Title: Readme.txt
Part: 3/?
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: Yay! More Lance/Scott. I'm posting this uberearly because I'm going to be out of town from Wednesday to very late on Saturday. I shall be going to the wonderfluous city of Chicago! Badda-bing, baby.
Anyways, so here is more "Readme.txt" for your reading (haha, now doesn't that sound weird?) pleasure.
Additional Notes: Thank you sososososo much to my faithful reviewers and supporters, in no particular order: Morwen O'Conner, Olhado, N, Lyo, Sheena, Flick, Agar, sugar.coated, Pyromaniac, Mercuria, Katreon of Team Socket, ShadowCreature, MiracleChick, Imhotep Ardeth Bey, Laureate, Ishida Kat, Omega Orange, Vertigo Mesmerizer, Edainme, and last but not least, Absolute Alcohol.
SPECIAL NEWS BULLETIN: The Blind Fish Archive is officially accepting submissions! Please check it out and feel free to submit your fanfiction! The URL is geeky-pirate.net then a backslash and the word 'blindfish.' Sorry if that's confusing--FF.net keeps eating the chapter when I upload it with the URL O.o So...yes. :D I will have a powwow with the ever-lovely Morwen O'Conner and figure out how to give y'all the URL!
Enjoy and Review!!!...please?
--
"Hey, hey, hey, it's Summers!" Johnny was, once again, the first person to greet me. He slung an arm around my shoulders and steered me toward the tour bus, which they were apparently in the process of loading. Out of a sense of paranoia, I strained to see if they had already loaded my luggage, which I had dropped off earlier.
"Um, Mr. Allerdyce," I said, holding out my hand.
"Aw, shaddup," he waved it off. "Just call me Johnny, hey?"
"If you want," I said dubiously. I could hear my professionalism whimpering for a quick death.
"So, how'd preliminary interviews go with Lancers?" Johnny asked. He was disturbingly chipper.
"It went...well," I said. Actually, if I resented Lance before, I hated him now.
"Right," Johnny said skeptically. "When you say 'well,' do you actually mean 'I think I hate all you scumbags,' now?"
"Maybe," I said, smiling a little. "That is--"
"Hey, we're not like that guy, dig?" Johnny said, grinning. Idly, I wondered if 'you dig' was something that, by law, all band members had to say.
"Um," I said.
"I mean," Johnny said, "Me and Lancers are real close, but he's surlier than fuck. I don't think anyone's as pissy about interviews as he is. Well..." he grinned. "Maybe Rogue is."
I coughed. "Do they...dislike journalists or something?"
"Hey, we're all a little resentful, off the record, Scottyboy," Johnny said with a confidential smile. "I mean, tons of guys come through and...well, hell. Would you trust somebody for asking so many goddamned questions?"
"I...guess not?" I said.
"Well," Johnny jostled me a little and gave me a playful shove toward the passenger seat, "you ride shotgun, huh?" He grinned at me.
"Sure," I said.
He saluted at me and then practically raced to the back of the bus. I heard him yell, "Heyyy, Jubes!" and shook my head, turning to face the bus door again. I opened the door and was greeted by the amiable smile of the man whom I assumed was the driver of the tour bus.
"Hello, I'm Scott Summers," I said, shook his hand, and gestured toward the passenger seat. "Mind if I...?"
"Oh, hey, go ahead," the man said, smiling genially enough. "I'm Forge."
Forge had a slightly tan complexion with black hair that was kind of scraggly, tamed by the brown baseball cap he was wearing backwards. He was wearing street clothes; a green-gray t-shirt and jeans. He seemed nice and normal, which made me eye him with unduly paranoid suspicion. We all remember what happened the last time I thought someone was normal, right?
"So, you're from what newspaper again?" Forge asked, tuning the radio.
"The College Press Times," I said. "And no, the name doesn't make much sense, does it?"
Forge laughed, "No, it doesn't. I've heard of it, though--the CPT?"
