Disclaimer: No recognizable characters are mine. Any person or event that is slightly recognizable to you is a coincidence, but I'd certainly like to know about it! Please don't sue me for the drabble my mind vomits out.
Also, no offense to Bruce Coville fans by stealing his title. Like the rest of the fic, it makes no sense, but I like it.
Note: Since the Lone Gunmen TV show's been canceled, I figured: what the hell. Post this long, bizarre crossover with very little point on the site. It's been sitting on disc for way too long. Let me repeat myself: it's long and bizarre.
The crossover is due to a made up mutant (okay, Mary Sue) from the X-men. If you're at all interested in learning about Quinn, your best bet is to check out the stuff I've got posted in the X-men category.
For anyone who might possible care, this is a slightly different universe than the original. How, you may ask? Quinn's not dead! Oh, the joys of being an omnipotent author . . ..
Enjoy!
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The Ties that Bind
The next morning Langly made sure his door was securely latched before cracking his neck with a groan. He had managed to pull his ratty jeans on in the room, but had to dig for a fairly clean shirt. Quinn had shifted on the bed uneasily, and he hurried out the door. Tugging the shirt over his head and pulling his hair out of the collar, he shuffled down the hall to the main room.
"Well, look who's up before the crack of noon!" Frohike greeted him loudly from the computer terminal they'd fought over the night before.
Byers was, as every morning, systematically skimming through his newspapers. He watched Langly pour himself a mug of coffee and top it off with a shot of Irish Crème liquor. The younger man stared into his drink bleary-eyed.
"If Quinn's staying, you'll have to lock the alcohol up, buddy," remarked Frohike.
"Shut up."
Byers waited until Langly sat down before saying,
"I don't think it's a good idea to be sleeping with our clients."
"Shut up," he repeated. He didn't sound mad. "For anyone who wants to know, even though it's not their business, Quinn and I didn't do anything but sleep."
"Right," Frohike snorted. "You expect us to believe that shit?"
"Yes," Langly insisted. "Quinn asked me to stay with her—she's been through some tough times lately—so I did. End of story." He punctuated it with a swig of coffee.
Frohike continued to snort. "Really. And what horrible traumas has poor Quinn gone through lately? Missing a mark? Getting bilked out of her hard earned pay? Please enlighten us, hippie."
Langly glanced to Byers, but the bearded man only looked interested as well.
"She didn't tell me," he said quickly, taking another quick swallow.
Frohike laughed out loud. "Man, has she got you pussy-whipped! Snaps her fingers and you start drooling—"
"Morning, guys," Quinn interrupted.
Only Byers blushed at her catching the conversation. Frohike bit his own words off abruptly; Langly hid a twisted smile by bowing his head. Quinn ignored each of their reactions and walked to the adjoining kitchen. They heard her pull open the refrigerator.
She announced, "Thank god you have orange juice," as they listened to her pour herself a glass in the silence, then made her way to the couch to curl up.
Still silence.
"Oh please," she said, "don't let me stop your conversation. Continue. I insist."
They didn't. Frohike glared at her as if debating whether or not to go on; in the end he muttered something under his breath about her strutting around half dressed like she owned the place and swiveled back to his monitor.
Byers was obviously bothered by her choice of clothing as well. She'd found a pair of Langly's boxer shorts and a torn tee shirt to wear. The shirt was old and thin, and it was apparent she wore no bra under it. As Byers shifted uncomfortably, Quinn caught Langly appraising her openly. He glanced to her face, and she reflexively touched her lip with her tongue. He was abruptly interested in his coffee mug again.
Finally Byers cleared his throat.
"How are you this morning, Quinn?"
"I'm feeling pretty good. A good night's sleep sets a lot of things right."
Byers nodded and cleared his throat again. "Well then. I would appreciate it, Quinn, if you'd put some clothing on."
Quinn looked to him. He was still flushed, trying very plainly not to look at her.
"Well, John," she replied civilly, "here's the problem. I don't have any clothes."
Byers looked startled and Langly stared at her. Even Frohike stopped pretending to not be listening and straightened in his chair.
She continued. "The leather I wore last night . . . it's ruined. No chance in hell I can fit back inside it. And if you hadn't noticed, I didn't bring my overnight bag with me. When I opened my door to find a trashed apartment and a missing roommate, I didn't stick around to grab extra clothing. I high-tailed it out of Dodge and was only able to think clearly enough to make it here.
"So. I need to borrow something resembling decent to go shopping in. Frohike, can I borrow a pair of pants?"
Langly barely stopped himself from spraying Byers with a mouthful of coffee. Frohike spun on his chair to face Quinn, his cheeks red.
Very clearly he replied, "Go to hell, bitch."
