Title: Snff II
Note: As of yet this story does not have a title.
A/N: The sequel to Snff. You'll note that the way I tell this story is slightly different in narration style. A little idea I got at 2 AM waiting
to take my next dose of antibiotics after reading Margaret Atwood. Holy. This story is also influenced by several other factors--taking a
general look at the direction of childhood's end and X-force, for one, and noting the styles and tones. Another deep influence is the
trip I've just come back from, which involved an impromptu 6 hour (both way) roadtrip for a funeral (the realistic roadtrip part of this).
Finally, it's more of a serious tone because I'm really sad right now...I just left my boyfriend in Iowa after spending three weeks with him,
and it's almost overwhelmingly painful :(
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chapter 1
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23:55 January 2
Xavier's Institute, the Living Room
Logan pops the tab on his beer with a satisfied sigh. It has been a rough day, to say the least—he's seen some things he's eager to forget,
as fast as is possible with his healing factor. Well, no—he'll never forget, but beer will certainly help. Now there's a temporary solution.
There has been a lot of shit going on recently. A lot. Three little words—'no more mutants'—and his comfortable arrangement with the X-men
has been completely upended. He's become part of a dying minority, instead of a growing majority. Fucking god damned kids of Magneto. As
if he isn't enough trouble already. Yup. Logan tilts back his head and drinks from the can, then regrets it as his senses register the sharp
taste of aluminum. He reaches for the glass and tilts the can, directing the flow against the side so it will not be all foam.
M-day was a disaster. He's learned things about himself—so much—too much at once—he wishes he could forget again. He hasn't have time
to process it though, because he is too busy trying to help keep the children alive at the school. Blown up buses, attacks by killer robots
from the future, and then the goddamn abduction by H.Y.D.R.A., because he just wasn't busy enough already. And Daken on top of all this
crap. Unbelievable—he doesn't need more children.
And all of this he'd allowed to come before Laura, whom he'd solemnly sworn he would protect and care for if she came back. Of course he'd
been in California with One-Eye when she'd decided to pop by the institute and abduct Hellion, as Emma spoke of it. The second he'd
returned to the institute (two hours after Laura and the kid had left) he'd smelled his clone, and had interrogated the metal kid. Cessily
was stubborn and stood up for her friends, even though she was afraid of him.
Emma has exhausted her resources to no end trying to stop her two wayward students, but Logan has warned her off with the threat of
reshaping her face. He's told her no mind control, he'll take care of it. He hasn't forgiven Emma for making Laura unwelcome in the first
place. He's even spoken to One-Eye and asked him to enforce his wishes. This whole deal has pissed Logan off further. Logan, who goes
out of his way to be uninvolved with the social structure of the mansion. Logan, who doesn't give two shits about the dramas going on.
Fucking clone that has dragged him into the mess.
Yup.
Logan crunches the empty beer can. The kids have disappeared without a trace, as far as he can tell. Their trail ended in Colorado, on
the interstate. There'd been some blood on the pavement, and bolts in the gravel on the edge of a cow field beside the busy highway.
Going further in amongst the lazy cattle, Logan found a blackened crater-like area that made him think of a desperate escape attempt.
He'd also found a buckle that reminded him of Laura's boots, and he'd kneeled in the pasture, fingering it grimly.
What the hell had happened there?
That had been about four months ago now. He's done everything possible, trying to find them, but the outlook isn't good. Logan still
goes out every night, feeling it is his fault, whatever's happened. Feeling entirely responsible—not only for Laura, but now for the
Keller boy. He'd known of the connection between the two, and he hadn't done anything to stress how badly relationships went for
people like him and Laura. From prior experience. He'd even in a way encouraged it. And now Keller was probably dead, and maybe
Laura along with him. Fuckin' eh. Logan sips his beer, then pauses.
Snff.
He looks at the window—a shadow, darker than the blackness. Easily discernible with his night vision. Logan scrambles up from the
sofa and runs for the door; the figure backs away from the window, alarmed. Turning to run.
God damn it! Logan hates breaking glass, but there is no time. He hurls himself through the bay window and tackles the dark, sopping
wet figure; they crash to the muddy ground and Logan is now soaked as well. Fucking rain.
The figure struggles to get away.