"Right," I said, almost relieved. "You know, you're the first person who's recognized it."
"It's no Times," he said, "not really renown and all that. But I personally think it could be, hey?"
Not with Pietro at the helm. Christ, his ego would bloat so much he'd actually explode. ...Hm. "Thanks. We try our best."
"Are you a fan of rock music?" Forge gave up trying to find a decent radio station and sat back, drumming his hands on the steering wheel.
"Not really," I admitted. "I listen mostly to jazz--swing, stuff like that."
"Oh, hey, me, too," Forge said, brightening. "Well, not swing, but I've got this thing about Weather Report. They're really amazing."
"They are," I agreed.
"I listen to some rock, though," Forge mused. "I like the Vines, the Strokes, the White Stripes...Wow, those are all 'the' bands, aren't they?"
I grinned sheepishly. "Seems like it. I haven't heard of any of them."
"You haven't heard of the Strokes?" Forge did a small bounce forward in his seat then leaned back again, "That's impossible."
"I'm assuming that they're pretty big, then?" I asked wryly.
"Yeah, definitely," Forge smiled. "I'll have to let you hear them sometime. We've got, what, eight hours, anyways, and I got a whole case of CDs."
"Eight hours," I repeated with distaste.
"Yeah, you might want to go back and talk with the band," Forge said, grinning. "You know, keep things interesting."
"And what do you do?" I asked nervously.
Please don't say you're going to go far, far away after this car ride, Mr. Normal Person.
"I'm the technician slash designated driver," Forge said with a laugh. "You can't get more behind-the-scene than that, I guess."
I grinned. Oh, you are heaven-sent, Mr. Forge. "Think I can ask you some production questions later on?"
"Oh, sure," Forge agreed. "I'd be glad to answer anything you got."
"How long have you been with Antisthenes?" I asked.
"Mm, I'd say six, seven years or so," Forge said.
"Wow," I said, "so from the very beginning?"
"Yep. I took shop with, uh, Johnny A. back there," Forge said easily.
"Oh," I said, making a note of that on my notepad. Lucky you. "Did you know Mr. Alvers back then, too?"
"Lance?" Forge gave me a baffled look. "We d--"
"Hey, boy scouts!" Jubilee nudged the door in the partition open and stuck her head in, grinning at both of us. "We're all loaded up."
"Up the back!" I heard Johnny add loudly, cackling.
Drugs.
"You all ready?" Forge asked.
"Defi-nootly," Jubilee reached over, yanked on the brim of his cap, and grinned. Forge gently caught her wrist and glanced at one of the many watches on her arm.
"8:27. Thanks for the time," he added.
"Hey, when're we gonna get there?" Jubilee uncapped a tube of lipstick, twisted it, and drew a smiley face on the rearview mirror. It was green.
"Oh, about two or so in the morning," Forge estimated.
"Eight fuckin' hours," she sighed.
"Traveling takes time," Forge reminded her.
"Hell," Jubilee grinned, "I know. But can't we get a fuckin' jet or something? That'd be cool."
"I don't know how to fly jets," Forge observed mildly.
Jubilee laughed. "I betcha you could learn," then she addressed me; "Hey, Summers, wanna come back and hang out?"
"Um," I said.
"Sure you do," Jubilee said with delight, grabbed my arm, and hauled me through the door.
"See you later!" I heard Forge say before the door swung close.
Yeah, hopefully. I wonder if he would hear my screams for help...?
The bus looked more like a living room once I passed through the door. A gaudy, nausea-inducing, obscenely colorful living room. In my opinion, it looked like a scene out of a commercial for Trix. It was also decorated with 'modern' furniture, which meant that I could barely distinguish between the chairs and tables.
Fabulous.
"Welcome to home sweet home on the road," Jubilee sing-songed, then added cheerfully, "Baby, if you take any pictures, I'll have to shoot ya."
Don't have a camera; would break it if I did.
Johnny was flung over a lime-green sofa and was picking an old Beatles song on an acoustic guitar.
