Title: Readme.txt
Part: 4/?
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: Slash (m/m relationship), AU (which means Alternate Universe, for those who don't know.)
Notes: Yeah! So...um...yeah!
By the way, if I have not replied to your review yet, I'm extremely, totally, completely sorry >.O I had a few days of a 'Woe, my life is a black hole. Well, not really. But my mom's being mean, so I'm going to sit here and play Solitaire. Nyah.' funk, so...yes. Hope you enjoy this chapter! It is in honor of X23 tomorrow. ...Never mind, I take that back. *fires X23*
Additional Notes: Thank you sososososo much to my faithful reviewers and supporters, in no particular order: Morwen O'Conner, Lyo, Shindo, N, BatE, sugar.coated, Melly, Flick, Absolute Alcohol, Olhado, Laureate, VertigoMesmerizer, MiracleChick, Edainme, ShadowCreature, Pyromaniac, Katreon of Team Socket, and last but not least, Katherine.
Additional-er Notes: Go check out the Blind Fish Archive! You can find the link at www.geeky-pirate.net. We're looking forward to you submitting!
Enjoy and Review!!!...please?
--
The next few days passed in a blur. A wacky, mentally disturbing blur. The first venue Antisthenes played at was somewhere in Cleveland--the Agora Theater, I think it was called. It was not as frightening as my first concert-going experience, but I think that that was mostly because I wasn't in the moshpit this time around.
I also got to know the band a little better, which could be either a good thing or a bad one. I think that it was mostly a good one--except for Tabitha's hand trying to periodically snake itself down my waistband--and I might as well chalk it up to a 'life experience.' A life experience imbued with sex, drugs, and rock 'n' roll. I guess what they say is true.
Jubilee and Johnny were particularly forthcoming with information. However, neither of them were too fond of discussing their childhoods; Jubilee ranted a little about her parents but that was all. Most of her tirades about her parents ended up with, "I love them, but y'know, I really, really don't like them." Fascinating, I'm sure. Johnny acted pretty similar when I brought up high school and other childhood experiences. However, he was a little sneakier about it; instead of telling me outright that he didn't feel like talking about it, he changed subjects or cleverly distracted me with something else. Like almost throwing my shoe out the window, which was an entirely too traumatizing experience that I've already blocked from my memory.
Rogue was a subject that I wasn't about to touch with a ten-foot-pole. I was actually planning a twelve-step program to help work up my courage to approach her and ask one or two questions. Or maybe to say, "Please don't hate me. I'm a good person, really. I went to Sunday school for five years when I was little."
Maybe I could ask Forge for help?
Actually, for about two or three days, Forge seemed suspiciously happy. More than before, that is. I suspect that maybe Johnny accidentally did something to Forge's drink or something at one point, but Jean told me that he probably just got laid. I don't think I want to think about Forge getting laid; I've been a little adverse to that ever since I realized that he reminded me of my mother. Who would Forge have sex with anyways?
Anyways, I had achieved a sort of equilibrium with Antisthenes and its crazy agent and financier. Jubilee and Johnny teased me and I more or less didn't let it get to me; Rogue ignored me and I avoided her as much as possible; Tabitha tried to paw me like I was a bar wench, and I dodged her attempts. Everyone was relatively happy with the circumstances. Everyone except for Lance, of course.
Undaunted by my forced neutrality, he continued to be a crass sonuvabitch, making interviewing more difficult than I had ever imagined possible. He kept up his 'one-for-one' idea where I asked a few perfectly legitimate questions and he proceeded to waste my time with a few asinine, obscene ones. He didn't even have the courtesy to try to avoid me either. When I asked him if I could ask him a few questions, he'd either say something like, "These ones'd better not fuckin' suck." or "No. Go away." No matter what, he wouldn't cooperate.
I was going out of my fucking mind.
How was I supposed to write an article about this guy when he was obviously hell-bent on screwing me over?
I was sure that I was going to get cheerfully reamed a week and a half from now by our editor-in-chief. However, then everything changed.
And I'm still trying to figure out if it's a good change or a bad change.
"Summers," I heard someone call from outside my hotel door. Jesus, it was three in the morning. Who in their sane minds would...?
Right. Forget I asked.
I had fallen asleep on top of my notes, which I'd been reviewing. Yeah, not the most exciting part of the creative journalistic process, otherwise known as the 'The things I do for my craft' portion.
