Title: Readme.txt
Part: 2/?
Author: Naisumi
Rating: PG-13
Pairings: Lance/Scott, Scott/Lance; Weasel/Forge, Forge/Weasel
Disclaimer: Still not mine, still not rich, still not famous. Damn.
Spoilers: Nada.
Warnings: Pre-slash (m/m relationship), AU (which means Alternate Universe, for those who don't know.)
Notes: And Scott's zany adventure continues! You get to meet Lance this time, boys and girls (; Fun for the entire family. Uh. Yes. >.> There's really nothing to note in this chapter, except that Lance says the word 'fuck' a lot. :D
Additional Notes: My thanks go out to my lovely reviewers and supporters; Morwen O'Conner, N, Lyo, Olhado, Sheena, ShadowCreature, Tera, Flick, Absolute Alcohol, Katreon of Team Socket, Shirt_Ninjas Impersonator, TurtleClarinet, Laureate, Pyromaniac, Omega Orange, Katherine, Agar, MiracleChick, Mercuria, and last, but definitely not least, VertigoMesmerizer. I love you all!! *weepy* Thank you so much!!
Additional-er Notes: If any of you are Harry Potter fans, then I highly recommend my friend Terra's "Life Had Just Begun". It's completely finished, so there's no wait, and it involves angsty first-person James (; What's not to love? Check it out sometime!
Special News Bulletin: Ladies and gents, the Blind Fish Archive is officially open!
Check it out, y'all. (;
Enjoy and Review!!!...please?
--
"Jesus."
"Scott? Is that you?"
"Jesus!"
"Hello, Mr. Messiah, sir. Please don't end the world yet. I still have to squeeze out a few brat bastards first."
"Jean."
A giggle. "Where are you?"
"In the restroom."
"What? Aren't you at the concert?"
"Yes."
"Well, why aren't you--?"
"Jean."
"...Yes?"
"I can't find my tie."
"What?"
"Or my coat."
"What?"
A loud squish. "Jesus, what did I just step in?"
"Scott--"
"You have to get me out of here. It was horrible."
"What was?"
"God, I think someone licked my forehead!"
"Scott!"
"I'm traumatized, Jean."
"What?"
"Traumatized."
"What happened?"
A pause. Quiet sigh. "They threw me into the moshpit."
Silence.
"Jean?"
More silence.
"...Jean?"
A muffled giggle.
"...Jean. This isn't--"
Chuckling. "Scott...Sc--Scott, they--" More giggling.
"Jean! This isn't fun--oh, jeez, I think someone grabbed my--!"
Uncontrollable laughing.
"Jea--"
"Oh, Scott--I--I don't know what to--" More laughing.
"Je--Ugh."
Click.
...
...
...
...
"...hehehe..."
I wandered backstage after I'd recomposed myself--sans jacket and tie--and tried to be as professional as I could. Of course, when it came down to it, all I wanted to say was, "I hate your music, I hate your groupies, and I hate you. Nothing personal." but I figured that that wouldn't be conducive to my interpersonal reputation.
Before I'd gotten far, I nearly ran into a kid with shot-up brown hair and orange-red goggles. He had a leather jacket on, a fire-engine red shirt underneath, and silver bondage pants.
What?
"Hey," he said, stopping me with two fingers on my shoulder, "you that reporter-guy that's supposed to be hangin' out with us?"
He seemed friendly enough, with an easy grin and relaxed posture, but then again--he seemed a little too friendly. Drugs?
I squinted at him. I hadn't gotten a good view of the band during the concert; truthfully, the whole thing had passed in a blur of screaming, screaming and...well, more screaming. Whether it had been from the stage or from the 'pit' remains to be ascertained. Nevertheless, I recognized the boyish man that had stopped me to be St. John "Pyro" Allerdyce, Antisthenes' bassist.
"Yes," I said, reaching out and to shake his hand, "I'm Scott Summers."
"Uh-huh," Pyro said, still grinning. He shook my hand quickly and vigorously, then pointed at me with both index fingers, "Quick, where was I born?"
"Lawrence, Kansas?" I asked, startled.
"Jesus, you reporter-types," Pyro laughed and slapped me on the arm. "C'mon back; we were beginning to think that the moshers had eaten you alive or somethin'."
I'm a journalist, not reporter. "It was a little rough, but I think I'm okay."
"Yeah? We keep telling Tabitha to quit throwing you guys in, but I think she gets a kick outta it or something."
"Oh." Ms. Smith was, apparently, a sadistic lunatic. Hm. She'd get along with Pietro, now that I think about it.
"Johnny!" I heard someone yell, and I looked over to see a short Asian girl dressed in a tight vinyl purple miniskirt and a glittery black halter-top. She had black-and-purple striped armwarmers to a few inches above her elbow, and she was holding a shiny, yellow raincoat. I recognized her as Jubilee, and I held out my hand again, hoping that nothing weird would happen. God, why did I have to meet new people?