"Hey, Jude," he said, grinning and not even bothering to sing, "don't make it bad; take a sad song and make it better...!"
Frightening. It was like trying to rap the Beatles.
"He doesn't ordinarily sing like that, does he?" I asked Jubilee quietly.
"Dear God, we'd fuckin' throw him out the bus if he did," Jubilee grinned.
"While we're going at eighty-five miles per hour," Lance added. I started.
Jesus, I hadn't even noticed him. He was sitting sideways in what I assumed to be an armchair, his legs sprawled over the back and armrest.
He...
Okay, I have nothing. I hate him so much I can't even think of an insult.
"Mr. Alvers," I said. I held out my hand, but Jubilee confiscated it for her own purposes. Lance quirked an eyebrow at me.
"And how are you this fine evening?" he drawled.
"I--fine, thank you," I said. "You?"
"Contemplating suicide," he flashed me a smile and Johnny chortled;
"Can I have your fangirls if you croak?"
"Only if you give a fuckin' decent eulogy, man," Lance replied.
"Oh," Johnny snickered, "want me t'lie through my teeth, yeah?"
"The only eulogies worth hearin'," Lance smirked.
Johnny whooped and let his guitar clatter to the floor. He jumped up onto the couch and stood, limbs akimbo as if he were surfing, and yelled at the top of his lungs,
"And then he water-skied over those fuckin' sharks like he was Fonzi or what'sit, man! And he fuckin' saved my goddamned life--I was about to be sacrificed to some fuckin' tiki god the shape of a lamp over this big ol' volcano--"
"Oh, I get it," Jubilee laughed. "'cause you're a virgin, huh?"
"Hey," Johnny leapt down from the sofa and swung around something that was either a lamp or a sculpture or both. "That ain't funny, sweetheart."
"I'm laughin'," Lance snickered.
"With incredulity!" Johnny cried, raising one arm and jumping to touch the ceiling. "Laughing with fuckin' incredulity, my friend!"
"I don't think so," Jubilee mused.
"Who asked you, China doll?" Johnny reached over and grabbed her hand, twirling her around and then dipping her down.
"Oh, Johnny," Jubilee faked a swoon. "Bless yer heart!"
They started waltzing at a fast tempo, and as they passed me, Jubilee winked at me and blew a kiss. It positively sent shivers down my spine.
Jesus, was it too late to go sit up front again?
I glanced around.
"Um, so, uh, where's...where's Ms. Rogue?" I asked.
"She's somewhere in the back," Lance waved his hand, "doing...I dunno. Fucking."
Oh. Great. I had a feeling that I was going to get 'She's in the back.' for an answer very consistently every time I asked about Rogue.
Now, the question is, what is she doing in the back? Probably hiding the remains of Mr. Xavier's mid-day snack: Italian. Maybe some Texans, Ohioans...Washington D.C.-based barbecue...
"Um, so," I was still standing, and Lance was ignoring me again. Jackass. "S-so, what's the album called? The one that you're working on now, I mean."
"Halfway Second," Lance said without looking at me. He had picked up Johnny's acoustic guitar and was now strumming at it very lightly. "An introspective look on why alcoholic nannies like to hang pets out of third-story nursery windows."
"A--what?" I asked, staring at him. Was he just perpetually drunk or something?
"Shakespeare," Lance glanced up at me and jerked his hand across his guitar, the resulting jarring chord making me wince.
At this point, I think Jean would've mentioned an issue with compensation of the most obscene sort.
"Shakespeare?" I repeated. I was beyond confused, and for some reason, that reminded me of their band name.
"Um, Antisthenes--"
"Want a roll call?" Lance asked.
"Um, no," I coughed. "I just--It's an interesting name. How'd you...?"
"Oh, that," Lance swung his legs down so that he was sitting with them apart with the guitar across them. He plucked at each string as hard as he could. "Antisthenes was the name of the local bar where my older sister used to go before she got knocked up and drowned her boyfriend by beating him on the head with a brick and leaving him in a ditch full of mud-water."