Even Quinn looked startled at his remark. He didn't say anything else, and ignored the stares of his partners as he turned back to his typing.
Quinn gave herself a shake. "Okay. Langly, I guess I'll have to squeeze into a pair of yours," she said, pushing herself up from the couch and disappearing down the hallway again without pause.
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By the time she returned, Byers was adjusting his tie and readying his briefcase to head out the door to face the hustle of commuter traffic. He noticed Quinn step back into the room.
She had managed to find a faded and well-worn pair of Langly's jeans to fit into. They were slightly too tight, and definitely too long. A stringy rip just below their seat widened as she bent over to cuff the hems. Byers felt himself blushing again as he realized he was staring, then turned away with,
"Yes, that's much better, Quinn."
She straightened and gave him a grin. He shook his head and hurried out the door.
"Okay," she announced, "I'm off. You guys miss me, all right?"
"Quinn—take a look at this," Langly told her. He was standing behind Frohike, looking over the older man's shoulder into the computer monitor.
She frowned and walked over.
Blazing on the screen were various pictures of her. From various times, and various missions with the Brotherhood.
"Shit," she muttered.
"You were with the Brotherhood?" Frohike asked. "Why doesn't that surprise me?"
"I was hired, Frohike, not recruited. When Magneto was captured, I split. I don't have any loyalty to the Brotherhood, if that's what you're worried about.
"Where'd you get the collage?"
"Hacked into the Xavier Institute for Higher Learning mainframe," he replied, slightly proud.
"This isn't from the government?"
"No. But I bet because Xavier himself is on the side of the law, he's shared what he has with the powers that be."
Quinn chewed on her thumbnail. "The X-men wouldn't necessarily be able or willing to track the different aliases I've got." She was quiet, lost in thought a moment. Finally she shook her head. "No. I'm not worried about Xavier's group. This is just their own private database, to keep track of me. Breaking and entering and kidnapping isn't their style.
"It's someone else. I know it."
Frohike shrugged. "Whatever you say."
Again she fell silent, absorbed in chewing her nail, staring at the bright screen.
Langly broke the silence. "Quinn, if the X-men have so many pictures of you, then . . ."
She looked blankly at him a moment. Frohike turned to watch the two of them. She sighed and gave an unconvincing smile.
"Yeah. I know. Someone else out there has their own private collection of Quinn layouts." Unnecessarily she added, "That's not good."
Even Frohike shook his head slightly.
"Well . . . do you want me to go with you today?" Langly asked uncomfortably. Frohike looked up at his blond partner with obvious confusion on his face. "There's safety in numbers, you know."
"Not against these people, Ringo," Quinn replied offhandedly. She licked her lips nervously, then gave herself a shake. The next smile she gave him was much more natural. "If you come with me, then you might get caught on camera."
Even Langly grinned at the reference to his paranoia.
With even a wider smile—a smile that both men recognized as her feeling confident and invincible—Quinn sidled up quickly to the tall blond. She caught his eyes, and held them. Ignoring the fact that Frohike was three inches away and staring at them, she brazenly maneuvered a hand inside one of the front pockets of his jeans. Langly tensed, and was too startled to move away.
After a few seconds fishing, she retracted her hand with a prize—his twenty sided gaming die. Langly let out a breath he didn't know he'd been holding and felt his knees go weak. Giving him an evil grin, Quinn dropped the die to the desk beside Frohike's keyboard. It tumbled wildly a moment, then rested.
The side up was twenty.
Flipping her hair, Quinn licked her lips again, provokingly this time. "Besides, boys, Arioch's feeling lucky today," she declared, and spun on her heel. She walked away, towards the door, confident they couldn't help but stare at her swinging hips in the too tight denim.
Just as the door closed automatically behind her, she heard Frohike exclaim,
"After that display you still want to tell me you two didn't fuck last night?!"
Quinn smiled to herself and skipped up the stairs into the sunlight.
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Several hours later, Frohike groaned and rubbed his eyes without removing his glasses. He'd been typing for hours now, looking for links and dodging security devices, and his brain felt numb. So did his fingers. As much as he hated to admit it, eventually he'd have to bite the bullet and have Langly get inside this particular site. It was the only damn one that he could find that could be remotely related to the Genesis Project, too. Whoever set up this site was good, too damn good. He blinked to refocus on the computer monitor.
A buzz from the door made him look up and blink again.
He grimaced as his back cracked as he stood. Wearily he made his way to the door. He squinted at the spycam monitor as he walked stiffly through the electronic devices.
A short-haired blonde woman with sunglasses stood on the other side of the door. She was wearing a sundress and a thin sweater. She raised her finger and tapped politely at the buzzer again as he watched.
