Description: I was trying to figure out why Logan spends so much time crouching on Scott's bed. The answer, inevitably, led me to the life story of Bruce Springsteen. Because every shipper war has a Bruce, a Patti, a Stevie, and a Clarence. Logan will be happy to explain.
Characters: Scott, Logan; references to Scott/Emma, Scott/Jean, and most of the E Street Band.
Rating: PG-13
Wordcount: 1483
Acknowledgement: Remember the issue where Jean had to fly the space shuttle and she sucked all the information out of the pilot's brain so that she could know do it? That's what Quicknow let me do with her knowledge of Springsteen fandom. Thanks to her for vetting, and to Inlovewithnight for beta action.
Disclaimer: Marvel owns them, Joss got them to this point, I just scribble in the margins.
The E Street Band
This time, when the shaking bed wakes Scott up and he opens his eyes to see Logan crouched on the baseboard – this time, it turns out, Scott is in bed alone, so he doesn't have to kick anybody's ass. Yet.
"Logan –"
"Emma passed me on her way out. She said good luck getting you out of bed."
"It's a Sunday," Scott grumbles. It's a Sunday and after taking care of a months worth of insurance forms and purchase orders, he's had about three good hours of sleep. "I'm not getting up without a damn good reason –" Logan tilts forward and falls onto the mattress, turning at the last second to land on his back with a crash. "And now I have one."
Scott rolls out of the way, puts his feet on the floor and is damn glad he went to bed last night with most of his clothes on. "I'll rise but I won't shine." Raising a hand to his forehead, he realizes he's slept in the visor, like maybe he knew the first sight to greet him would be Logan, itching for a good blast.
"Suit yourself, Bright Eyes." Logan shrugs into the sheets, stretching his arms up to the pillow. "Nice bed." Not saying, The one you slept in with your dead wife. He looks up at the wall, Emma's expensive and tasteful modern paintings where Jean's college graduation picture used to be. "Nice room." Scott touches the release button on the visor. He could break the damn bed and blast a hole through the other man's gut with one flick. That healing power should stave off permanent damage. Probably.
Logan raises a hand and points to a knuckle. Scott doesn't wait to hear the "snikt" but takes his finger off the button. The truth is, they've already had this fight. Instead -- because what's the point in having a well-practiced deadpan if you're never going to use it -- he says, "Maybe we should have moved across the hall. That would have made a difference."
"Maybe," Logan nods, like he's really thinking it over, and settles back onto Emma's pillow (which was never Jean's; the linens, at least, are new). "Could help with this image problem you've got."
Scott folds his arms and stares down his line of sight, which is the same as his line of fire. "Since when do you care about image?"
Logan gives a small, low laugh, that says, If you have to ask. . ..
Scott wonders how the hell he's just figuring this now – not that the man can be a poser, but that he knows it. But he won't let the thought distract him. "What's my image problem supposed to be?"
Logan cracks his knuckles, tilts his head as though weighing his words carefully, then says matter-of-factly, "Everybody who used to think you were just an uptight Boy Scout now thinks you're an asshole." Before Scott can speak, Logan spreads his hands, like he's just the messenger. "I'm not saying me, because, I –"
"Always knew I was an asshole."
For being one of the most dangerous men that Scott knows, Logan can summon a hell of an innocent smile when he wants to. "God, Summers, it's so sweet when you finish my sentences."
"My private life –" Scott says between clenched teeth, "– has got nothing to do with my leadership of this team."
"You sound just like Hank. Going on about the damn cure and how it's his personal choice. Like we can run around telling everybody we're superheroes, then do what we want on our down time and nobody notices? Heh." Sometimes, Logan's short gasps of laughter sound exactly like the metal click of his claws. "Open your eyes, bub. You don't have a private life. You haven't had one for decades."
Scott slumps his bare back against the wall. "So, what? I'm not a man, I'm an institution?"