"Oh, hey, you must be...?" Jubilee ran one hand--bedecked with plastic, neon-colored rings--through her choppy, bedhead-style hair, and shook my hand at a relatively normal rate.
"Scott Summers," I said. "I'm from the College Press Times?"
"Oh, you're pretty," Jubilee grinned at me, and Johnny laughed, walking past her and bumping shoulders with her.
'Pretty.' Was that the only way anyone described me?
I tried to figure out the best way to approach this scenario.
"Thanks," I said. "I'm gay."
Jubilee grinned a little more and reached up to tweak my ear, "I figured."
Now what was that supposed to mean?
"The concert was great," I said politely.
"Ye-ah," Jubilee said. "You hated it, huh?"
I coughed. "I...don't usually listen to this kind of music."
"Uh-huh," Jubilee said. "Hey, you interviewing Lance?"
"Yes," I said. "I'm supposed to."
"Wow, your higher-ups've got some real connections."
"Why do you say that?" I asked.
Jubilee shrugged and leaned against the wall. "Most of the time, reporters," Journalists, "haveta interview us instead, since Lance is the lead and all."
"Oh," I said. I guess Daddy Maximoff sponsored rock 'n' roll with style. "Would you mind if I asked you and the rest of the band some questions, too?"
"Nah," Jubilee inspected a clump of hair, the tip of which was dyed peacock blue. "It's no big cookies."
Whatever you say. "Alright then, thanks," I said.
I hesitated, looking around. Jubilee and I were the only one in the alcove. "Um, could you...?"
"Oh," Jubilee straightened a little and bounced on her toes. I glanced down--army boots. Cute. "Lance is probably somewhere back there. You can ask around."
"Alright," I said again and forced a smile. "Thank you."
"No prob, cutie," she said. "I'll see you on the bus."
I smiled weakly at her, and as I walked past her, I could've sworn she goosed me. But...interpersonal reputation. Professionalism. Journalism.
Fuck it, I just wanted out of here.
I passed a few technicians and stagehands, and as I walked in the direction Jubilee had pointed me in, the lights grew dimmer. I vaguely recognized this section as the part I'd entered with Todd and Wanda, but it seemed a little less busier than before. For a brief minute, I was afraid that I'd gotten lost--especially since there was no one around to ask for directions. Then I saw a girl sitting on a few milk crates (why were there milk crates? Color me clueless).
The girl--I identified her to be Rogue, Antisthenes' drummer--was dressed all in black with knee-high bitch boots, a black skirt that stopped just an inch above said boots, and a wrap-around top that had open shoulders and fishnet down the arms. She also had on a choker that had creepy-looking spikes on it and matching, dangly earrings that were nestled against her chin-length brown hair. On either side of her face were streaks of white, which I figured to be the result of either a punk fad or lots and lots of stress.
"Excuse me," I began hesitantly. "I was looking fo--"
The only way to describe the sound Rogue made was that it was a blood-thirsty, more-than-slightly-pissed-off growl. I think I wet myself.
"Uh-h, never--never mind," I said, hastily continuing while making sure there was a lot of elbow space between her and me.
Jesus.
Before I had time to gather my wits, I was nearly tackled by Tabitha, who literally emerged from nowhere.
I think I said, "Um." but I might've very possibly said, "Fuck!". No matter what I'd said, though, it had apparently amused Tabitha, who was giggling like a deranged basketcase.
"Christ," she said. "You should've seen the look on your face!"
Since she was the agent of a highly esteemed band, I guess she was allowed to do whatever she wanted. That didn't mean I had to be happy about it, though.
"Anyway," Tabitha waved it off, "what'd you think of the concert?"
"Uh," I said. "Loud. It was very...yes." I smiled weakly.
"Yeah, I had you pegged as a Bach-and-Mozart boy myself," Tabitha grinned. "I bet you nearly puked out the wrong end!"
Well, thanks. "No, I was fine, thank you," I said.
She grabbed me by the elbow and started dragging me down one hall. How big was this place, anyway?
"Did you meet the band yet?" she asked.
"Yes, I just met Ms. Lee, Mr. Allerdyce, and uh..."
"Rogue?" Tabitha cackled. "Man, that chick's a headcase. Real talented, but I don't think I've ever heard her say one word."
That's because she just growls at everyone instead. "Oh, really? She doesn't talk?"
"Not at all," Tabitha said cheerfully. "Possibly once to say her name was 'Rogue.' And maybe to say 'Fuck off.' But that was a while ago."
"Wow," I said. "How long ago?"
"Maybe, I don't know, two, three years. For the whole time she's been with us. She's new."
"Yes, I read about that," I said, glad to recognize some information. "Your original drummer was Remy LeBeau, wasn't it?"
"That's right," Tabitha agreed. "He was a bluegrass-type of guy. Our rock wasn't doing it for him."
