or wounds that would be harder to heal.
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Sleep would come easier for him however. He closed his eyes and began to run his thumb along her ear again. This was where he'd decided was the most calming for him. He had her most attention this way and though he knew she would not admit to it, Logan was convinced she was enjoying it. For all the trouble he'd caused her with the fall, it seemed the decent thing to do would give her a more pleasant distraction.
"Try'n sleep. If there's danger coming, I'll know well before you do, asleep or otherwise."
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