"No you don't!" Logan snarls. "You stay right here! I've been looking for you everywhere, kid! You've got some explaining to do!"
Laura stares at him with a pale face and wide eyes.. Her hair is dark and stringy. Wet. She looks thin and tired—weary.
"What the fuck! Where the hell have you been?!" Logan sits up, grabs the girl's shoulders and shakes her. "You don't just disappear like
that, you hear me?! You're my responsibility, Laura, and that means you have a responsibility to stick around and not make it difficult
for me to take care of you!" He pauses. "Where is Keller? What happened to you?"
Laura's face wavers. After a moment she speaks.
"I could not stop them."
Then she crumples.
00:21 January 3
Xavier's Institute, the Kitchen
"Here, kid. This'll put some hair on your chest." Logan plunks the whiskey down on the counter in front of Laura, who sits on a barstool,
dripping water like she's taken a shower with her clothes on.
"Drink it."
Laura's fingers curl around the flask, her eyes dull and pink. She unscrews the cap. Snff. She pauses, the flask millimeters from her lips.
"Alcohol?"
Logan nods.
Laura considers, then tilts her head back and closes her eyes. Glug, glug, glug…her eyebrows draw together at the burn, but she keeps
going. Logan raises his eyebrows as he watches the liquid disappear. When the flask touches the counter again, it is empty.
"Damn…guess you're not a cheap date," Logan says.
Laura makes no comment, even though he is sure she doesn't understand what he's said. Whatever has happened is bad, real bad. Keller
is dead for sure. Had to be—if Laura was this down—no curiosity at all.
"So what happened, Laura?" Logan asks, his voice serious.
Laura looks at the counter, then up at him again.
09:21 September 9
Best Western, Cleveland, Ohio
"It is not too late to turn back," Laura says after wiping water out of her eyes.
"I know it's not." Julian reaches past her for the shampoo. "You've only told me that a few billion times. I've got the concept, thanks."
Laura is silent.
"It's going to be fine," he says, sensing she isn't at ease. "We can take care of ourselves, at least till we reach California. Then we'll find
Mr. Logan, okay? And Mr. Summers. Jeez, Laura, have some faith in me, will you? I'm more than capable of fending off whatever is chasing
us in your little paranoid delusion." He splashes her with water in the face, and she wipes it out of her eyes with a small glare. "Or is
it a fantasy, hmm?"
"Julian—I am being serious." Laura sounds upset now.
"So was I." He finishes soaping his hair and blinks at her. "Well, at least the capable part. I hope you don't have fantasies about
being murdered."
"No." Laura steps back and allows him to stand under the shower spray.
10:15 September 9
IHOP, Cleveland, Ohio
Julian fiddles with the paper wrapper on the also paper napkin, feeling guilty. Annoyed. For the first time in a while, he is angry again
about his disownment. The last five or so months have been so action-packed and grief-filled that he's barely spared his disappointing
family a second thought; however, now that he is sitting here, in an IHOP restaurant in Ohio, relying on his girlfriend for money, he is
angry at them again. Now he'll come off as an asshole.
Then again, Laura probably won't notice. And if she does she won't say anything. She is quiet, very quiet—he'd almost forgotten what
a quiet person she was. He hasn't gotten to spend all that much time with her, to learn her habits and read her moods all too well. Most
of the time he's known her had been spent missing her and running over the events over and over again.
And now he is sitting here with her, exactly what he's wanted very badly for quite a while since she'd left…and he doesn't know what
to say. Awkward. Or maybe only he feels awkward—does Laura even know what that is?
She is staring at him, and he feels self-conscious.
"Do I have something on my face?" he blurts without thinking.
" No." Laura smiles slightly, and he touches her hand. He suddenly forgets about awkwardness, turning her fingers over against his palm.
"We should obtain fuel after eating," she says matter-of-factly. "I believe the back tire requires air as well. I felt it deflate by several
millimeters over the last fifteen kilometers last evening. I am afraid there may be a leak, which would cause unfavorable delays in the
journey if it requires replacement." Laura's jaw snaps shut and she continues to stare at him.
"Oh," he says.
Laura is waiting for an answer, apparently.
"We can do that?" he tries.
"Okay."
The waiter arrives at that moment and sets down drinks in front of them. Julian is relieved—a distraction.