I stared at him.
"He's full of shit," Jubilee informed me, then, with a fond smile. She ruffled Lance's hair, and he flicked her off.
"What?" I asked.
They were all insane.
"Actually," Lance said easily with no trace of regret at all, "Antisthenes is the name of Johnny's favorite comic book series."
I looked over at Johnny, and he pumped a fist in the air; "Antisthenes, by the infamous and ingenious M.J. Plachy, baby!"
Okay, forget I mentioned Cynicism.
"We suspect that he whacks off to it," Lance said wryly.
"I don't," Johnny protested. "I--"
"Okay, Kinks for Brains," Jubilee interrupted, "how about you save the gory details for later in this relationship? We don't wanna scare off the cutiepie without giving him a dinner and a movie first."
"Well, I just need a movie," I said mildly. "Since I've already eaten and all."
"What'd you have?" Lance smirked.
I looked over at him and without meaning to, I just stared at him and said, "Steak."
Lance paused and slowly arched an eyebrow at me. Without breaking eye contact, he drawled in a low voice,
"Oh, really?"
JesusJesusJesus.
"Well, with a little sprig of, you know, tha-that green, um, green...thing, with, a, uh, small salad on the side?" I answered in a rush.
Jubilee, who had apparently been watching the whole exchange with amusement, commented brightly,
"I believe that sprig of green you were talking about is called lube."
And you know what? That didn't even make sense.
But you know what? I didn't even notice.
And you know why?
Because the whole time, Lance didn't even look away from me once.
Jesus.
I was tempted to call Jean around ten o'clock, but I figured that there was little to no privacy on the bus. Except for in the back. And Rogue was in the back.
No, I really don't think so.
So far, here had been no sign of activity from either Tabitha or Xavier. My theory was that Xavier had actually sautéed and eaten Tabitha, who then gave him a gastrointestinal affliction out of spite. Johnny's theory was much messier:
"I think they're boffin'," he said cheerily.
"'Boffing'?" I asked. Did I even want to know?
"Boinking," Jubilee supplied, "Shagging, shtupping, bandicooting, banging, doinking, basket-making, boning, corking."
I stared at her.
"O...h," I said.
"Fuck-ing," Lance added loudly, enunciating very clearly the two syllables.
Oh.
Oh.
"That's--" I sputtered and was intelligently at a loss for words.
Lance smirked.
Bastard.
"I think I left something up front," I muttered.
"Do you know what I think?" Jubilee giggled. "I think that you and Johnny should get it on and let us watch."
I blanched and Johnny yelped,
"C'mon, Jubes! Like I'd do something like that."
Jubilee quirked an eyebrow at him.
"Without a small fee," Johnny added with a mischievous smile.
What?
"Mmsay...five hundred bucks?" Jubilee tried. Lance snorted and looked at Johnny.
"Six hundred," Johnny said with a imperial glance about the room. He ruined it by snickering to himself.
"Five twenty-five," Jubilee put her hands on her hips.
"Five fifty, and that's my final offer!" Johnny declared. "And only 'cause he's so cute."
"I think I hear Forge calling me," I said weakly.
"Sold!" Jubilee crowed, ignoring me. "But I need a deposit of an assgrab, first!"
Lance snickered and Johnny made a beeline toward me. I broke out in a cold sweat.
"Uh, I really don't feel comfortable--"
"Just sit pretty and I'll cut you a part of the cash, dig, Scottyboy?" Johnny purred.
"Umm," I panicked, "be right back."
I fled through the door, judiciously ignoring the catcalls following me. When I slammed the door shut, Forge glanced up at me in the rearview mirror, surprised, then grinned,
"Hey again."
"Hi," I said nervously. "Is there any way to lock that door?"
Forge laughed, "Why'd you want to do that?"
I glared at him. "Because they're after me."
"Don't worry, they don't bite," Forge replied.
Wanna bet?
I slumped in the passenger seat and sulked.
