Atonement
by
WildThing
Disclaimer: I know, I know, they're not mine to treat in this manner. It's not like the Marvel guys haven't done worse to 'em, but they have the rights to Wolverine and Sabretooth and I don't. Look guys, you can have 'em back. They're good as new. . . uh, wait . . . Well, at least I'm not making any money at it.
This story is for JvV. Thanks for the idea and for waitin' so patiently for this one, darlin'. Glad it made ya smile. And thanks to Lady T and Albertina for beta reading.
The sky was tinged with red when Wolverine regained consciousness. He was lying in the street, face down in a pool of blood. He pushed himself up on hands and knees, shaking his head to clear it. Everything seemed slightly hazy and things didn't feel quite right. Wolverine looked to his left and saw Sabretooth lying on his back a few feet away, slowly rousing himself as well. Wolverine sat back on his haunches and reached a hand to his stomach. The last thing he remembered was Sabretooth's claws eviscerating him as his own claws sliced through the larger man's neck, then everything went black.
Musta got each other real good. Passed out long enough to heal up, Wolverine thought. "Hey, Sabretooth, get up."
The other man sat up slowly and rubbed the back of his neck. "Not too bad, little man, but it'll take more'n that t' put my lights out fer good."
"I coulda finished you off while you were still down, Sabretooth."
"In yer dreams! You ain't even standin' yet, runt."
Wolverine grudgingly conceded the point. Their wounds might be gone, but neither of them was back in tip-top shape. The smaller man got to his feet and gazed at the sky, not interested in resuming the fight just now. "Have ya ever seen a sky so red? Like there's a fire way off, but I don't smell any smoke. You smell anything?"
"Nope. Nuthin'."
"And where in blazes did all the people go? Ya jumped me just after rush hour as I was goin' down for the evenin' paper. There ain't a soul out here now." Wolverine turned around to take in their surroundings. "Somethin's not right about all this."
"Ya prob'ly just scared 'em off with that ugly mug o' yers." Sabretooth slowly stood up and took a few hesitant steps, trying out his balance. "I'll get back t' beatin' the snot outta ya, but I'm more in the mood fer a drink right now. My throat's burnin', I'm so parched!"
The fact that the streets were empty no longer seemed to concern the shorter man and a beer did sound mighty appealing. "C'mon, there's a little place right across the street, assumin' anyone's still there."
~*~
"Purgatory?" Sabretooth muttered and rolled his eyes as they approached. The place looked perfectly non-descript and blended in with the other shops on this normally busy street. "Sure don't look like much fer a name like that. Better be more impressive inside than outside."
"Purgatory? I was just in here a couple days ago and it was called O'Malley's. Man, you woulda thought I'd've noticed a change in ownership." Logan looked mildly bewildered.
"Always told ya you were never the smart one. Or the pretty one." Sabretooth flashed a toothy grin, not friendly, but not his usual malicious leer, either. Wolverine knew the other was baiting him, but he couldn't seem to work himself up enough to strike back. The blond giant opened the door and casually pushed the other inside.
The interior of the bar certainly did not meet Victor Creed's expectations. It was as inconspicuous as the façade, dimly lit and slightly hazy. Booths lined one wall and plain wooden chairs surrounded non-descript tables throughout most of the rest of the room. The jukebox was playing a song that Logan finally recognized was sung by Mark Dinning, some 50s or 60s singer who sang those songs about teenagers dying. He couldn't tell which song it was, exactly, because they all started to run together after a while. The only other person in the place was a balding man of medium height and build, wearing a white button-down shirt and wiping shot glasses: the stereotypical bartender.
"Come on in, gentlemen, the beer is ice cold," the man said as he pried the caps off of two beer bottles and set them on the bar in front of him. The new arrivals eyed him with some suspicion but thirst won out and they stepped up to the bar to grab a beer. "Have a seat, boys. There is more where that came from. My name is Mike. Is there anything I can get for you?"
"'Nother beer," mumbled Logan around the bottle at his lips. "Keep 'em comin'." They both sat down at the bar.
"As you wish," Mike replied placidly, reaching under the counter to pull out two more bottles which he set in front of Logan.
Creed had poured the last of his beer into his gaping mouth and slammed the empty down on the bar. "What else ya got, pal? Where's the hard stuff?"
"Tell me what you want and I will get it for you."
"Gimme the worst, nastiest rot-gut you've got. And leave the bottle," he sneered, somewhat disappointed that the scary/psycho attitude was having no discernable effect on Mike, who merely reached underneath the counter and pulled out a dusty bottle with a dried-up cork stopper. He placed this on the counter with a wide glass. Victor smiled widely and snatched the bottle, tore out the cork with his teeth and took a gulp directly from the bottle. By this time, Logan had finished off the two beers on the counter so Mike brought two more and cleared away the empties.