"What the hell? This place is becoming Grand Central Station," Frohike grumbled as he methodically made his way through the numerous locks on the door. He left one chain attached as he carefully opened it. "Can I help you?"
"Frohike! Help me bring all this stuff in."
"Quinn?!"
She flashed him a bright smile. "I'm serious! Open up and help. Get Langly too, I've got a lot."
Stunned, similar to the night before, Frohike fumbled the chain free. The sunlight blinded him as he swung the door inward. Quinn grinned again, and as he stepped back, began piling bags just inside the door.
"Where's Langly?" she asked. "Have him take these groceries to the kitchen."
"Langly had to meet Byers," he replied.
"Oh. Well, I guess it's you and me then. Let's get moving, I know you don't like to leave the door open very long. Some MIB could dash passed when our guard is down."
Ignoring his scowl, Quinn stepped inside and grabbed an armful of the plastic bags she'd set beside the door. She made for the kitchen.
Frohike muttered a curse under his breath and shut the door. He heard Quinn set the bags on the counter and start back towards him, her high heels tapping lightly on the concrete floor.
He finished re-securing the locks and turned around to find her already next to him, picking up the rest of the things she'd brought.
"So what do you think?" she asked. She took for granted he knew what she meant. "Do you think someone using those photos would recognize me right away?"
With computer weary eyes, Frohike examined her. Gone was the straight brunette hair hanging down her back. Gone were the tight leather pants and leather duster that hid holsters and sheaths. Gone was the dark, haunted—and angry—look she wore last night when she pounded on their door in a rainstorm.
In her place was a bright, platinum-blonde feminine woman. The hair was short enough to show her ears; a stone glinted at the top of one. The dress was fitted but free flowing. The heels muscled her calves, and Frohike knew her arms were likely the same, but were hidden by the sweater.
"Yeah, that'll do for awhile," he told her gruffly. "But I can't imagine you going without a gun. Where are you gonna pack wearing a get-up like that?"
With a sly smile Quinn took his hand and immodestly forced his fingers along the outside of her thigh. Even as they grazed the buckle and leather of the hostler containing the firearm, Frohike jerked his hand away from her.
"Don't you ever do that!" he spit, glaring at her.
She was the first to break eye contact and step back away. "I-I'm sorry—" she started, but he stomped away, back to his desk.
Frowning, Quinn quietly picked up the bags and made her way to the kitchen.
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Goddamn—! Frohike thought blackly as he stared at his computer screen again. He punched the keyboard peevishly, not accomplishing anything but making his fingers sore.
With both Langly and Byers gone, he had no buffer to Quinn. He heard her carefully putting the supplies she'd bought away in the kitchen. Finally the noises stopped. He wondered if she'd gone down the hallway to retreat to Langly's room until his return, but refused to turn to look.
Her voice, softer than he remembered ever hearing it, asked quietly,
"Do you mind if I play some music?"
It made him clench his fingers, causing more pain in the knuckles. Against the rational part of his mind that shouted that she played music even more obnoxious than Langly's—and just as loud as Langly—Frohike gave her a tight shrug.
"Whatever." His voice was clipped.
"Thank you," she replied.
He heard her flipping through CDs and rummaging drawer beside the couch for the remote control to the communal sound system. Even her familiarity of their living quarters grated against his nerves. He ground his teeth, and again refused to look at her.
The sound of the system booting up and the machine reading the disc caused him to tense in preparation of the blast of music. That too, made his fingers hurt, and he abandoned typing to rub his fingers.
Then, instead of screaming guitars and bass so deep it shook through his chest, a swingy drumbeat lead into a jazz song; it was slightly upbeat. Happy, clean music. Easy on the ears, fun to dance to. One of his own CDs, definitely. Indigo Swing.
It surprised him.
So did Quinn stepping quietly up beside him, and setting a Rolling Rock so chilled the bottle was frosty next to his keyboard.
"I'm sorry," she told him.
Now he looked up at her. Lit by the computer monitor, there was a faint blue cast to her face. She gave him a tight smile. He didn't return it.
"Why do you hate me?" she asked.
"I don't—" he blurted, and was stopped by her raised eyebrow and wry smile.
Frohike sighed and looked down.
"I don't hate you, Quinn. Honest. But you're so . . ."
"Slutty?" she supplied.
Her quick term caused him to glance back up. She was grinning.
"Not exactly the way I would have put it," Frohike muttered half under his breath. She caught it and grinned even more broadly. "You're just so—free. When you're around Langly doesn't get any work done. Did you know that Langly started drinking pretty heavily because of you? You disrupt this place. You're happy, even though your 'job' means you hunt people down and kill them. Don't you ever realize what you're doing is wrong?"