"Don't you have to interview them, anyway?" Forge asked, grinning at little at my expense.
"Yes, of course," I said. I coughed and tried to regain some sense of professionalism. "I'm sure they're fine artists."
There was a loud thump, and I looked back. Now, the partition has a strip of glass at the top so that Forge can see through to the back of the bus. And currently, on the strip of glass, was a hand.
Mr. Xavier, I think you dropped your lunch.
"Never let go, Jack!" I heard Johnny mock-sob, "Just never let go!"
I stared. Forge chuckled to himself;
"They're a riot, aren't they?"
"They scare me," I mumbled.
"Jubilee's usually much calmer," Forge remarked. "I think she must've had some Jolt or something. It's the only time she acts like this."
Or she's always this insane and she just keeps it a secret as to lull you into a false sense of security. Don't believe it, Forge! Don't!
"So have you ever been to Cleveland before?" Forge asked pleasantly.
"No, actually," I said. "Is it nice?"
"Hmm, well, I suppose it depends on your definition of 'nice,'" Forge said. "It's very...urban."
I grinned. 'Urban' said absolutely nothing about the city, which was probably why Forge picked it. He reminded me of Jean on her sleepy days; the days when she couldn't find the energy to poke fun at me in every single way possible.
"I'm not sure what my angle is," I confessed after a moment of silence. Stupid, Scott. Very, very stupid. Telling the band's techie?
"I thought you were going to just write a feature; an article about the band?" Forge asked.
"Well, yes, but you've got to have a certain slant to the topic," I said very importantly.
"Hmm," Forge said. "Well, I don't know much about journalism, but I'd guess the focus of an article like the one you're writing would be to get 'the inside story.'"
"That's a start," I agreed.
"Well, you have, what--two weeks?" Forge smiled reassuringly at me. "I'm sure you'll figure something out by then."
Forge reminded me of my mother--a thought that I felt would probably be best left unsaid--and it was a little creepy. However, Forge's motherly creepiness was undisputedly canceled out by how normal he seemed in relation with everyone else I had met so far.
"How would you describe Antisthenes' music?" I asked curiously. 'Music.'
"Well," Forge drummed his fingers, distracted momentarily by checking his blind spot, "I'm not sure. They're no Dashboard Confessional," he added with a smile.
Dashboard what?
"What's...?" I asked.
"Oh, it's this band that's all, I don't know...weepy, I guess," Forge pondered, then amended, "Weepy's a little too negative. I mean..."
"Emotional?" I suggested.
"Yes," Forge said. "Emotional. Though, I guess Antisthenes is emotional." He paused. "Angry emotional, I mean."
We exchanged glances.
"So, you have no idea either, huh?" I asked.
"Nope," Forge said good-naturedly, "I'm just the techie."
"They have other technicians also, don't they?" I asked.
Suddenly, the bus jerked to the left a little before swerving back to the middle of the lane.
"O-oh, sorry about that," Forge said absent-mindedly with a wide, almost nervous smile on his face. "I thought I saw something on the road."
He was gripping the steering wheel tightly.
I blinked.
O-kay...starting to feel less secure now.
"Um, so...?" I prompted.
"Oh, yes," Forge said, still smiling. "U-h, well, there's Lanie and--and," here Forge's voice squeaked a little, "Weasel."
"Weasel?" I asked. Okay, so that made it...Rogue, Forge, and Weasel so far. Why didn't these people have normal names?
"His real name's Jack, and he handles the lighting, the Web site, stuff like that," Forge said, studiously studying the road.
I eyed him suspiciously.
"He doesn't like it," Forge added. "Being called Jack, I mean. We just call him, uh, Weasel."
"Oh, okay," I said. He seemed a little too cool after the incident with nearly crashing into the other lane.
Had I accidentally stepped into a rabbit hole or something? Jesus.
"So, um, how long are we staying in Cleveland?" I asked.
"Oh, I'd say three days," Forge said.
"Three?"