"How'd he end up being part of Antisthenes to begin with then?" I wondered aloud.
"Well," Tabitha said, "it's a long story. I'll tell you 'bout it sometime. Ask me on the bus?" She winked at me, and I cleared my throat.
"Um, sure," I said. "Is he still friends with the band?"
"Yeah, sure is," Tabitha nodded, turning the knob of a door and backing into it to open it. "Except for Rogue, of course."
Jesus. That girl was scary as hell. "Why not Rogue?"
"Oh, man," Tabitha gave me an incredulous look. "Rogue and Remy? Instant dislike. They hated each other."
Looks to me like Rogue hates everyone. "Oh, really? Because Rogue was his replacement?"
"Nah, it wasn't as psychological as that," Tabitha shrugged. "They just didn't get along at all."
"That's too bad," I said. I meant it, too. If I were Remy, I'd start wearing protection, just in case Rogue got her hands on something sharp and decided to castrate random people. Jesus. Protection was sounding pretty good right around now.
We were now in a small pseudo-lobby with a loveseat, torch-lamp and a couch. A bald, middle-aged man was sitting in a wheelchair, staring with rapt attention at his laptop.
"Hey, Chuck," Tabitha said, snapping her fingers a few times.
The man looked up and glanced from Tabitha to me before smiling magnanimously, "Hello, Tabitha. This is...?"
"Scott Summers," I said, shaking his hand.
"Ah, Mr. Summers," the man nodded. "I'm Charles Xavier."
I'd read about him; he was Antisthenes' financier. Interestingly enough, though, I'd never read that he was wheelchair-bound or how it came to be. I guess I was going to have to entertain myself by coming up with different scenarios. However, Mr. Xavier seemed the most normal out of everyone I'd met today so far. For that reason, I took an instant liking to him.
"I'll go see if Lance is busy," Tabitha said and ruffled my hair. I shuddered inwardly. There's a reason I'm gay, you know.
Mr. Xavier looked at me and smiled very pleasantly.
"You're probably wondering why I'm in this wheelchair, aren't you?"
O-kay, so he was straightforward. "Well, I wasn't going to as--"
"You see," Mr. Xavier had a slightly disturbing smile on his face. Like Hannibal Lecter. "I lost the ability to use my legs in a very unfortunate accident."
"Oh, I'm so sorry," I said. "That must be very dif--"
"It involved fangirls," Mr. Xavier said, still smiling. I started sweating. Jesus, why was he smiling like that? I felt like he was about to wield a pair of barbecue prongs and stab me repeatedly. Like steak.
Maybe I should become a vegan.
"Umm," I said, "fangirls?"
"Yes," Mr. Xavier said.
Stop, smiling, you creepy man! "I'm so sorry," I said, and I actually meant it. Antisthenes' fangirls were scary. Mostly because practically all of them are armed.
"If I were you," Mr. Xavier said, now smiling even wider, "I'd watch my back."
Excuse me?
I stared at him. He smiled. And didn't blink.
"Oh," I said, laughing nervously. "I..."
"Hey, Summers," Tabitha grinned at me from the doorjamb of the adjoining room.
"Uh, ye-yes?" I turned to face her. Christ, it was about time.
She jerked her head a little in the direction of the room, "C'mon back!"
"Alright," I said. Then, hesitantly, I faced Mr. Xavier again and held out my hand. Please don't bite it off or something...
"It was very nice meeting you," I said weakly.
"You, too," Mr. Xavier said, smiling still. He shook my hand. "Have fun."
"Yea--uh-h--hm--Mm-huh," I mumbled and quickly turned to follow Tabitha.
Jesus.
I must've looked very disturbed because Tabitha chuckled and asked,
"Yeah, how 'bout Chuck, huh?"
I smiled feebly, "He seems very--"
"Kooky?" Tabitha giggled and straightened the lapel of her blouse. "Yeah, he got a little kerfed up in the Fangirl Incident a year or so back. Hasn't been the same since."
'Kerfed?' Is that even a word?
"Oh," I said. I wanted to ask her if he ever tried to cannibalize any bandmates, but I figured it wouldn't be an appropriate question.
"Yep," Tabitha grinned and cupped her hands, yelling, "Lance! Where the hell didja go!?"
Ow. I coughed and reached up to rub the back of my neck. It was only five or so in the evening and I already had a migraine.
I heard someone grumble back, "What?"
Yeah, that sounded very friendly.
Tabitha grinned and punched me lightly in the shoulder. How lady-like.
"I'll see you later, Scoots," she said cheerfully. And left. Just like that! Jesus...
"Uh," I cleared my throat and took a step forward. There were baggy clothes strewn all over the dressing room, and someone had written a phone number on the mirror with lipstick.
"Mr. Alvers? I'm--I'm Scott Summers from the College Press Times. I'm here to...to..."
I coughed uncomfortably.