14:07 September 9
Interstate 80, Ohio
"Can we pull over soon, please?" Julian yells against the wind. He yells even though Laura has declared it unnecessary (apparently she
can hear him in his normal voice, despite the fact that she wears a helmet, as does he, not to mention underneath the continuous hum
of the bike's engine as they zip down the highway).
"I do not wish to," Laura's voice drifts back. "It is not safe to stop so much."
"LAURA! I've got to take a leak! Pull over!" Julian is getting irritated by her almost militant attitude. She's done this a few times
before—he's had to mentally stop the bike.
"But—"
" Take that exit," he demands, seeing a passing sign. "If you don't, I swear to god I will make us fly there."
Laura is silent; however, ten miles later, the bike tilts and she changes lanes.
At the rest stop, she doesn't leave the bike; she doesn't even swing her leg over the side, but stands at ready. Julian tosses his helmet
to her and stomps into the small complex. He needs to walk, his ass—and his head as well—is killing him. He considers just grabbing the
whole mess of Laura and the bike and flying them to California, but he doesn't know if he can handle such a long trip. He'd gone
unconscious when he'd transported them from Texas to New York after Nimrod had nearly killed her. He feels desperate now—
but not that desperate.
After using the restroom, he walks around for about fifteen minutes, buys a package of extra-strength aspirin and a Pepsi, takes about
five of the ten pills because his head is aching slightly from unused energy, and then he wills himself to return to the bike. He realizes
he needs to find an outlet soon, or the dull ache will turn into a full-blown migraine. He also doesn't want to have a control lapse
inside a hotel.
02:23 September 10
Holiday Inn, Portage, Indiana
Julian groans, face-down on the bed. He feels like crap—they've only just now checked in to the hotel, after he'd almost fallen off the
bike in exhaustion. Laura had finally given in, then, and had pulled over at the next exit.
"Are you alright?" Laura asks tentatively. She feels uneasy; she stands at the window, arms folded, looking into the darkness. Their
enemies are out there and they should not stop. Now they are vulnerable to attack. Unsafe. But Julian's state of consciousness is
also a concern—losing his balance on the motorcycle could be fatal to him.
He hasn't bothered to remove his helmet yet.
"Julian?"
She sits down on the edge and lays her hand on his shoulder. She isn't used to this yet—being able to touch him, and having it be
acceptable. Without him twitching, pulling away, telling her something rude. Perhaps it adds to her feeling of unease—it is a change,
it is difference. As confusing as the circumstances had been to her before, she was been unprepared for his change of heart and now
she is uncertain. She isn't experienced with this.
He sounds like he is asleep. Steady breathing, slowing heart rate. Average of about 64 beats per minute. Every seven seconds his
heart exhibits a mild systolic murmur. She tilts her head. He looks uncomfortable. After a moment, she exerts pressure on his shoulder
and rolls him over, then softly slides her fingers onto the edges of the helmet and pries it off without waking him, then sets the
object on the floor, marking the warmth of the material. Fever?
Julian's forehead is warm to the touch. A temperature rise of about point seven degrees Celsius. Nothing for overdue concern—perhaps
caused by the confines of the helmet—but still noted. She allows her fingers to remain, and then she moves them very tentatively,
still waiting for him to push her away.
Laura feels easier when he is sleeping, when no reactions are expected from her and she can study him while remaining unobserved
herself. She admits part of the unease is caused by him, now that she feels the relief. He is drooling slightly; she wipes it away
with her finger.
Then it starts. He starts snoring, and she pulls away her hand in alarm, startled. She's been focusing on his face and was not ready
for the noise. Laura also realizes he is distracting her—she isn't paying attention to her surroundings—they could be attacked and
she would be unprepared. She sits up straight and wonders if she should wake him to stop the sound.
He rolls over and slides his hand under the pillow, unconcerned.
Laura finally decides to rest herself; they have passed the most likely hours for attack, and she can regenerate lightly for two hours
(all that is necessary) before awakening her companion.
A few minutes after she's stretched out beside Julian, he wakes up briefly to wrap himself around her back and bury his face in her
neck. She stays awake most of the night, her eyes wide open and shifting in the darkness, wondering when they will strike. The
uneasy feeling of impending doom, but she tries to ignore it.