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The slums of Madripoor are a depressing place at the best of times. There's the ever encroaching smell from the garbage that litters the streets, the unrelenting heat and humidity that causes her hair and clothes to stick unpleasantly to her damp skin, and the endless cycle of greed and corruption from on high that makes this a perfect dwelling place for bottom-feeders and, well, people like her. And on a night like tonight, when she's looking for any excuse not to go Skrull-searching and is feeling rather sorry for herself, it's downright miserable.
So, Jessica Drew does what any well-trained HYDRA/SHIELD/SWORD operative would do and heads for the seediest bar in town. Lucky for her, it's only a block-and-a-half from her motel -- which is a generous description, to be sure, though it does - or did, at one point - contain the usual trappings of such establishments. Still, it's cheap and there's a bed and even a shower that works.
Once inside the local gin joint, where the smell of fumes and dirty rainwater gives way to too many bodies in a small, unventilated room, Jessica heads towards the bar. She's not out to get into a fight (done that already) or wasted (too dangerous in this town), but she doesn't think a beer or two will hurt. Her gaze comes back to on a man sitting alone, cowboy hat pulled low over his face. It isn't him that catches her eye so much as everyone giving him a wide berth of space, despite the crowd. He motions to the bartender to bring him another drink. Looks like she wasn't the only one feeling the heat. The SWORD-issue bioscanner in her back pocket doesn't pick up any problematic anomalies, but that doesn't relieve her much. Plenty of trouble could come in the form of humans. Or mutants.
"Logan," she says, when she enters into his line of sight. He doesn't look surprised to see her -- he probably caught her scent when she entered the room, even through the stink of booze and bodies and the outside city smells that permeate the place. She's not surprised to see him either. Not really. She didn't come here looking for company - didn't even know Logan was on this side of the world, though why not? He's Wolverine, world-traveller - but now that he's here, she sits down next to him, orders a beer and, after it arrives, clinks her bottle with his. "Here's to us, the two most screwed over people on the planet."
He sort of half-laughs, half-grunts, with a strong under-current of bitterness. "Ain't that the truth."
So, he's wallowing in self-pity too. Great. Now, she has company for her own miserable mood.
The bioscanner is uncomfortable to sit on. The pocket of her jeans don't offer enough depth or give in the fabric to slide it in a less awkward position, so she pulls it out and drops it none too gently on the table between them. As long as it's not activated, it looks enough like a cell phone to go unnoticed by most people. Although, of course, Logan notices the SWORD insignia on the screen before she sets it on sleep mode.
"What's SWORD doing all the way out here?" he asks. "And why do you have one of their toys?"
Jessica can't quite tell if he sounds moderately interested because he isn't interested or if he hopes feigning indifference will get her to talk. Or maybe he knows more than he's letting on. "Are you checking up on me?"
"Not at all, darlin'." He lines up his two empty beers and looks at her before summoning the bartender. She shakes her head, holding her still-mostly-full bottle to her lips.
She waits until the bartender leaves them alone to ask her real question. "What do you think of Abigail Brand?"
Logan lifts one eyebrow and then the other, as if doing so will help him find an answer. Finally, just as she's starting to get nervous and a little ticked off, he settles on, "Eh. She's alright."
Jessica drinks her beer and thinks about what it means for Logan to think someone was 'alright'. . . "Do you trust her? Trust what she's doing?"
His eyes narrow. "What is she doing here? I mean, you are working for her." It's not a question. "Unless you killed her?"
"Not funny, Logan."
"Do I look like I'm laughing?"
He does not, in fact, look like he's laughing, though he is not serious about her killing Brand, she's pretty sure. He looks world-weary and, at the same time, like the same old Logan. Blink, and he's an old man. Blink, and he's exactly the same as the day she met him. "Brand told me to ask my Avenger pals about her. I figured you might be the only one still willing to speak to me." And the only one who'd understand, according to Brand. Which meant Brand sent her to Logan, or Logan to her. . .or none of the above, and they - she and Logan - are just two people who happen to be in the same bar on the same night. She presses her beer bottle to her forehead, the coolness of it a balm to her fevered thoughts.
Logan frowns at her. "You didn't think to ask before you travelled more than halfway around the world?"
"You're not an easy man to get a hold of. Besides, I don't need your approval to go on a mission." Jessica bites her tongue, half a sentence too late. She can't even blame it on the beer, most of which is still in the bottle, which is still pressed to her temple. Condensation runs down her cheek and she swipes at it with the back of her hand. Elegant. Must be rubbing off from the company she's keeping. She puts the bottle down on the table and uses a small paper napkin to mop up the rest of the moisture on her face.
"Brand is everywhere these days," is all he says about her confirmation of a one-woman SWORD operation in Madripoor.
"You're one to talk." She runs out of things to say after that and Logan isn't exactly one for carrying small talk. He finishes his third beer -- since she arrived; he's been there long enough to warn the locals to stay away.
"Wanna get out of here?" He looks at her steadily, from under the brim of his ridiculous hat, when he asks.
Jessica thinks about if for half a second, wondering if she's misreading him. Then she puts down enough money to cover her drink and follows Logan outside. They spill out into the side alley, deserted except for rats that are too mean and hungry to scatter like they should. The door is barely shut behind them when Jessica pushes Logan against the wall and kisses him with enough heat and hunger so her intentions can't be mistaken. He makes a low sound in his throat, almost a growl, and hooks his fingers into the top of her pants.
"Not here," she says into his neck.