Lance Alvers was sitting on the counter of a sink that was right beside a mirror, his shoulders pushed back and his legs dangling. He had a pair of worn jeans on and no shirt. A woman's frilly black thong was floating in the sink, which was half-full of water.
Wow. Thanks for sharing this important chapter of your life with me.
"Um," I said. "I'm...Scott Summers. From the College Press Times?"
Lance ran a hand through his hair--I noticed an ink-black tattoo wrapped around his upper arm. It looked Celtic. No--maybe it was...?
"I'm--uh, I'm supposed to interview...you?"
He wasn't even looking at me! That bastard. I was getting sort of annoyed.
"Um, well..." I coughed and looked around.
O-ka-y.
"I guess," I coughed again, "I guess I'll see you at...seven? For the...the, uh...preliminary interview. I'll see you."
Then, as I turned to go, I heard him say real slowly,
"So--you're the possum, huh?"
I faced him and he was quirking an eyebrow, eyes intent on something in his hand.
"Uh--I--Excuse me?" I asked.
"The possum. You know," Lance looked up, smirked at me, and fashioned a slingshot with his fingers and the rubber band he'd been playing with. He let go of the rubber band and it twanged, hit my shoulder, and fell to the ground. "Play dead?"
"I, uh, I know what a possum does," I said.
"Sure, sporto," Lance said, still smirking a little. He hopped off the counter, picked up a grungy-looking t-shirt, and yanked it on in a few brusque motions. "So what's your name again? Sooners?"
"Summers," I said. "Scott Summers."
"Sure," Lance said, rolling his eyes upward. "So you're going to be, what, stalking us?"
Hello, welcome to the real world. I will be your guide to life. At the end of our lesson, you will feel the extreme need to slap me with a restraining order. Please do so.
"Um, I will be accompanying you on--"
"Yeah, okay," Lance said.
"Um," I said again.
"So how fuckin' old are you?" Lance asked, studying me.
"Twenty-five," I said.
"Twenty-five," Lance repeated slowly. He walked in a half-circle around me and I turned slightly so that we were still facing each other. "Twenty-fucking-five. Are you shitting me?"
Well. At least he didn't ask if I was joking. "No, why?"
Lance gave a short laugh. "Because you dress like my fucking grandpa."
"What?" I asked, startled.
"C'mon," Lance leaned against the wall, "a knit vest and fucking khaki slacks?"
"It's business apparel," I said stiffly. I made a mental note not to pack any knit vests for the roadtrip and mentally smacked myself upside the head.
"You look like you work in a funeral home," Lance said, "or somewhere equally as fuckin' cheerful."
Why, thanks. I love hearing that my appearance gives the impression that I work with dead people all day long. "We all have to dream," I said wryly. Instantly, I regretted it, but Lance just smirked at me again.
"Oh, so he actually jokes," Lance said.
I smiled uneasily at him.
"So," I began, "your grandfather--he worked at a funeral home?"
"What, him?" Lance asked. "Nah. He sold corndogs outside the Jersey Stadium. Fuckin' turned into a blood splatter on his 96th birthday. See," he leaned a little closer, still smirking, "the fucking 'tard asked us to take him bungee jumping, and when we did, his cord fuckin' snapped."
"O-oh," I said uncertainly. "I-I'm sorry."
"Uh-huh," Lance said as if he didn't believe me. "So, what's your poison?"
"What?" I asked, perplexed.
"Well, naturally you must be fucked-up," Lance said.
Oh, a pop psychologist at heart. This should be a fun 'roadtrip.'
"Why's that?" I asked.
"Because," Lance said, "you're probably from a high-end middle-class family in the Midwest, Protestant, mama's boy. I bet your mom made you wear briefs and corduroys, yeah?"
He grinned at me. I did my best to show him that I was not amused.
"No, actually," I said. "I'm not Protestant."
Actually, I was.
"Uh-huh," Lance said again. "Do you pop speed?"
"What?"
"Well, you work in a cubicle, right?" Lance was still grinning. "You can probably just make like you're takin' Advil and totally buzz."
"I don't do drugs," I said, forcing an even tone.
"Sure," Lance said. "You married with two kids and a picket fence?"
"No," I said. "I'm single."
"Sure," Lance said again.
"Look," I said, making a big show out of glancing at my watch. "I should probably head back to the office. I still have to pack, too, so..."
"Alright, check you later," Lance said.
"Yes," I said, "We're meeting at Finnigan's, right?"
"Sure, why not," Lance said. "I always sample fine liquor that tastes like ass on my first business dinner."
Reluctantly, I held out my hand, "It was a pleasure to meet you."
Definitive of what already seemed to be a downhill relationship, Lance just looked me in the eye and grinned,
"Pleasure? You wish."
Asshole.
When I returned to the office, I was immediately taken into custody by Jean. Jean, who seemed way too amused, at that.
"Scott!" she said brightly and, linking our arms, steered me toward the back room with expert speed.
