WHO: Logan (
sixgoodreasons) and open
WHERE: The Tool Shed, a dive bar on the East Side known for its lenient attitude towards imPorted.
WHEN: 6th & 7th of July, late evening to early morning.
WARNINGS: Violence, language, drinking, country music.
SUMMARY: Just another Tuesday night.
FORMAT: Whatever feels natural.
(
it doesn't take a big man to knock somebody down / just a little courage to lift him off the ground )
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But Bond doesn't feel much like that recently. There's the selfish urge to do what he wants, avoiding the crowds and retreating to somewhere off the beaten track. Country music isn't really his thing but a place like this is saving him a lot of stares from 'fans'. He'd not really been wanting or expecting company tonight, but he can't help but notice the appearance of a familiar figure. James recognises that face.
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Out of habit, he scopes the room as he heads towards the bar. He counts twenty-eight people including the bartender: pretty normal for the time of night. Most of them are either staring at their drinks or watching the baseball game on the TV above the pool table. A couple glance up at Logan and look away again, not too interested in a short sweaty guy with too much arm hair. One, though, goes on looking.
Logan catches his eye and immediately recognises him, from both the network and the only half-decent movie in the whole franchise. He looks tired, and out of place.
Sliding in at the bar a few stools down from Mr. Bond, Logan signals the bartender with a wave of his hand, more than content to ignore the other man for as long as possible.
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And on this night, he would just happen to find Logan and a few other familiar faces seated at the bar. He welcomed himself a spot one seat away from Logan and ordered a beer. As he waited for his drink, he turned to Logan. "Come here often?"
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Logan glanced over at Nathan, grunted, and pulled his drink towards him. "That a line, Summers?"
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"I must have walked into the wrong bar." Nate put his beer down. "Scott let you out tonight?"
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Still, Jean Grey had to face more frightening things in the past. It was time to face some very different threats to her comfort. A drink wouldn't be bad, either.
"If I pretend it's just a coincidence that I'm here, would you believe me?" Her voice bloomed from behind Logan, the object of some very compulsive thoughts she had been having for weeks now. Her tone meant to carry a more flirtatious song to it, but instead it was slightly timid. She knew she'd never be bothering Logan, and that he had probably braced himself for her presence the moment he could sense her coming in.
The toe of her high-heeled shoe clicked against the leg of the stool beside him.
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But of course Jean had found him. Or maybe he'd found her. Wasn't that how it worked? Always waiting for each other.
Of all the bars in all the world, darlin', you gotta walk into mine.By now he was onto the harder stuff, and it burned down the back of his throat even as he heard her heels click on the floor behind him. The sound of her voice was like a physical blow. His hand tightened on the bottle of whiskey, just a little. She sounded nervous. He couldn't blame her ( ... )
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"Logan, you seem restless tonight." She eyed his glass, then stared at his hand as she spoke. "I was restless, too. Am. Am restless, I guess."
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But he's not there yet, and so when Bond approaches he notes subconsciously that the man smells drunk but sounds sober. He's taller than Logan thought he would be. His breath smells like vermouth.
Logan pulls his gaze up off his glass like it's a physical weight. Fixes it on Bond, his expression dark and sad and dangerous. He bares his teeth a little, exposing the points.
"This ain't wise, bub." It's as much warning as Bond is likely to get.
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Seems they've both got their own woes to deal with, but right now, as is so often the case, alcohol just isn't cutting it for James. He needs a reminder of his existence. Something that can make him feel alive yet so utterly pathetic. Something that's going to give him more than just a headache the next morning.
"I'm not doing anything. Just like you haven't with that woman of yours, I'd imagine. You certainly seem to be popular with certain other females, I noticed. Got a thing for redheads?" There's only a vague slur behind his words.
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Silently, and without taking his eyes off of Bond, Logan pours himself another shot, drains the glass, and sets it down on the bar. Then, moving with deliberate care, he slides down off his stool, bulling his way into Bond's personal space. The spy has five inches on him in height, but Logan's willing to bet that's not going to make a whole lot of difference in two minutes time.
"Hey buddy," he snarls, his metal knuckles cracking as he clenches his fists, something like a smile appearing on his chops, "say that again."
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No surprises then that he's only arching a blonde eyebrow down at Logan as the shorter one squares up, causing Bond to retaliate with a slow inhale that fills his lungs and puffs his chest out like some territorial creature, muscles taught and fists clenched. "The bit about you not satisfying your partner, or the part where you show a little too much interest in all those other whores around you?"
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Truth be told, she was hoping to run into Logan, and she'd heard he hung around here. There was no reason, really. It had just been a long time since she had someone to talk to who really knew her. Who wasn't her mentally unstable ex-boyfriend. And so here she was, enveloped in clingy dark fabric and the sounds of classic rock.
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