Author's Notes: This chapter isn't quite as lengthy as the last, so hopefully it'll go down a bit smoother. I'm having a lot of fun writing Adrian, and Logan's just fucking amazing. Review and let me know what you think! Any feedback is much appreciated. Enjoy!
Disclaimer: I own nothing save Adrian. The rest of it belongs to Marvel and 20th Century FOX.
"Oh,
the passenger
He rides and he rides.
He sees things from under
glass,
He looks through his window's eye.
He sees the things he
knows are his,
He sees the bright and hollow sky.
He sees the
city asleep at night,
He sees the stars are out tonight.
And
all of it is yours and mine,
And all of it is yours and mine,
So
let's ride and ride and ride and ride..."
-Iggy Pop,
'The Passenger'
Chapter 2- The Passenger.
Somewhere along the way I fell asleep. Not just asleep, it must have been a fucking coma, it was so dark and deep. It was like I'd burst through the surface when I awoke to a light shove on my shoulder and the words, "Get up kid, dinner."
Blearily I unfold myself out of the passenger's seat, the mere aches and pains of before transforming into full-on hurts. There's no mirror nearby as we stride towards the dingy looking diner at the rest stop, but I can imagine just how ugly and bruised my neck must look and I pull my jacket-collar up despite myself. I squint my eyes at the florescent lights above and grimace as we enter the dining area. Chops and I must look like quite a pair, because the hostess at the register gives us one of those looks and motions to a booth at the far side of the restaurant. She doesn't get so much as a grunt in reply as we make our way over. There's a small neon sign pointing in the direction of the restrooms and I mumble to excuse myself, heading through the door and into their sad justification of a ladies room.
After relieving myself I made my way over to the lone sink, washing my hands and splashing water onto my face. Fucking a, I looked like I'd had the shit beat out of me, there's no mistaking marks like these. My throat was an ugly masquerade of a scarf, bluish purple marks encircling it, a pattern beyond visible to the human eye. Awake and scowling, I wiped my hands and face with a paper towel and walked out, trying my best not to stalk and be personable, even if my ribs did feel as though they'd been broken in with a sledge-hammer. I sit to find a glass of ice water and a menu on the table before me, my Knight in Denim Armor catches the eye of a passing waitress and she stops to take our order. I glance upward and see "Gladys", an elderly woman wearing what has to be the most horrific clown make-up I've ever seen. I almost want to ask her if Halloween decided to come a bit early this year, but the Knight speaks up and orders a steak, rare, before I can stick my foot in my mouth. I order a cheeseburger medium-well and give her a smile. She sniffs at me and leaves.
"What the- whatever, at least I don't look like Bozo the fucking clown," I mutter, draining half the water in my glass. "Where are we, anyway?"
"We're about two hundred miles east of the city," he answers. That means fuck all to me, but he fails to clarify it any further and I let it drop.
"I guess I was asleep for a while, er, sorry about that," I attempt, knowing it's a lost cause. My savior is a crotchety hermit who merely shrugs as if he could give a shit less, which is undoubtedly the truth. I'm beginning to wonder just why he took me on in the first place when Gladys and her saggy tits come back with dinner.
While I swallowed my meal whole, like some sort of typical teenage cobra, the Knight dug into his food with a sort of controlled ferocity. Then again, it was rare enough to have actually begun crawling off his plate, so perhaps he was merely trying to instill his superiority over it in the animal kingdom. I studied him for a while, elbows on the edge of the table, fingers resting lightly on the bridge of my nose. It was interesting, oddly enough, observing the eating habits of another as a means of a sort of first impression additive. I found myself wondering what his mutation was, though at this point I was ready to assume it was his hair and be done with it. I'd had more fun talking to guppies in the pet store, and they didn't get grouchy. "Is there a name that I can call you by or something? Because, I mean, not to sound like an ungrateful miscreant or anything, but this is getting awkward."
He finished chewing his bite of steak and took a sip of water. "Name's Logan."
I followed suit, trying to compose myself a bit. I need a cigarette right now. Badly. "It's a nice name. I know, or rather knew, someone with that name once." I get another noncommittal "hm" as he returns to setting his proof of besting the entire bovine species. Now is the part where I consider dropping to my knees and thanking the deities above that I brought that busted old personal CD player with me after all, noting the incredible conversationalist Logan is.