The back room was full of file cabinets that no one goes through anymore, and it was restricted, anyways, save for Jean, who conveniently had the key. To recap, that means that the back room is a restricted area that only Jean has access to. Oh, goodie; a place where I can scream, and no one will ever hear my pleas for help.
"What is it?" I asked when Jean had finally locked us both in. She hopped on top of one squat file cabinet, crossed her feet at the ankles, and swung her legs.
"So, how was it?" she grinned.
Jesus, she sounded like she was asking me about sex.
"It was alright," I said. Then, I added, "Lance Alvers is a sonuvabitch."
Jean arched an eyebrow at me. "Oh, really? Was he cocky?"
"Well..." I considered it. "I wouldn't describe it as cocky..."
"Did he have a grand opinion of himself?"
"Not necessarily, he--"
"An eruptive temper?"
"I don't thin--"
"Did he," Jean leaned forward, "invade your personal space?"
I glared at her, and she tipped over sideways, laughing as hard as she could.
"Jesus," I said, "are you drunk?"
She righted herself and yawned a little, "Mmno. I had some Dayquil, though."
Jean wasn't allowed to be sick ever again. When she was, she tended to overdo it with the medication.
"Okay, listen," I said, "I have to get my stuff from my cubicle, and then I have to get back home and pack."
"Pack?" Jean asked, alarmed. "Wait, why do you...?"
"Because," I said sullenly, "Mr. Maximoff failed to mention to me yesterday that I would be going on the road with Antisthenes."
Jean's jaw dropped. "On the road?"
"Yes," I said. "On the road. Isn't that--"
"Scott!" Jean grabbed me by the collar of my shirt and jerked me forward.
"What?!" I asked, startled.
"Christ," she said. "You're so lucky!"
"No, I'm--what? You mean you'd want to go on the road with a rock band?"
She rolled her eyes at me. "Only you, Scott. Only you."
"Only me what?"
"Only you wouldn't be able to appreciate every rock fan's dream come true!" Jean sat back again and crossed her legs daintily. "They give away roadtrips like this on the radio. People call in and have aneurysms when they win."
"Oh, believe me, I'm close to an aneurysm," I said wryly.
"Oh, come on," Jean said. "You mean you didn't have fun at the concert?"
I sputtered, "Concert? Concert? You know what's a concert?!"
Jean rolled her eyes again.
"James Brown," I said. "Ella Fitzgerald, people like that. Hell, Train!"
"Oh, and what would you call the Antisthenes concert you went to?" Jean asked.
"First of all," I said, "it was at 2 in the afternoon. Who the hell does that?"
"There's a lounge party afterwards," Jean said slyly.
"Oh, great," I said. "That makes all the difference."
"Scott, you're missing the point," Jean huffed.
"That's right," I said, "I totally want to get drunk with the band. Hell, party with the band, travel with the band, why don't I join the band, too?!"
"Calm down, you look like you're going to pop a nad off," Jean said.
I shook my head.
"That wasn't a concert," I said seriously. "That was a screaming, caterwauling deathpit of angst and anger and other--other bad things!"
"Wow," Jean said. "'Bad'? Really? I'm just making sure that's the word you were looking for."
"Hey," I said, "if you think screaming lyrics at the top of your lungs is a musical form, then there's something wrong with your definition of music."
Jean smirked at me.
"It's not music," Jean said. "It's sexy."
I must've looked very scandalized because Jean just grinned at me and patted me on the arm.
"It's not--" I began and Jean rolled her eyes for the umpteenth time.
"Oh, c'mon, Scott. Anyways, they don't scream. Not every word."
"It's loud," I said, sulking.
"Well, you were in the," here Jean coughed, hiding a giggle, "mosh pit."
I glared even harder and hoped that she felt at least a little threatened. Apparently, she didn't, though, because she just giggled even louder.
"Antisthenes just isn't music," I decided.
Jean made an indignant sound, "You've got to be joking."
"I'm not," I insisted. "I think they're just--just noise."
Jean stared at me, then asked mildly, "What'd they do to you?"
"They're freaks!" I exclaimed. "Their agent felt up my hair, their financier possibly stores the elbows of past clients in his economy-sized freezer for a midnight snack, their drummer doesn't talk, and--and--"
"What about Lance?" Jean asked, undaunted by my tirade.
"He said I was a-a high-end middle class, Protestant, mama's boy!"
Jean was silent.
"And," I continued, too angry to enunciate clearly, "he said things wi-with lewd connotations."
Jean cleared her throat. I glowered at her.
"Well," she said slowly, "you are from a middle class Protestant family..."
"Shut up," I muttered.
"And you are a mama's boy..."
"Shu-ut up," I grumbled.
"And you are really pretty..."
"Jean," I said, "do you want to be a chalk outline on the ground?"
She paused. "Is it stylish chalk?"
"It's vomit green," I said.
