Logan (canucklehead) wrote in welcomethreads, @ 2015-03-06 07:52:00 |
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Today was not a day to screw around, not that any day particularly was but especially not today. Procuring the Vodka had been the easy part, which was saying something considering the who he was buying it for really. Storybrooke did not have the worlds finest selection of much, though his opinion on that was growing with the number of new residents showing up, but fortunately Logan knew some workarounds to that. Number one? Even the best vodka -- because one did not buy cheap at times like these -- could be doctored with a little bit of filtering. It was old soldiers trick for improving sub-par alcohol while out in the field, and one Logan had immediately put to use. Even as Logan took a moment to set a place for them, a sign of reverence few outside of his circle would have even believed him capable of, he found his thoughts darkened by the news. He'd known Nat a long time, arguably longer than any one particular person in his life. The two had trained together and there'd even been once she'd managed to stick a bullet in his head. You didn't come back from memories like that, from Madripoor or the war, without something to show for it. Logan? He felt a bonded kinship to the woman, always had. He was the little Uncle, and it was a role that he took more seriously than some others, than most others really, especially now that Rogers wasn't around any more. Again. He honestly found himself wishing Steve was still there. The shoulder-clapping, the pep talks, being supportive, those were things Rogers was good at. The man was a walking monument to self improvement and doing better, at making the sins of ones past feel further away, and Logan knew he had none of that. He was a man who went claws deep into his past, skewering his own nightmares but forever leaving their stains on his skin. He knew he wasn't the best person in the world, he knew he wasn't always the strongest spot when it came to leaning or talking about the past, but he also knew that didn't matter. This was Nat. He'd thrown himself to the wolves for less, and never once thought anything about it. So it was that the bottles were laid out, two per head, with a pair of glasses and a deck of playing cards flopped out onto the flimsy, fold out, table. It was an atmosphere that, if not for the rather chipper New England personality outside the windows (and lack of broken furniture) reeked of a low-rent stakeout, but that was the point. Neither had even been the type for pomp and frills, where they weren't needed. Something told Logan that, if where Nat was from she'd put down Sitwell and had even made a remotely successful attempt on Fury, there weren't going to need much more than a card table. It also told him he was impressed, though not terribly all that surprised. After all, Nick Fury was not an easy man to get one over on -- though it probably did get a little easier when you were his right hand. For now though, just like old times, all Logan could do was sit and wait for the knock. |