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She went to great pains while raising the flask and giving it an experimental sniff. The crinkle of her nose suggested (quite unabashedly) that she judged his taste in spirits. She judged it harshly. Too much time spent on the Western Front had brought her into contact with too much bad vodka. But she likely couldn't ask for a better booze to clean her cuts: no pesky sugars and grains getting in the way of its work.

Peggy was sparing when she doused the worst of her wounds. It stung -- perhaps worse than the relocation of her shoulder had done. It was torturous work to tend to her own injuries. Not because she wasn't up to the task, but because the introduction of such sting was easier when done by another hand. It made her long for Mister Jarvis's company, for he had a steady hand and a good bedside manner.

"--I trust you can spare a mouthful more for the patient?"

Logan was of no help whatsoever. Aside from sacrificing his supply of booze, he simply sat perched and watched. Halfway through her session of wincing, he began to distribute their food rations. A fire would have made for a more interesting meal, but their supper tonight would consist of dried goods and water. Anything fresh had been already consumed well before they arrived in the city itself. Going forward, their meals would be more of the same. At least until they found something more palatable or reached the point of their mission where they had no option but to turn back the way they came.

He gestured for her to drink up. "My brother'd have killed you already. Victor never did care to risk anyone knowin' we weren't like other folk."

"You have a strange manner of comforting a person," she answered so dryly. Fully aware (it seemed) that he likely made no effort to comfort her. Luckily, Peggy had herself convinced she didn't require it of him. The vodka (rancid-bitter as it was) would be comfort enough, and much like with the cigar she grinned and beared her way through another unpleasant ritual. This one, at least, put fire in her belly.

"It ain't meant to be comfort." He held out his hand, expecting the flask to be returned so he could have his own share before putting it away. "You've seen what I am. You got any notion the trouble you could cause me?"

Killing her or abandoning her was not an outcome he desired. He liked her, for all she actually represented. But Logan was a survivor and that kind of survival meant doing things that he wasn't too proud of.

"I know precisely how much, yes," she answered with concrete in her voice. Peggy nudged the flask's cap back into place, but didn't bother screwing it shut. She offered it back to its owner. "And perhaps I know it better than you yourself do."

It was difficult not to: having been so involved at the outset of Project Rebirth, to witnessing its inception; implementation; abandonment. Worse yet, she'd been privy to what HYDRA had done even after it had begun to be dismantled. Reinhardt and the bloody swathe of mutilated bodies left in his wake -- all done in the name of science. The search for powered individuals.

"You're not the first...remarkable man with whom I've worked, Logan." She doubted he needed the reminder. But perhaps she needed it. To regard him as something similar to Captain Rogers, if only so she might stop the fluttering fear in her heart. It wasn't fair to be frightened.

And yet, fear in the face of such power was natural. Wasn't it?

He snorted. "You talkin' about Cap? He was a kid they made in a lab. I ain't disrespectin' him either. I owe the sorry bastard for busting me out of that prison. But there ain't nobody who made me like this."

The flask was set aside and he leaned forward. There was no point in secrets now. He held the back of his hand to face her and tightened his fist. From the wrist, the skin broke and parted ways. Ivory white bones jutted through the holes that had formed there. The claws were ugly looking things, but were sharpened at the end to match a razor's edge. At their full length, each claw was long enough to reach well past the length of his fingers.

"Me and Victor ain't some experiment gone wrong, teacup. And we sure as hell ain't looking to be anybody's blueprints."

Something in his claim offended her. That much was unmistakeable. But Peggy Carter held her tongue and kept some semblance of the peace, refusing to blurt out that no one -- least of all the SSR -- made Steve Rogers. The science that had blasted through Captain America's body was something of an after-thought to her mind: far more remarkable (to both her and Erskine) was the heart that powered the whole thing. No: Captain America had not been made, he had been chosen. Perhaps it hadn't been that way for Logan, and that alone was the reason why she kept her emotions in check. It helped neither of them for her to make her martyr's stand upon a hill of no consequence to their conversation.

And then the claws came out and arguments died away all on their own. Had she the strength and fortitude left, she would have sat up a little straighter. As it was, she merely let her stare settle long and hard upon the vicious growths. Peggy didn't think it necessary to blow hot air about how she wasn't about to jeopardize anyone's freedom with loose lips -- however natural it might have been for him to feel concern for such an outcome, she couldn't help but feel she owed him no assurances when she'd given no reasons to feed into his suspicion.

Instead, she corralled her curiousity into one question: "You were born with them, then?"

All the talk of reports and photography had been all he needed to be suspicious. Even revealing this much was more than he had done with most others. He'd had lovers who didn't even know what he really was. By far Peggy was the highest in the infastructure of the government to ever see or know what he was or capable of. Even now he could hear Victor's take on the situation. You're too soft, runt. This bitch ain't worth it.

That thought flickered in his eyes with a sudden flash of anger. He did not love Victor or even particularly like him, but several lifetimes filled with war and long empty roads made any consistent companionship something treasured. The truth of it was, it didn't matter what Peggy knew. She'd be in the grave soon enough, one way or another. It didn't matter if it was now or in fifty years.

He retracted the claws back into his wrists. "Born. Or they came later. Don't really matter. I was a kid the first time they came out."

Context certainly changed a lot. Peggy thrust her most instinctive words into the back of her mind once more: understanding, intuitively, that she would win no favour by expressing her surprise that one of the agencies hadn't already picked him up if it had indeed manifested since childhood. Then again, maybe one of them had. And maybe that was the reason his eyes were flinty and his trust less forthcoming. Peggy watched as the claws disappeared, but even as she stared at his hands she imagined she could still see after-impressions in the air.

The last vestiges of jingoism clinging to her soul prompted her to put as positive a spin on the revelation as she could: "It seems I find myself and my work in better hands than first anticipated. Good."

Crass, perhaps, to stress his usefulness to her. But above all she wanted to remind the both of them (aloud) that the core power-balance of the mission had shifted. Oh, he was always stronger than her. But now the gap was severe. She would be beholden to him before the mission was done; Peggy was certain of it. And she wanted him to know that she was well aware at whose behest they continued.

It was not the response he wanted or expected. His goal had been to cow or shame her into obliging him his secret. The mission itself came second to all that. Committed as he might have been, it was not the chief thing in his mind. Yet it certainly had not slipped her attention. Somehow he found himself admiring her for that certainty and focus. For all the things he had been involved in, none of it had ever mattered to him as much as this seemed to matter to her.

With a shake of his head and a snort, he relented. "Seems so. We'll finish this out." He might have been soft and even as weak as his brother claimed, but he wasn't a quitter. "But you and me's got a long talk ahead before you go filin' yer paperwork."

Peggy dabbed the cloth of her sleeve against her forehead. Mopping up blood before it began to clot -- a brief moment of vanity made her fear the matted mess it would make of her hair. Perhaps appearance meant little in the broadest scope of the mission, but it cost her nothing to express a sliver of concern now.

"My aim," she answered -- prim once again, with the spell of their momentary candour broken, "is to document the city in as explicit detail as I can. Its buildings; its state; its previous inhabitants. I'll not compromise that aim, Logan."

But she issued no challenge. Instead, she left him to sort through the words and find the olive branch hiding in the spaces between. She claimed she would document the city and not the man. Adhering to the very letter of her occupation would save him more grief than any other subterfuge.

Edited 2015-05-21 02:27 (UTC)

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.

Edited 2015-05-21 13:24 (UTC)

"Aye aye, ma'am."

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.

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LOGAN @lumberjackman X-Men (available in film and animated canons)

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