The five minute walk to her room turns into a two minute sprint, but it's still enough time for either of them to change their mind. She hasn't and considering Logan is taking off his boots, he hasn't either.
His shirt is soft and worn, the buttons slipping easily out of their holes. There's a slow fading scar on his chest, about as big as her palm. "Ouch," he says softly, as she traces its outline. She wonders what could do that to Wolverine, but that's more than she wants to think about right now.
She kisses him again, a little less frantically this time; the taste of stale beer lingers in his mouth after the effects have worn off. She pulls her clothes off before Logan can slice them off because she senses he's in kind of an impatient mood.
Jessica knows why she's here, unzipping Logan's pants. As for him. . . She heard about Kitty Pryde - anyone remotely connected to the mutant community had - and if he's half as needy as she is right now. . .
They fall onto her bed together. The springs creak dangerously, but hold under Logan's weight. Logan makes love the same way he does everything else: he's direct and thorough and certainly attempts to be the best there is at what he does. And what she wants is to forget about anything but the feel of their two bodies. He's picked up some new skills since the last time they got together, or maybe it's just her memory playing tricks on her.
When they're both done with each other, she rolls off of him and lies down, facing the ceiling. His breathing evens out before hers does, and if she didn't know him as well as she did, she might have thought he'd fallen asleep. After a beat, he leans over and places a hand over her belly and feels upwards. She's about to tell him to wait a minute and make some stupid joke about his healing powers when he says, "How are you?" There is no hint of a leer or suggestion in his voice and his hand is steady on her sternum. He sounds too gentle and too serious, for Wolverine; they are two qualities she didn't plan on bringing back to her room.
She stiffens and he draws back, but even in the darkness, she can see him looking at her. "I'm not one of your girls, Logan," she says. "I can take care of myself." Mostly, anyhow. "Why are you in Madripoor?"
Logan flops over onto his back. "Don't wanna talk about it."
"Well, then. You stay out of my business and I'll stay out of yours." She crosses her hands behind her head and thinks the moment would be that much better if she had a cigarette. It's not that she smokes or craves the nicotine, but it would give her something to focus on, other than herself, the job or Logan. Sex with him was supposed to settle her down, not rev up her insomnia. "You know, I used to think you were the most fucked over person on the planet." She turns her head towards Logan. Studies his profile. His eyes are open and he's staring intently at the ceiling. The water stains are fascinating, for sure. "I think I've got you beat," she says sourly.
"Yeah, well, you might want to slow down a little. They don't hand out gold medals or anything."
She captures one of his hands in hers and traces his knuckles. "No. Just adamantium claws." She lets go of his hand and says, "I never could figure out how you kept going after everything that's happened to you." A beat. "I still haven't figured it out."
"Tell you a secret? Neither have I." Logan sighs and scratches his chest; the scar has shrunk down to half its size. "But I figure fighting evil is better than doin' nothing. Or going to therapy. Or havin' your memories erased. Or bein' picked at by psychics and doctors and the military."
It's on the tip of her tongue to say something flip and dismissive, but instead, she asks, "Is that why you're on so many teams?" Maybe this solo spy thing is a mistake, but she doesn't think she could handle being on a team right now.
"Sure," he says easily. "Don't get me wrong, I like havin' my own time and followin' orders ain't been what I'm known for, but a team is. . .easier, sometimes."
Easier following orders -- and for all of Wolverine's contrariness, she thinks he actually likes having orders to follow, deep down. Easier than giving orders or planning out solitary missions. It was damned easy to be unmotivated or move against everything and anyone with directionless rage, until Brand gave her a target and tacit approval to act out her violent impulses and need for retribution against the Skrulls. It was easier having other people to depend on. She knows what Logan means, but it makes her betrayal of the Avengers - and theirs of her, not that she blames them for their mistrust - that much harder to deal with. But these are thoughts she isn't thinking tonight.
"Logan. . ." she says, in an entirely different tone, reaching for him again.
*
It's near dawn when she wakes up with a start, not realizing that she fell asleep. Logan is awake too, and is silently getting dressed. Jessica swings her legs over the side of the bed and gathers up her own clothes. They're the same ones she wore last night, but she didn't bring a lot of clothes with her and it's so hard to find a decent laundromat here.
"Brand," says Logan, out of the blue, after they're both dressed. "She's alright."
"You said that already." She wonders if she should be insulted that he's evidently been thinking about another woman. But they don't have that kind of relationship and he's not talking about sex.
He continues talking like she didn't interrupt him. "She's made mistakes, but she tries to fix 'em, do the right thing." He sits down next to her, close but not touching, to pull on his boots. "What else can anyone ask for?"
"What else. . ." Jessica echoes.
"The world fucks you over. You try not to let it fuck you up."
"Too late for that." For you and me both, she thinks, but leaves the thought where it is. If Logan wants to believe he isn't as fucked up as much as he's been fucked over. . .well, why not. And maybe he's not; maybe for as long as he's been around, he's found some peace -- the sort of peace where he's constantly fighting and probably killing and the world's gone to hell several times over. She does not want to experience everything Logan's gone through in order to end up a in a better place, but she thinks she understands a little about the berserker rages he was famous for; the blood in her veins runs close to burning. She turns on Brand's device. There are three new messages waiting for her.
Logan hasn't left yet, so maybe he has nowhere to go.
"I have Skrulls to hunt down. You coming?"
Her only reply is the familiar snikt of his claws. They slip outside through her broken window and into the shadows of Madripoor.