Logan. I'm letting it roll off the proverbial mental tongue so that I won't seem like a total freak about it, as opposed to my vocalizing it. It rather suits him, I think. He's too interesting to be classified with something generic like John or Henry, yet most certainly not so exotic as to be anything foreign. The idea of him suddenly being called Tsuichi might have normally gotten at least a chuckle out of me, but laughing is a giant pain in the ass when it hurts to even breath. Instead I settle for glaring at a group of rather sorry looking truckers as they pass by, loudly boasting to one another about something or other. Humanity as a whole, in a place like this, is beyond disappointing. And then my menacing look is blocked out by the pattern of Gladys' godawful apron and I'm forcing myself to stay in my seat instead of leaping out of it in horror and running as I'm wont. Call me petty, call me teenage and immature, but her makeup was enough to make any sane person edgy. I looked to Logan and saw something like amusement sparkling in those hazel eyes of his before he took our check.
I fumble around in my pockets for my wallet and pull out a ten, holding it out to him. He shakes his head, paying. "Don't worry about it kid."
We leave the booth and head back out into the parking lot, walking at an easy, post-dinner sort of gait. It's sort of comfortable, or it would be, were it not for all the questions buzzing through my head. Any more thinking on my part and I'll have a veritable beehive up there, and I hate bees. Passionately. "Logan?" I ask as we climb back into the truck. "Where are we going?"
"New York," he responds, keeping his eyes focused on the road ahead of us.
Having been bent over, rooting through my backpack, I snap up so quickly I hit my head on the glove-compartment and swear. "Motherfucking- wait, where in New York?"
"Westchester."
Rubbing the back of my head, ruefully noting it as another bit I'll have that'll be sore for the next week or so, I look at him. "Why Westchester? That's across the country." I try not to let the note of worry permeate my voice. As much as I appreciate his stern kindness, I'm still cautious and, in all honesty, the recent lack of stability in my life scares the living shit out of me.
"There's a school there, for people like us. Its run by Professor Charles Xavier, teaches mutants how to control their powers, learn to accept who they are."
I raise an eyebrow. "It sounds like a fucking 12 step self-help program." I'm intrigued, though, and somewhat baffled at the idea of such an institution existing. That obnoxious little surge of hope starts up again and I begin fidgeting with the strap of my backpack.
He gives me a sidelong glance. "Look kid, Mills, whatever. I know it's going to take you a little while to trust me. But I'm not gonna hurt you, and I'm not going to strand you or send you off to a lab, all right? Chuck, he's got a pretty nice gig going, it'll suit you really well, get you through school and stuff until you can figure out what you want to do with yourself. No strings attached."
I'm considering this, turning it over in my head and examining it. "I'm not sure, I mean, it sounds like a dream come true considering what you just pulled me out of, but charity makes me uneasy. I feel badly enough right now with you, not that I don't appreciate it all the same," I add quickly before he can interject, "I just wish there were something I could do to repay you. You really helped me out, Logan, you saved my life. I don't even want to think about what that guy would have done if you hadn't been there, and I owe you for it."
He shakes his head. "You don't owe me anything, Chuck sent me out to your area after he heard about what happened while you were at school to come and get you. You left before I could get there, though, so I spent some time tracking you down in the city. You did a good job giving a chase, I've gotta hand it to you. It's not easy running from me."
A giant "What the fuck?" appears at the front and center of my brain as I try and sort out all this new information. "How… how did he know where I was? And how the fuck did you find me in Los Angeles? People fucking drop off the face of the earth there." I'm unsettled by this, knowing that I was hunted down. "And I was hiding from the LAPD, thank you very much."
He snorts. "Well, a girl blowing a hole in the wall of her school's gymnasium usually makes a pretty interesting headline in print, one that's rather hard to miss, especially for someone like the professor."
Sheepishly I glance out the passenger window. "I didn't mean to. I just- I couldn't help it, they made me so angry. I had no idea that would happen-"
"You don't have to explain yourself, it's all right. I understand."