"Yeah, we step down the schedule a bit this time of year," he replied.
"How long do you ordinarily stay in a city, then?" I asked.
"Depends on the number of venues," Forge said thoughtfully. "Usually a day--day and a half."
"Wow," I said. "I'd go crazy."
Forge laughed and gestured at the door with a tilt of his head, "I guess that explains it, then."
I smiled sardonically, "Not nearly enough."
"They're good people," Forge said. "I'm friends with all of them."
"Even Rogue?" I asked uneasily. Just thinking about her made me skittish.
Forge chuckled. "Yeah, Rogue and I came to an agreement."
"Oh?" What'd you do, feed her treats?
"Yeah," Forge glanced at me, grinning, "I crank up the juice in her stereo until its volume capacity is unholy, and she doesn't hate me."
"Really?" I asked, impressed.
"Well, I'm assuming, anyway," Forge said.
"How can you tell?"
"She ignores me," he said with a laugh.
And she doesn't bite your kneecaps off? Good bargain.
"You don't think she hates me, do you?" I asked nervously.
"Of course she does," Forge said. "She hates everyone she doesn't know."
How comforting.
"Honestly, though," Forge said, smiling, "the only person Rogue actually gets along with is Lance."
Great. Jubilee and Johnny are crazy, Lance and Rogue are psychotic, and we're not even starting on Tabitha and Mr. Xavier.
I checked the clock on the radio.
10:58.
Sleeping was completely out of the question. What if Jubilee or Tabitha came in and mauled my poor, defenseless body? What if Mr. Xavier came in and mauled my poor, defenseless body? Jesus, just thinking about it made me want to either hide or vomit. Maybe I could vomit and then hide?
My cell phone rang, and I quickly picked it up after glancing at the screen. It was Jean.
"Hello, hello!" she said, sounding chipper.
"It's almost eleven," I said. "What're you doing up?"
"I don't know. I think I'm coming down with something."
"Ergo, the Dayquil?" I asked wryly.
"Ergo," Jean agreed, giggling. "Anyways, I'm taking a sick leave."
"A leave?" I asked, bewildered. "For how long?"
"Oh, I don't know." She coughed experimentally. "I think I've got...mono."
Jean had had mono when she was fourteen.
"No," I said. "No, you can't possibly be thinking o--"
"It's Maximoff," Jean said, coming as close to a whine as she ever has. "Pietro Maximoff."
"I know, but this is against your work ethic!" I exclaimed. "Don't compromise your work ethic for a scumbag like him."
"I swear, Scott," Jean said solemnly, "that if I see his little...asswipe turdmonkey face again, I'm going to stuff my pumps down his throat."
"Ow," I said. "That's a lot of hate."
"I like my pumps, too," Jean said, "but it'd be worth it."
And how. But Pietro was probably used to getting attacked with women's shoes. Or, at least, Kitty's.
"How're things on the bus?" Jean asked, then, slyly.
"Um," I said coherently. "Al...right."
"Can't you find some little corner, and tell me everything?" Jean asked.
"I don't think so," I said.
"Where are you?" Jean sounded confused. "I don't hear anything in the background."
"Oh, I'm, uh, I'm riding up front," I said.
"What?! Why?"
"Because," I said stubbornly.
"Scott."
"Jean. I really can't talk about this with you!"
"Sc-ott!"
"Look, I'll get you that autograph, but other than that--"
"C'mon," Jean coaxed, "if I drop my work ethic, you can drop yours."
"What?" I wish.
"Scott," Jean began.
"Not now," I said firmly.
"Later?" she asked hopefully.
"Maybe," I said.
"Soon," Jean insisted.
"No," I said.
"Scott...!"
"We're on the road," I protested. "There's nothing I can do!"
"Christ," she muttered. "Scott--"
"Look, I'll call you later, okay?"
Jean made an incoherent, inherently miffed sound and hung up. I rolled my eyes and pocketed my cell again.
Forge grinned at me as I did so; "Girlfriend?"