"Orange?" Jean suggested.
"Vomit orange," I said.
"You're very silly," Jean said.
"Bang," I said, and she made a face at me.
I sighed and hoisted myself up beside her. She patted me on the knee and clucked her tongue.
"Poor Scoot," she said in the most sugary voice I've ever heard.
"In a word," I said sadly, "the American society is completely enamored with the debilitating institution that is rock 'n' roll music, no longer regarding its masochistic, drug-sponsoring musicians as mere entertainers, but as deities of a hedonistic religion that should've ceased to exist in the Roman era."
"Hmm," Jean said thoughtfully. "Have you been practicing that?"
"I had lots of time to think about it," I said, "on the way back from hell."
Jean grinned, "You're just annoyed because Lance really is hot."
"Shut up," I said.
I arrived at Finnigan's at around 6:40 or so. What can I say--I like to be prompt. I also needed time to practice my poker face, because I had the ominous feeling that Lance and I were not going to get along. At all.
Not for lack of trying on my part, of course; I was going to extend him all the professional courtesy I could muster, dammit, even if it killed me.
I glanced around, wondering if I ought to just sit down anywhere. Fortunately, I saw Tabitha, who was waving frantically at me, already in a booth. Or would that be 'unfortunately'? Hmm. I wonder if I ought to pretend I didn't see her.
"Hello," I said, shaking her hand. She grinned at me and held onto my hand afterwards. Like a barnacle.
"Why, Mr. Summers, you've got a jacket," Tabitha said, grinning.
"Um," I said. I tried not to project my resentment toward her for pushing me to my doom at the hands of the molesting, deranged fanbase of her motley band. It was because of her that I was now wearing my backup jacket. My back-up jacket that doesn't look like Humphrey Bogart's jacket, might I add. "It's a little chilly out."
"I guess so," Tabitha said cheerfully. I hesitantly sat down opposite her.
"Lance'll probably be late," Tabitha said. "The band's finishing up this radio contest thing at the party, so..."
"Oh, that's alright," I said. Bastards.
"I'm just here to booze up," she added brightly.
I laughed nervously and carefully pried my fingers from hers.
"So, tell me," Tabitha smirked, throwing back a cold on, "are you single, you delectable piece of man?"
Jesus.
"I'm, uh, thirsty," I said nervously and stood up quickly. "I should--um--get a drink."
"You want a sip of mine?" Tabitha purred and did strange things with the bottleneck and her tongue that reminded me of anteaters and corndogs. I think I turned three different shades of green.
"I'll be right back," I mumbled.
I managed to find an empty corner of the bar--Finnigan's was suspiciously sparse tonight, probably in anticipation of Lance's arrival--and I huddled in my jacket until the bartender finally noticed me. She was a young-looking lady with brown hair up in a bouncy ponytail and the most bored expression I'd ever seen on her face.
"What can I do y'for?" she asked me. I shuddered and thought of Tabitha.
"Do you," here, I cleared my throat, "do you, uh, have any nonalcoholic beverages?"
She stared at me.
"Um, right then. Could I have water, please?"
"Sure," she said, reaching over, filling up a tall soda glass, and sliding it over to me.
"Thanks," I muttered and was promptly ignored. Jesus, what great service.
I took my time drinking my water and studiously examined the graffiti and carvings in the dark wood of the counter. Oh, how nice: 'Do you mind if I have my baby here?' What's that supposed to mea--oh.
I moved down a few stools.
I had about forty-five minutes to stew and fume before Lance Alvers actually showed up. I was ready to strangle him, to tell you the truth, but you just don't try to cause bodily harm to international rock stars. Just like you don't set bear traps for demonic, chauvinistic, ass-baring bosses. They were about the same in level of frustration, really.
"Summers Scott," he said, straddling the stool next to me.
"Mr. Alvers," I said, straightening and holding out my hand. He ignored it and waved down the bartender.
She gaped at him for a moment, her bored expression frozen in shock. Then, she began with difficulty,
"H-hey, are--that is, aren't you--?"
"Nope," Lance said easily. "Uncanny resemblance is all. What's on the house tonight?--never mind, just get me a fuckin' screwdriver, hey?"
"Um," she said, eyed him strangely, and headed over to mix his drink in confusion.
"Wow," I said, "do people recognize you often?"
"Is this on the record or off?" Lance asked.
"Um," I said, "off."
"Sure," Lance said, then: "Fuck, do they have good food here? I'm fuckin' starving."
"They have good steak, I hear," I said. "I don't usually come here."
"Hm," Lance said. He poured some peanuts into the palm of his hand from a bowl that was on the counter, then lined them up and flicked them one by one with his forefinger at a napkin dispenser.
"Did you see Tabitha?" he asked then.
"Yes, she--uh..." I turned around to point her out, but the booth she had been in was empty. I blinked. "Well, she was right--"
Lance jerked his head a little so that his longish bangs were swept to the side with the motion. They had been in his eyes, because he was a dumbass. Get a haircut, would you?
