Moving On

Title: Moving On
Author: CrowSkyler
Rating: R
Genre: PWP / Angst
Summary: Wolverine, just before the events in Movie I.
 
 
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"You’d like to enter into the fight?" He found the man’s gaze annoying – calm and quiet. Not the gaze of a typical fighter, or a satisfying crowd-pleaser. "Well, alright," he said, because he’d noted the other man’s muscle, underneath the warm shirt. "What’s your name, then, and I’ll point you down."

"Wolverine," said the man simply. He was a few inches shorter than the ringmaster was, but his voice was a million years calmer. As if he’d just put nam name down to merely watch. The ringmaster quirked a brow questioningly.

"First or last?" he inquired.

"Both," said the man, with a bored air, now looking at the cage with a scrutinizing eye.

"I’m sorry, should I know you?" said the ringmaster—Tommy Kenneth was his name—with annoyance. "Because you don’t look like you can go on just one name, yet. Big leagues somewhere else? Now what’s your real name."

This time that quiet gaze wasn’t so quiet. In fact, it was downright blazing; brown eyes narrowed and jaw clenched. "I’ve gone on it since you first got a job, bub," he sneered. "That is my real name."

Taken aback, Kenneth nodded rather quickly and jotted ‘Wolverine’ down on the list. There was already quite a lineup. He confessed... he was now curious to see how this Wolverine did in the fights. Explosive personalities tended to get a lot of money. If he came back—he didn’t look like the type to stick around a place very long.

As a few more guys signed the list, and the time approached, more people entered the bar and took seats. Wolverine, Kenneth noted, stayed at the bar nursing a few beers, and seemed to have been unaffected by the alcohol, as he stood and took off his shirt for the fight. Compact, smooth muscle, on skin that was faintly sun-touched. It was quite impressive—especially to wom women in the bar. But Wolverine seemed oblivious, running a hand through his dark hair and just waiting, like an actor waiting for a cue offstage. Kenneth went to the cage and announced the first match.

Which wasn’t a big crowd-pleaser and it was easy to see why. Both of the guys were just enough overweight that no one wanted to see them with shirts off. Some of the women even left in disgust, which was never a good sign for a first match. And it took forever to end, as well.

As he watched the two men charge each other for what felt like the fifteenth hundred time, his gaze wandered back to Wolverine, who was looking on with sizeable distaste. Wondering what was going through his mind, Kenneth slipped out of the cage, standing at his side.

"You’re next," he muttered to the burlier man.

A nod, but nothing else in response. Cringing when the two men in the cage screamed at each other, as if he had extra sensitive hearing.

"You’ve fought before?"

"Many times, bub," he said quietly, as he watched Jennson—one of the two overweights—beat Dene into a pulp. The crowd cheered from sheer relief. "None of them were stupid enough to get back up," was his parting comment, as his opponent walked into the cage.

It wasn’t very well matched. The other guy had size, but no muscle, just a great deal of soft flesh. But he surprised Wolverine. When the first punch fell, into his stomach, he appeared unhurt—the flesh seemed to protect him like a shield. "Do better than that," he sneered at Wolverine, who scowled and threw one at his jaw. The man marked down as Tunsdon spat blood, but didn’t budge. Wolverine glared through the blood spit into his eyes.

When Tunsdon threw another punch, he met it, with an almost metallic thud. And the bigger, taller man yelled in pain, connecting with the cage floor.

Kenneth grinned.

Tonight would be a good night.
 
 
 
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He found him drinking beer afterwards, and savored the idea of joiniim, im, ordering up a big glass and daring to choose the stool right next to him. It was as if he was drunk already. And Wolverine seemed to think he was, too, raising an eyebrow at him when he didn’t speak immediately.

"Something wrong with the other stools?" he asked, with definite sarcasm.

"This one’s got more stuffing, now that you mention it," Kenneth shot back, with a friendly grin. Wolverine snorted derisively and did not respond.

"That was some good fighting."

"Mmm."

"Have you ever seriously injured someone?"

Wolverine looked at him, with boredom. "How seriously do you mean?"

"Oh, near death kind of seriously injured." He was undeniably curious, from the fight. Wolverine had seemed to know of every weak spot in the human body.
There was a quiet pause, and then the burly man nodded. "A few times," he said. "And they deserved it."

"What were they doing?" Kenneth sipped his beer, and felt warmth tingle in his cold toes.

"Trying to steal my trailer and rape me, probably," said the other man, in the same, bored tone. His ‘drinking buddy’ shuddered.

"Near here?"

"Yes, as a matter of fact. First time back here since it happened." Wolverine was watching him, now. "Grill your fighters often?" he said, with the same sarcasm as before.
"No. But you’re different than the other fighters."

"How? And don’t keep me waiting, I’m positively quivering with nerves." Chrissake, did he ever lose that attitude?

"Oh, you know, strong and silent type," Kenneth said, returning the sarcasm.

"Please tell me you’re not gay." Wolverine shut his eyes.

"Why? Are you against them?"

When the brown eyes opened, they were sparkling with mirth. "No, that was just a horrid pickup line," he chuckled. Kenneth laughed.

"I’m not," he assured him.

"I feel sorry for the women you like," Wolverine shot back.

They lapsed into a comfortable silence, punctu by by someone setting their glass back down, or a random cough. Finally, Kenneth spoke, rubbing his thumb on the melted frost of the glass.

"You ever thought about the big leagues?"

He shrugged. "No, not really. Doesn’t hold a lot of appeal."

"Why not?" Kenneth shook his head. With this guy’s style, he could go to the top. Kenneth would…

erinerine tilted his head, ending his thoughts when he set his bottle down. "Too much flash, too much fake. It’s not for me."

"So, drinking beer and wandering is for you?" Kenneth bit his tongue. He hadn’t meant to say it aloud.

A sharp look, and then another shrug. "It works," he said. "I’ve never found anything that stops me from it."

With an appreciative laugh, the ringer der dug around in his jacket. "Tell you what. You won’t go the Leagues, you can go here." He handed him a slip of paper with an address and map, and a logo. "Best ring fights in the region. We’re just a prelude. You could go big, tomorrow."

Wolverine wrinkled a brow. "Could I?" He studied the map. "I came from there." ‘Lotham City’, read the paper.

"Try it." Kenneth grinned. "You won’t regret it."

Shrugging, Wolverine put some money down on the bar, and gathered his jacket around him before heading to the door. Turning, almost as an afterthought, he nodded to Kenneth. "Thanks," he said simply, before he was gone, into the night’s cold.