Author's Note**
Rats. I ran out of Author's Notes…..
Scott Summers watched as Remy swaggered into the foyer with that stupid ass smirk of his stretched across his stubbled face. He didn't know precisely why the Cajun irked him so much. It might have been the fact that he was an outsider, and one of Magneto's lackeys. He certainly didn't trust him. But then, it might have been the fact that he had facial hair, something Scott, at eighteen, still couldn't get to grow. Frowning, he rubbed at his smooth jaw. Jean said that his face felt as soft as a baby's bottom and it was cute. Scott, however, was not happy that any part of his body felt like an ass. And what the hell was Jean doing going around touching baby asses? Hello, pedophile?
It pissed him off that Remy had been given the assignment to go track down the Morlocks. The fact that he was going along with Storm should have brought him some comfort except Storm seemed to be quite taken with the guy. She practically treated him like he was a long lost son or something. Jeebers! What ever happened to loyalty, and sticking with your own kind? All the basic commandments of the Sharks? WHEN DID THIS TURN INTO WEST SIDE STORY?
"Bye now, monsieur. You be shore to miss Gambit, eh?" Remy said as he passed Cyclops. He made a little kissing noise for an added bonus, just to see the boy's face match the color of his shades. Near the front door Storm made a noise in her throat and Gambit smiled charmingly at her.
"Gambit be coming, Madame. Everybody shore in a hurry up here."
Scott clenched his fists at his sides to keep them from ripping off his shades and blasting the Southern in the back. He had several suspicions as to who had broken into his room last night and burned all his clothes. The minute he found out who it had been, he was going to put that someone through the kind of torture that would make the Spanish Inquisition look like a picnic in the park with Barney the friggin' purple dinosaur. God, he hoped it had been Gambit.
Since he didn't have any other clothes, and he had managed to spill food on the things he had been wearing last night, he had been forced to steal some of Wolverine's threads. The tee-shirt he had on now was at least three sizes too big for him and the jeans, while comfortable, were six inches too short. They practically came up to his knees. He felt like one of those skater punk dudes, minus the skateboard and the attitude. Plus if Logan came back and caught him in his clothes, he was going to beat the living shit out of him. Man, the things I take up the ass for the team, Scott thought to himself darkly, still scowling at Gambit's retreating figure.
"You have to at least try and get along with him Scott," Jean pointed out as she came up along side him. She looked him over and sighed inwardly. Jesus, this is the guy I gave Duncan up for? What the hell was I thinking? He looks like a dorky version of Tony Hawk.
Folding his arms across his chest, and trying his best to look serious in his goofy outfit, Scott replied, "No I don't. I just have to not kill him. Why did the Professor send him on this mission instead of us? I mean, how much can we trust these guys?"
"There will be other missions Scott. Don't worry so much about that. There are more important things to deal with. Storm will keep Gambit in line. I think she knows something about him that we don't."
Not entirely placated, Scott continued to frown slightly. "Like what? How he spent the first fifteen years of his life in a prison somewhere?"
Smiling Jean watched as Gambit and Storm exited the mansion. "He doesn't look like the type who would get caught."
Swinging his head around, Scott narrowed his eyes at her behind his glasses. "What's that supposed to me? Are you getting a thing for him or something? He burned my clothes!"
Patting his arm lightly, Jean began to lead him away. "He didn't burn your clothes Scott. Pyro did that. We'll buy you some new ones," she stated, before he could interrupted. "First we need to go see the Professor."
Still not sure, Scott allowed himself to be tugged along. "Well. . .okay I guess."
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Kurt Wagner never in a million years thought that there was anything in the world that could spoil his appetite. He had contented himself with the fact that he would simply always be hungry. And even when he didn't think he was hungry, he'd still probably find something to eat, just for the hell of it. The others had given him the nickname "the Human Garbage Disposal" and it was a title he carried with great pride. Nothing could possible stand in the way of his stomach. Or so he had thought.
He'd been wrong. He'd been very, very wrong. Because something was standing in the way of it right that moment. And that something was a dirty, unwashed mutant named Todd Tolansky, affectionately known also as Toad. Watching Toad eat was a lot like watching the first thirty minutes of Saving Private Ryan. There was stuff flying all over the place and bodily fluids dripping out. Kurt looked down at his sandwich and swallowed, feeling his stomach lurch violently in a number of directions.