"Oh, she's probably off humpin' a newspaper stand or somethin'," he said.
The sad thing is that he was probably right.
"So," Lance turned to face me, "you probably have a whole fuckin' slew of half-assed questions to ask me, yeah?"
Ouch. I was feeling some serious journalist-hating.
"Well, I have a few basic, preliminary questions tha--"
"You didn't wanna ask me boring shit like where I was born, did you?"
"Uh--I was planning to just so I'd hear it firsthand, you know, instead of readin--"
"Hey," Lance said, cutting me off, "I got an idea."
"I--Wha-what?" I asked. I was starting to get annoyed.
"Why don't you ask me a fuckin' question, then I'll ask you one?" Lance said. He seemed very bored, yet very amused all at the same time. Jackass.
"That's--that sounds very unorthodox, but--" I started, and Lance interrupted me again, smirking;
"So, what, you're too much of a fuckin' prude to try it?"
How does not wanting to make an ass out of myself make me a prude?
"I'd just rather not--"
"Hell, you're lots of fun," Lance said with what I suspect was sarcasm. Jackass
"Could we just--?"
"Hey," Lance said again, "it's a no go without something that's at least fuckin' entertaining, y'dig?"
"But, I--"
"Or," he was still smirking at me, "are you too fuckin' chicken-shit to do it?"
Now, I've never been called chicken-shit before, and if you haven't been either, I can assure you that it is a very upsetting experience. Especially if you're not just 'chicken-shit,' but you're 'fuckin' chicken-shit.'
"Fine," I said stiffly.
"Bitchin'," Lance said very matter-of-factly. "I guess we get a one-for-one, then."
He'd gotten his drink now and so stood up, the glass in his hand.
"Would you like to get a table?" I asked.
"Sure," Lance said, took a gulp of his screwdriver, and added, "Let's get a high-quality one to compensate for this ass-piss drink."
Isn't 'compensate' too big a word for a guy of your caliber, Mr. Alvers?
"How about that one?" I pointed to a booth just a little farther back than the one Tabitha had been sitting in. Without replying, Lance strolled over to the table as I fumbled with my stool, pushing it and Lance's in under the counter. I grabbed my glass of water and hastily followed him. How delightful--though I suppose I could take comfort in that he wasn't talking anymore.
I sat down quickly opposite of him in the small booth and drummed my fingers--I don't want to say anxiously--idly.
"Hm," Lance said, looking around the booth with a critical eye. "Crap."
He promptly made himself at home, propping his legs up on the table and crossing them at the ankles. I coughed and asked politely,
"How was the lounge party?"
"I left early," Lance said nonchalantly, "but it fuckin' sucked anyway."
"Oh," I said. "I'm sorry."
"Sure," Lance said, withdrew a pack of cigarettes, and asked, "D'ya mind if I smoke?"
Before I could answer, he had already lit one up.
Of course I mind, you asshole. If I wanted to ruin my lungs and turn them into two sacks of blackened oatmeal-like tissue, I'd take up smoking myself so that I'd at least get a nicotine rush while I was slowly developing lung cancer and contributing to air pollution and global warming, which, in case you didn't know, is going to one day kill us all by baking us into Keebler crispies!
"No, I don't mind," I replied.
Lance blew a stream of smoke at his drink and remarked in an even, flat, slightly curious voice, "If the alcohol absorbs the smoke, and the smoke doesn't taste like ass, would the alcohol taste less like ass, more like ass, or would it just taste like smoky, barbecued ass?"
I blinked.
"I think it'd taste...more," I offered mildly.
"A sum of parts," Lance said. "So you could say that," he gestured toward his drink, "that's the left cheek and," he brought his cigarette up an inch from his nose, inhaling slowly, "this is...the right."
He dropped his cigarette into his screwdriver. I stared at him.
"Steak, you said?" Lance leaned back and folded his hands across his stomach, as if he hadn't noticed my perplexity.
"I'm not too hungry, actually," he mused aloud.
"I thought you were starving?" I said, baffled. Jesus, was this guy stoned?
"How long have you been here?" he asked instead of answering my question.
I glanced at my watch and estimated, "Forty minutes or so."
"Huh," he said. "What fuckin' questions do you have?"
"Um," I said and retrieved the small notepad I had tucked into my jacked pocket. "Well, why don't you start by telling me about yourself?"
Lance arched an eyebrow at me silently, then tilted his chin up and peered at the ceiling.
"Hm. You know all the shit about my mother's maiden name and all that, yeah?"
"Yes," I said, "but I--"
"So, you wanna know about my childhood," Lance guessed.
"Well, yes," I said.
"I was from a rich family," Lance said, his eyes not leaving the ceiling. It almost seemed as if he were falling asleep. "And we had two dogs and a fuckin' pony, or somethin' like that. One of my uncles--it's always a goddamned uncle--fuckin' gambled all the time. He was like some crackhouse whore who'd screw for bongs, you dig?