Quinn's smile had faded. She found a nearby seat and sank into it. Frohike noticed she had a juice glass in her hand, filled with something that was definitely not juice.
"Frohike, let me tell you a few things," she said. She didn't sound angry or defensive. "I don't have much. I can't do much. I know how to assemble weapons, load weapons, and use them. That's about it.
"There's not much a person can do when they didn't go to school after they were eleven. Even less for people who can barely read. Did you know that? Why do you think I came to you guys to help me with this? Besides the fact you're the smartest three people I know in the world and you can break into computers that most people don't even know exist, I can't read anything I'm handed."
Frohike hadn't known that, but she didn't let him answer.
"And you think that killing people doesn't bother me?" she laughed, a hollow sound, nothing like a her real laugh. "Jesus, Frohike—why the hell do you think I drink so much? Now granted, there are other reasons, but that comprises a bunch of it. It's wrong, I know, and I hate myself for it, but it's how I cope."
She gave a shaky sigh, and habitually raised the glass to her lips. She wanted to drain it, but caught herself, and only sipped it instead. The two sat silently a moment, both digesting the words. Frohike had never had such a long, personal conversation with her. He wasn't quite sure what to think.
"I'm sorry," Quinn repeated. "I never meant to—unload on you like that. I'm really sorry about encouraging Ringo to drink. But I just wondered why you hated me. I mean, all three of you were cool to the fact I'm a mutie. But just for the record, to clear the air—I have to ask . . . is there anything else?
In the face of her honesty, Frohike felt he couldn't lie. With a sigh, he admitted,
"It does have something to do with your . . . sluttiness."
That revelation caused an amused smirk to flit across her lips. She did her best to hide it, but Frohike saw it in her eyes. It was typical Quinn, and infuriating. He told her so, loudly.
"You always look so smug, and it pisses me off!" he announced.
"When it comes to all this—" she waved a hand to around the room, "—you always look smug too, Mel."
"But you're always flirting, teasing . . . you act smug because you know you're hot! You flaunt it all the time, everywhere—" Frohike realized he was blushing, and angry, too, because he never meant to tell her this, and somehow he knew she had planned for this whole situation to happen so she could weasel this information from him, she knew all along, and this was just to torture him, "—you have no shame, and you make me feel like a dirty old man!"
With a start he realized he was on the verge of panting. Quinn was watching him calmly. The faint suggestion of amusement hadn't left her face.
"You're not that old," she replied mildly.
"I'm seventeen years older than Byers, and eighteen more than that long-haired punk!"
"Just more experience, that's all."
The flush in his cheeks made his face hot. "Damn it, Quinn—this is exactly why you completely infuriate me! The flirting, making me run my hand over you, the little sexual innuendoes—"
Quinn held up her hands, unable to stop herself from laughing out loud. "Melvin—stop it!" she chuckled.
"And then you-you laugh—!"
It made her laugh harder, seeing him work up into such a state. "Melvin, you're not helping when you're sputtering and spitting on me!" Dramatically she wiped her face.
"Bitch!"
"That's the spirit!"
Suddenly Frohike became aware they'd slipped back into their old roles of baiting each other. Good-naturedly. Now he knew that was the way she'd always viewed it; he'd been the one taking it too seriously.
He bit his tongue in mid-curse, and laughed aloud with her.
"Good!" Quinn said, still snickering. She managed to raise her juice glass. "Here's to us. Now drink your beer." She took his hand and gave it a squeeze as she stood up.
She didn't miss his wince. Instantly the humor was gone from her voice. "Are you okay? What's wrong?"
"Just damn stiff knuckles," he replied, gingerly taking his hand from hers. "A touch of arthritis. Too many years at the keyboards."
Frohike tried to wave it off and turn away.
She didn't let him. "You want some aspirin?"
"Took it."
"Hmm. You want a massage? I'm pretty good, and it'll make your hands feel better."
He looked up at her suspiciously.
"Seriously! I worked at a massage parlor for awhile."
He rolled his eyes. "Uh-huh. Why doesn't that surprise me? And for a mere 100 more you'd—"
"Melvin Frohike! Get your mind out of the gutter!" she admonished.
Without waiting for him to tell her no, she grabbed his shoulder and pulled him from his chair to the battered leather couch. Before joining him, she took the hem of her dress, unladylike, and twisted off the bottle cap on his beer. She pushed him down and sat beside him, taking his right hand in hers.
Carefully she began manipulating his digits between hers. Despite the sharp pain it caused at the beginning, very soon he had to admit it worked.
Quinn watched the tension dissolve from him. He closed his eyes and leaned back.
"You know," she said loudly, as if just remembering, "actually it was kinda a sleazy place. Only 50 bucks more would get you the special job."
The expression on his face was priceless, and she laughed aloud.
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