Todd took a moment from his scavenging and looked up at the furry blue elf who sat across from him. Actually, he was starting to look a bit greenish. "Yo elf. Whatsmatter with you? You look like you're gonna spew," he stated blunted, licking his lips with his long tongue. Kurt made a gagging noise and teleported out and to the nearest bathroom, hoping it was unoccupied. Todd shrugged and went back to eating. "I guess he had to spew."
A few minutes later Fred came pounding in, his intent clearly written on his pudgy face. His sole destination was the refrigerator and God help the one who came between him and it. He did, however, pause for a moment at Kurt's sandwich. Just long enough to toss it into his big mouth.
Finished with his own lunch, Todd reached for a napkin and daintily wiped at his mouth. After all, his mama had certainly taught him manners. "So," he began, leaning back in his chair and watching Blob try and squeeze his large arms into the fridge. "How are things going with Fairy Boy? You guys bonded yet?"
No sooner had the words left his mouth did someone smack him across the back of his head. He lurched forward and nearly fell out of his chair as his assailant passed untouched behind him.
"It's Angel. Remember it. I hear you call me Fairy Boy again and I'll tie your tongue to a metal rod and hang you out during a lightning storm."
With his head inside the ice box Fred gave a loud snort while Todd rubbed at his head and scowled at Angel's wings. Then he turned his glare on Fred's Mac Truck of a back.
"Shut up Fred. You don't even get it."
Fred pulled his head out, along with an entire frozen pizza. "I do so!" he protested, his chubby features screwed up in indignation. He thought for a moment and then became inordinately confused. "Wait, wha?"
**************************************
"And this is Scott's convertible. He like, doesn't let anyone else but Jean drive it," Kitty explained to Peter with a bit of sour expression on her face. She was remembering, exactly, the look on Scott's face when she had asked him if she could take his car out. There had been laughter, a lot of laughter actually, followed by a no, followed by more laughter. Oh, but she had gotten even. One more voodoo doll to add to the collection. Pain is the ultimate equalizer.
Peter gave the car a careful inspection, and then shrugged his big shoulders. He didn't understand why people felt the need to box themselves up in metal tanks. Maybe it was because he was something of a metal tank himself.
"It is . . . nice," he decided was the word he wanted. "But I prefer something with two wheels."
Kitty's eyes lit up. "Oh, that's right! You've got a motorcycle like Mr. Logan. Like, what's it like driving one of those?" she asked. She'd never been on a motorcycle. Mr. Logan's reaction to her request to ride with him one day had been similar to Scott's. Men are such bastards.
Pleased that she seemed interested, Peter headed in the direction of his bike and did his best to describe the sensation of being on two wheels. "It is like . . . flying. Nothing keeping wind from you. It is. . ," he frowned as he searched for the phrase. He smiled suddenly and added, "It is only way to travel. You would like ride, yes?" He held his hand out towards the gleaming black motorcycle.
Her eyes widened and she gave a little squeal. "Like, that would be so cool. Oh," her face fell almost immediately, "but we're like supposed to be going after that Mesmero guy."
Swinging one well muscled leg over his bike, Peter reached for his helmet and held it out to her. "We cannot look for him if we do not know where he is, yes?"
Seeing the logic in that, Kitty didn't hesitate in jumping on behind him. "Like, where do I put my hands?" she asked, shoving the helmet onto her head, for once not minding that her hair was being messed up.
"There are bars on side," he answered, bringing down the kick start with his foot. With a firm kick and a twist of his wrist, he brought the metal beast's engine to life. "Or you may hold onto my waist."
Doubtfully, Kitty studied his waist and then looked at her arms. Experimentally, she wrapped them around and found that they were just long enough to reach. Once they were in place, Peter gunned the throttle and they shot off, leaving a small cloud of dust behind. Lance came around the side of the garage just in time to see them go. He stood staring after them for a few seconds then turned around and slugged the wall of the garage.
"Goddamit! She calls me a hood then runs off with one of Magneto's lackeys? What the hell is that?" he demanded to no one since no one there. The good mood he had gotten into from watching Summers' clothes burn the night before vanished instantly. He felt his anger rising and as a result the earth began to tremble slightly. Then he recalled Magneto's warning from the night before and the tremors stopped. With his luck something heavy would fall loose in the house and hit someone and he'd be blamed for it.
"Dammit," he muttered again, showing his hands into his pockets and stalking off to find his new buddy St. John. The fire-starter teen was out in the front lawn, making flame sculpture and . . . talking to them? Lance watched him, shook his head and sighed. And then he went to join him.
He didn't have anything better to do.