"Don't laugh." Scott doesn't bother to point out that he wasn't. "You and Emma keep talking about how we're the public face that the X-men show the world. But face it, that world includes the people on our own side. It's like –" Logan raises a hand to scratch his chin -- Portrait of the Wolverine, Deep in Thought -- and, speaking of image, who that doesn't know him like Scott does would believe that? Then he looks up. "It's like the E Street Band."
"As in, Bruce Springsteen and?" Scott's starting to feel less like he is an institution, and more like he's in one. Though he doesn't say that. Emma's been trying to impress on him that puns aren't funny.
"Sure. Remember when Little Steven left the band in eighty-four?"
"Of course," says Scott, because this has clearly stopped being a sane conversation. "Who doesn't?"
"Okay, before that, remember, on stage, Stevie always stood on Bruce's left and Clarence stood on the right." He demonstrates with appropriate hand gestures. "And Patti on the left behind Stevie. But when Stevie left, and they went on tour with Tunnel of Love –" More hands, like he's mapping out a battle strategy "—Instead of Patti stepping up into Stevie's place, Clarence moved to Bruce's left. And Patti took Clarence's old place on the right." Logan nods, crosses his arms, and sits back proudly, as though he's proved something.
"Do you actually have a point? Because this might be the stupidest conversation I've ever had before noon on a Sunday."
Logan keeps staring at him, "You tell me. Why did Clarence move?"
"Because he was the new second guitarist?"
Scott has actualy seen Logan stabbed in the gut, more than once, but he's never looked quite so pained as he does at this moment. "For fuck's sake, Summers, Clarence plays the tenor." Scott must still look blank because Logan adds, "Sax," miming the movement of hands over keys. "What have you been doing with yourself for the last thirty years?"
"I could definitely ask you the same thing."
"The reason Clarence moved was to avoid the perception that Patti had replaced Stevie."
Scott kicks the implications around in his head for a minute and says, "That's insane. The band's the same band, no matter where anybody's standing."
Logan shrugs. "I didn't say it was sane. I'm just saying that if Patti had stepped up and stood in Stevie's old place, the fandom would have gone ballistic."
"Did you just say 'fandom'? Because I don't think that's a word."
"Don't miss the point."
"I'm not." Scott rubs his forehead. "So Jean was Patti?" He summons a picture in his mind; if there's one thing he does have a mental catalog of, it's famous redheads.
"Are you listening? Emma's Patti. Jean's Stevie."
"Of course." Logan is comparing his dead wife, who they both loved, to the guy who plays Silvio on The Sopranos. Naturally. "So, wait – I'm Bruce?"
"Who else?" Before Scott can point at him, Logan says, "I'm Clarence. I've always been Clarence."
"You've given this a lot of thought."
"You kidding? Hank and I used to have this conversation all the time." Defensively, he says, "Long plane rides. Though in the old days, Warren was Stevie and Jean was Patti."
"And Hank?" Because for some reason he has to ask.
"Nils. He's got mad skills and everybody loves him, but he's never quite the guy in the spotlight."
"That works."
"Now Kitty could be Soozie Tyrell," Logan muses, "if she and Emma got along better."
"You should tell her that. Maybe it would be an incentive."
Logan nods, as though that might really be true. Then he stands, stretches, and says, "I've got places to go."
"Wait, what? You just came in to say that?"
"And get your ass out of bed."
"So what am I supposed to do about it?"
Logan glances down at the ragged sweats Scott fell asleep in. "Maybe put on some real pants, for starters."
"The image thing," he persists. "We live here, we work here. Emma runs the damn school, and we need a telepath on the team now more than ever."
"All true. People are going to think what they want to think. You're just not doing yourself any favors by pretending it's not what they think."
"That I'm an asshole. Which you've always known. Because I'm Bruce and you're Clarence. Whatever the fuck that means."
Logan looks him up and down carefully and says, "I've always known that you weren't as good a man as you thought you were. Course, now that you know better --" he claps a hand on Scott's shoulder, leans toward his ear, and says, "maybe I even like you a little more."
"Not as good as I thought I was," Scott repeats.
"No. And I got news for you, bub –" Over his shoulder, on the way out the door, Logan says. "None of us are."
END