"What?" I asked, startled. "Oh--no! No, no, that wasn't my girlfriend."
Jesus, I'd be eaten alive if Jean were my girlfriend.
"Oh, she's not?" Forge laughed lightly. "Sorry, then. My mistake."
You have no idea. "It's no problem. Lots of people think we're dating, but we're, uh, not."
"Obviously," Forge said with a smile.
It was a while before I felt drowsy, and I started to fall asleep--read: pass out--around twelve, but was rudely interrupted by a voice in my ear saying,
"Hey, sexy."
I must've jumped at least fifty feet in the air, and all I could think was that this had to stop, the random ambushings. This story assignment just wasn't healthy.
I turned to see who it was and groaned mentally: Lance.
Jesus, I hate him.
"Mr, uh, Alvers," I said, clearing my throat. He quirked an eyebrow at me.
"Making yourself comfy, Summers?" he asked.
"Um," I said groggily, glanced at the clock, and grimaced.
1:38.
Lance eyed me with amusement.
"Jubilee wants to know if you can come back and play," he said.
I cringed, and luckily, Forge came to my rescue with a smile;
"Scott's taking a nap right now. Maybe after snacktime?"
Lance stared at him hard, then asked slowly, "Say, Forge--how's Weasel?"
Forge smiled really strangely and replied vaguely, "He's--good."
He then fell silent. Fabulous.
Lance grinned, snickering, "I bet," then turning back to me with an arch look.
"C'mon, Summers," he drawled. "You fuckin' blow at stalking, y'know that?"
I think I'm going to choose to take that as a compliment.
As I followed Lance to the back again, I heard someone hitting two drumsticks together, yelling,
"...Twenty-three! Twenty-four! Thirty-one! Thirty-two! Thirty-three! Thirty-four! Forty-one! Forty-two! Forty-three! F--"
"Johnny, you'd better shut up or Rogue's gonna hear you!"
"Oh, no, she won't--she's sleepin' in her coffin. Forty-four! Fif--"
"Johnny, she'll eat your fuckin' liver."
Pause. "Do you really think so?"
"Well, she'll do something to your liver, and it won't be pretty."
"Jubi-lee...!"
"I'm just warning you--Scotty!"
"Ms. Lee," I said with a queasy smile.
Johnny twirled the drumsticks he'd been abusing and tucked them under one arm like a riding crop. He leaned an elbow on Jubilee's shoulder and grinned rakishly at me;
"How ya doin', ol' chap? We were beg'nning t'think you were eaten in the most atrocious manner by Sir Alvers here!"
Drugs.
"What the hell kind of accent was that supposed to be?" Lance wondered aloud, obviously amused.
"Cockney?" Jubilee suggested and grinned at Johnny, "Crikey, John-John! Oi'm just itchin' fuh t'shag ya!"
"Darlin'," Johnny drummed for a second on his knee with a grin, then threw the sticks to the ground, "Whadarya waitin' fuh?!"
Drugs.
"Fo' shizzle," Jubilee laughed and they disappeared into the back of the bus. That is--the further back. ...I think?
Lance watched them go, then looked at me with an arched eyebrow.
"Um," I said. I searched for something to say.
'Villainous cretin,' was what my sleep-fuzzed brain recommended. I decided that that would be the worst career choice. Ever. I was stuck in a bus going to Cleveland with a load of mentally unbalanced psychos. Mentally unbalanced, psycho crazies. Mentally unbalanced, psycho, crazy, lunatics. Mentally unbalanced, psycho, crazy loony...
"Hey," Lance said. "How big are you?"
What?
"Ex-excuse me?" You mentally unbalanced, psycho, crazy, loony basketcase.
"You asked me a question, so I get to ask you one now," he reminded me.
"But...I..." You schizophrenic, sociopathic, morally deficient, sleazy imbecile.
"So," Lance gave me an eat-shit--instead of shit-eating; ha! I'm so clever at one in the morning--grin, "you can tell me in centimeters, if you'd like."