"Fuckin' borrowed money from my old man," here, he sat up straight and selected a packet of Sweet 'n Low, ripping it open without missing a beat, "and didn't repay one lousy penny. He's a fuckin' shithead from the suburbs with no sense of consequence.
My father," so far, Lance had emptied eight packs of sweetener into a neat little pile on the table and he was starting on the ninth one, "practiced Protestantism until he fuckin' puked up scripture, so, naturally, he crashed into a telephone pole on a Sunday, fuckin' totaled his car, snapped his neck, and drowned in a puddle of his own fuckin' drool, blood, and snot on the dashboard."
He paused and looked at me. I gawked at him. Now I know why no one printed his story either.
"My mother," he said calmly, "swallowed a bottle of codeine, half a bottle of aspirin, and drank an assload of Nyquil before passing out while she was ironing clothes. She fuckin' started a fire, you know--fucked up the whole second floor," he returned studiously to piling sugar, "so she kicked the fuckin' bucket, too.
They sent me to my fuckin' Aunt Mauve, who's about as dull as her middle name--it's Mary--and she lives in this fuckin' trailer park. See, I was, I don't know, six at the time all this shit happened, and," Lance ran out of sweetener and started on the salt packets,
"that's was where my life started goin' downhill. I went to this little inner city school, right? Right in this city that was, what, ten fuckin' miles from the trailer park. So I'd walk there, hey? Got mugged every other fuckin' day by these dickheads. But, y'know, I don't really give a damn about that school, I think..." he lifted one arm above his head, packet in hand, and watched the stream of trickling salt rain onto the growing pile, "that...it was..."
He grinned at me, dropped the packet, and finished, crossing his arms across his chest, "Just a fuckin' learning experience."
"A--" I repeated.
"Fuck-in' learn-in' experience," Lance repeated slowly, enunciating each syllable almost painfully harsh.
I coughed. "How, um, how was Antisthenes...?"
"Oh, hey," Lance grabbed a pepper shaker and started emptying it in the pile, "we just got together. Johnny was in my tenth-grade History class, right? We'd ditch and get high or whatever."
I knew that guy was a druggie!
"Were you--under the, uh, influence a lot?" I wondered, trying to keep my voice neutral.
"Fuckin' shitload of the time," Lance drawled. "You gonna let me finish my story, Mr. Summers?"
"Um, sorry," I said, and motioned for him to continue.
"Anyways," Lance sighed, as if it were terribly tragic that he had to speak to me, "Jubilee was this hip art chick that I caught drawing obscene pictures in the classrooms of this juvie place we both got sent to, and Remy--you read about Remy, hey?--Remy was this chick's on-and-off boyfriend. They were fuckbuddies or whatever. She did him to get back at her parents, and he did her...hell, I don't even know. They were friends, though," Lance added thoughtfully. He grinned;
"Friends...with privileges."
"Oh," I said. "And Rogue...?"
"Johnny found her; she was kicking the shit out of this puny li'l ninth grader or somethin' at the local library--I think the kid tried to start a conversation with her--and he managed to drag her off-a him, saw her drumsticks stickin' out from her fuck-me boots, and--"
Lance blew at the accumulated pile and it swirled apart into a mass of white and black. He sat back and shrugged,
"I guess the rest is history."
"Huh," I said, quickly finishing up my note taking, "while we're on the subject of Rogue, what would you say is the difference between her drumming and Mr. LeBeau's?"
The plan was to have Kurt translate it for me later on.
"Rogue's a fuckin' powerhouse," Lance said. "She'll drum away like anything that fuckin' gets between her sticks and the skins is gonna get fuckin' pulped like..." he searched for the proper analogy, "Dannon's yogurt."
"Creative," I said, and I must've sounded sarcastic because Lance grinned at me, swung his legs down--deliberately jostling the table so that my pencil involuntarily streaked across the notepad--and said in a low voice,
"Between you and me, Summers...I bet she's a fuckin' animal in bed."
I coughed uncomfortably, "Wha-what?"
"All that fuckin' drumming--you're all sweaty, right? You're beating the shit out of this huge set of drums, and you're goin' up and down and up again, and then you fuckin' really whale on 'em--you fuckin' beat them like there's fuckin' no tomorrow--"
He leaned forward and leveled this look at me.
"Y'dig? It's like fucking, only rowdier and louder and fuckin' violent--violent like real fucking. The only thing that's sexier is..."
He drifted off, not finishing his sentence, but still looking at me like I don't even know what.
"The only thing sexier is..."
I swallowed hard and asked weakly, "W-what?"
"Well," Lance smiled mockingly at me, "Reporters."
I stared at him, and for some reason, the only thing I could think for the longest time was:
It's journalist, dammit!
~tbc~