Part of me goes instantly on the defensive. Obviously he's sick of hearing me talk, rambling on about my issues and my own petty problems. But I snap myself out of it pretty quickly, considering quietly to myself for a few minutes. If anyone were to commiserate with me, it would be him, the only other mutant I've ever met, the only person in any way like myself.
I change the subject, putting him in the spotlight. "So, what's your mutation?" I'd call it a "power", but that just sounds too D&D for this car ride and I don't want to tarnish the conversation.
"I have a rapid healing rate. My body repairs itself almost instantaneously, depending on the damage. I've also got heightened senses, sight, smell, sound."
"You're an invincible human bloodhound?"
I see a half grin appear on his face at my comment and my tensions ease immediately. "Yeah, sort of. I've never heard it put quite that way before."
I shrug disarmingly. After the previous subject of talk, this light-hearted change is a welcome one. "Well, it's not everyday you get stuck with some teenage smartass in a truck going cross-country, is it? Assuming, I mean. You seem like more of the lone ranger type to me."
He raises an eyebrow and regards me for a second. "Do I look like Clint Eastwood to you, kid?"
Now it's my turn to snort. "With all that scruff, why the hell not. You both need a good shave."
"You got a problem with my hair?"
I look out the window, trying to divert his gaze. "Not really, I mean… well, you don't really see that look a lot in the city, you know? You look like some wild ruffian lumberjack."
"Somehow it always comes back to being Canadian," he mutters, taking a cigar out and lighting it. I crack the window.
"You're Canadian? My apologies, I'll stop the moose jokes before they begin, then." This is the Adrian Mills I used to be, the bantering, snarky wit. It feels good to have it back, even though I get the sense that he wants to bat me over the head with a hand like I'm some ungrateful cub. I take the opportunity to take out a cigarette and light it, rolling the window down a bit more and taking in the desert air.
My cigarette is nearly half gone when he speaks again. "You shouldn't smoke you know. Bad for your health."
His speech is impaired slightly by the cigar he's got his teeth chomped around and I stare back at him incredulously. "Says the lumberjack with the stogie."
"Hey, I've got a healing factor," he interjects, blowing out a stream of smoke as we barrel down the highway.
"Excuses, excuses." I'm sort of taken by his change in demeanor, noting the slow, steady drop of his guard. I take another drag off my Camel and crush it into the ashtray. We fall into a comfortable silence. I roll the window back up and lean my head against it, silently bemoaning the ache in my ribs. It's only a few moments before I'm asleep again and it seems like only five minutes have passed when I awaken. We're in the parking lot of a Motel 6 and I grimace, pulling myself up. "Whatimeiseh?"
"Almost one in the morning. C'mon, we'll stay here tonight," he says from the asphalt outside, opening the door and helping me out. I'm visibly stiff as I haul my bag out and follow him into the small motel room.
He shuts the door and bolts it, indicating to the two twin beds on either side of the room. "Get some sleep. We'll leave later on in the morning and make our way through the rest of the desert and into the mid-west."
"You know anywhere I can pick up some bandages? That guy broke almost half my ribs," I grumble tiredly, not completely sure just how badly I'm exaggerating. Gently, I lower myself onto the bed nearest the bathroom, taking off my jacket and throwing it onto a nearby chair.
"We'll go to a pharmacy tomorrow and get some stuff," he tells me as I push my backpack off the bed and manage to toe my shoes onto the carpet. I never realized that it was possible for someone to be this physically and emotionally drained. The weariness seemed to be coming off me in waves, the sheer impossibility and insanity of my day hitting me square in the chest, broken ribs included.
"Hey, Logan?" I murmur, barely registering the fact that I've lain myself down upon all my blankets without so much as changing.
"Yeah, kid?" He grunts from across the room, though my eyes refuse to open and see him.
I manage to give a small, tired smile. "Thanks for saving me. You and your mutton chops really helped me out."
At this point I could be hallucinating, something I wouldn't put past myself at this stage, but I swear I hear him chuckle softly. "No problem, kid. Mills."
Part of me is still questioning how this could possibly be my present reality, but at this point I realize that, should this be a mere figment of my imagination, I would be sorely disappointed. This is the first time in days that I've felt secure enough to do more than doze anxiously for a few hours and I'll be damned if I don't take advantage of it. There's a soft click I hear rather than see as all the lights go out in my head seconds later.
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