I stared at him. And I came to a conclusion that made me hate him even more: He wasn't crazy or high (though that aspect was debatable); he was acting like this just to piss me off, to get a rise.
Scumball.
"I'll measure and get back to you," I said in the most neutral voice I could muster.
"Huh," Lance said.
'Huh'? What the hell was that supposed to mean?
"Ever gotten stuck in a vacuum cleaner?"
"No," I said.
"Fondled yourself in front of a child?"
"No," I said.
"Whacked off in a public restroom?"
"No." Pervert.
"Dance on a pole?"
"No."
"Want to dance on a pole?"
"No."
I sat down and watched him lean against one of the walls.
"You asked me six," I said. "That means I get to ask you another two."
Ha--beat you at your own game, Mr. Alvers.
I looked at him smugly, expecting him to glare at me or scowl or yell obscenities, but he just crossed his arms, looked at me, and said,
"Sure."
"Lookit--we've all got mah-velous suites!"
Tabitha greeted us as soon as we got off of the bus. She had changed and was now clad in what looked to be a stylish two-piece, midriff-baring jumpsuit. What Jean would've termed a 'suicidal orange' jumpsuit, at that.
Lance had been the first off the bus and was now standing next to Tabitha, who had curled an arm around his waist. He appeared to be drugged.
Johnny?
"Scott, baby," Tabitha cooed--wired, apparently. Or not?--and took my hand. "How was the ride over? Like the bus, hey? I designed the inside myself."
I should've thought as much.
"I've never seen anything like it," I said mildly. From behind me, Johnny snorted,
"Looks like a bad 60s acid trip, huh?" He patted the side fondly. "I love's it."
"Hey," Forge had finished helping unload the bus, "have Lanie and--the others finished setting up everything...?"
"Don't worry, Forge-baby," Tabitha grinned impishly, "Weasel and the kids are unpacked and rarin' to go, y'know."
Forge gave her the most bizarre look I've ever seen, before excusing himself, smiling pleasantly, and walking calmly back to the driver's side. Then there was the sound of the engine turning over as the bus squealed off, disappearing in a matter of seconds.
We stared after him. Well, I did. Jubilee just remarked with a small measure of surprise,
"He took the tourbus."
No. Really?
Lance quirked an eyebrow, turned to Tabitha, and said slowly, "Keys?"
She grinned and tucked it in the back pocket of his jeans.
Johnny laughed. "Lancers, are we bunkin' together?"
"Go watch porn on your own tv, asshole," Lance replied, already at the front entrance.
Ew. Porn.
"Scooterboy, here are your keys," Tabitha eyed me, and I coughed, holding out my hand and stepping back simultaneously.
"Thank you," I said politely.
She snickered at me and went to direct two uniformed me to cart up the luggage. Out of paranoia and a healthy sense of self-preservation, I hurried to intercept them before they got to my suitcase. I was in such a hurry, in fact, that I accidentally bumped into a lady on the sidewalk. Smooth, Summers.
"Oh, I--sorry," I apologized hastily. Dammit, I couldn't even walk straight!
"Watch it," she snapped and clutched her...large...straw purse?
I stared at her for a moment. She was wearing a gray business skirt and top, black pumps, blue kid gloves, sunglasses, and a bright purple shawl, which was wrapped around her head like a babushka.
What?
I decided it was irrelevant and rushed to save my clothes. I was nearly too late but managed the grab the handle to my suitcase just as Tabitha was about to merrily fondle it onto the cart.
Jesus Christ, I was going to have to bleach it later or something.
"I'll see you in the morning, sweetheart," she said to me with what appeared to be a flirty come-hither look.
Fortunately, my brain was already beyond fried from the trip over.
I mumbled my thanks and struggled up to my room with a headache, a notepad full of scribbles and a suitcase I was beginning to think was overpacked.
"Wake-up call's at seven!" Tabitha called after me.
I groaned mentally.
Fabulous.
~tbc~