As the two men sat and drank, Mike went through the swinging door behind the bar and reappeared almost instantly with two large T-bone steaks. They forgot any domestic pretense and picked up the meat and tore in. When the meat was gone, they gnawed the bones looking for the last little scraps of meat and gristle then sucked the juice off their fingers.
"Oh man, that hit the spot. Mike, yer amazin'. It's almost like ya read my mind. Yer not a telepath, are ya?" Logan scrutinized the man on the far side of the counter.
"Certainly not, I just have a way with people," Mike smiled beatifically.
Neither Logan nor Victor Creed could keep track of how much they drank, not that they were trying. Mike replaced empty bottles with full immediately so neither man knew how much alcohol he had consumed, but it certainly was a sizable amount. Both men were feeling pleasantly relaxed, but not the least bit drunk, as one would assume, even taking their respective regenerative capabilities into account. The two mortal enemies talked and joked like the comrades-in-arms they had once been, before the bad blood between them had festered into all-consuming hatred. Mike kept them well-supplied and stood back and smiled as they laughed and drank like friends.
"Hey, runt, I've been meanin' t' ask ya. . . how'd ya fix yer shirt?"
"Huh?" Logan looked down and ran a hand down and across his stomach.
"Yeah. I gutted ya like a fish before ya fell. I reached in an' grabbed yer spine. But ya look fresh as a daisy. How'd ya do that?"
Logan stared at his chest. Creed was right. He had forgotten until just now that the last thing he saw was his guts in the big man's hands. His shirt should be in bloody tatters but it looked like new. Logan looked up, shock on his face.
"It's really quite simple, Victor. People assume their ideal appearance here; wounds are healed, limbs restored. . . as in your case. . . "
"Whaddya mean, 'In my case'? And how in Hell do ya know my name?" Creed rose from his barstool and tried to leap the counter, only to be stopped by a gentle hand on his shoulder, the anger draining from him.
"I say 'In your case' because your friend Logan managed to take your head off before he bled to death from his rather extensive injuries." Logan blanched, but Mike continued. "I know your names because it is a function of my purpose here. And, if you wish to be precise, this is not Hell but Limbo."
"Now hold on a minute, bub, I've been t' Limbo an' this ain't it!" Logan raised his voice and pounded his fist on the bar, but remained seated.
In an even voice, Mike explained, "That was a pocket dimension, Logan. This Limbo, Purgatory if you will, transcends life. It is something of a way station between the eternal reward and eternal damnation. You are here because, while a good man in life, you do not yet deserve to enter Heaven."
"Then why is he here? He's a bloody-minded psychopath!" Logan furiously stabbed a finger in Creed's direction. "Yer gonna tell me he almost made it inta Heaven, too?"
"Victor Creed is a murderer, yes. But you have also ended the lives of many, some with just cause, some not. Victor could have achieved so much were it not for his mental illness and the conditioning he was unable to break as you did, Logan. It has been ordained that, together, you will eventually prove yourselves worthy of Paradise. Without the other, you would each be doomed to suffering unimaginable."
"Well, ain't that a corker! Turns out we can't get away from each other, even in the hereafter!" Creed shook with laughter, unable to believe this strange turn of events.
"So, ya mean t' tell me I gotta spend eternity with Victor Creed? You sure this ain't Hell?"
"You and he are bound inextricably by fate, destiny, karma, whatever you choose to believe. Your salvation lies within him, as you are his. You did not save each other in life so you will continue here. When you have been purified, you may ascend."
"But that could take forever!" Logan moaned.
"You have forever."
Creed warmed to the idea. "C'mon, Logan, 'cept fer the lack o' skirts, this place ain't half bad. A body could get used t' Limbo. Whaddya say?"
"Yeah, I guess it ain't so bad. Least they got good beer here. But if you think we're stickin' around here forever. . . I got a lot o' family an' friends I expect t' see inside the Pearly Gates one o' these days, and we're gonna get there if I gotta purify yer hairy hide myself."
"Hairy? Look who's talkin', runt!"
Logan took a last swig of beer and set the bottle back on the bar. "Let's go, Creed, no time like the present. It's the first day of the rest of our eternity, might as well make the best of it."
Victor reached over the bar and found a full bottle of scotch. "Yeah, Logan, let's go save each other's souls."
They walked out of the bar and into the deserted street. There, they saw the faintest shadows of a crowd gathered around men putting their remains in a white van. The whole scene was silent and no more substantial than smoke. Both men thought they should feel something at the sight but they felt completely disassociated. Victor passed the bottle to Logan, who took a long pull.
"Y'know, Logan, I bet we could have the mother of all fights here, what with bein' already dead an' all."
Logan thought on this a moment, "Yeah, bet yer right." He stopped and thought a while longer. "Aw, what the hell, Heaven can wait!" and they turned and walked away from the scene.
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