Rubbing a hand over my face, I stumbled from my bed and unlatched the door. On the other side was Lance. Just what I need to make my night complete.
"Mr. Alvers," I said groggily, "what are y--?"
"Hey," he held up a case of bottleneck beer, "Wanna get drunk off your ass?"
My initial response was to just say no, since abstinence is the better choice when it comes to substance abuse and screwing and things like that. So far this week, though, I've been touched by a woman more than I have in my entire life, I've gotten thrown into a moshpit, been nearly run over by a Sarah Lee truck, and had a disturbing conversation with Johnny Allerdyce about the benefits of wearing Speedos.
"Sure," I said, even though conventional common sense warned against it. Screamed against it, in fact, but hey, I was tired, traumatized, and I'd pretty much given up any pretense of professionalism.
Lance popped the cap off one bottle and tossed me one behind his back.
Classy.
"Thanks," I said and took a drink before I could use the bottle to bash myself over the head for the absurdity of it all. Yes, Lance and I are frequent drinking buddies, you see. Between Buffalo Wing Wednesdays, Bowling Tournament Thursdays, and Disco Fever Fridays, that is. Every other week, we have a family barbecue, too.
Lance collapsed comfortably on my couch in a lazy sprawl and peered around.
"Your hotel room's crappier than mine," he remarked.
Well, I'm no rock star, but...
"So, uh, why...?" I sat down gingerly in an armchair opposite him.
"Oh, yes," Lance said. "'Why.' Why am I here, why at three in the fuckin' morning; why does shit happen, why are funnel cakes good with chocolate but crap with fruit?"
I stared at him. Was he drunk already?
"Um," I said. I was confused. Asshole.
"Let me ask you somethin', Summers," Lance said.
"It's not your turn," I joked nervously.
"Then I'd like an advance withdrawal from the bank of I Don't Give A Shit," Lance replied with a drawl.
Cute. Don't remember hearing about that in Monopoly.
"Go ahead," I said.
"Why the fuck are you here?"
I blinked, took a gulp of the beer, and winced at the icy burn of it down my throat. I tried to read the label to see what brand it was, but couldn't because the light was too dim.
"Why?" I repeated, baffled. "What do you mean--"
"Obviously you don't give a crap about the music," Lance said dryly, "and I can see you ain't too fuckin' thrilled about traveling to random cities, so what is it? Money?"
"No, it's not for the money," I replied sharply. "I wouldn't do this for money."
"Then what's the fuckin' point?" Lance asked, actually seeming somewhat interested. Well, maybe he didn't, since he was more concerned with the condensation on his beer bottle.
"It's hard to explain," I said, unwilling to spill my guts to someone who I'd just spent the better part of the week hating.
"Why don't you try anyway," Lance suggested.
"I think I'd rather put in a deposit," I said mildly.
"Where?" Lance was peeling the label off of his bottle now.
"The bank," I said.
"Of I Don't Give A Shit?" Lance seemed amused.
"Yes, that one," I said.
"Your transaction has been rejected," Lance said.
"Why?" I asked, perturbed that we'd been talking for some time now about an imaginary bank that existed only in Lance's head.
"New policy," Lance explained. "You can only withdraw."
"That can't be good for the bank," I observed.
"Well, they don't give a shit," Lance grinned.
"Jesus," I said.
"Fuckin' Christ," Lance finished for me. He reached for another beer.
"Let me ask you another question," he said, popping off the lid and flicking it at me. He had suprisingly good aim for a stoned, psychopathic alcoholic.
"What?" I asked.
"What makes you think you're fuckin' good enough to write about other people?"
"What?" I stared at him, open-mouthed and stunned.
"Y'know--develop your little fuckin' opinions from your little fuckin' cubicle about shit you'd never even fuckin' understand 'cause you think it's so goddamned beneath you."
"I don't," I said, outraged. "We don't. We're just trying to write about--"
"What, the fuckin' truth?" Lance snorted in disbelief and tipped his bottle back, effectively draining half of it.
"The truth," he said then, eyeballing the bottle, "can kiss...my...ass."
Intelligent.
"How would you know what it's like to be a journalist?" I demanded. "You say I presume to know what it's like for other people--which I don't--"
"Bullshit," Lance said.
"--and you're talking like you know what--"
"Hey, hey, I don't fuckin' presume anythin', yeah, Summers? I don't fuckin' write articles about people, do I?"
Lance balanced his bottle on one knee for a moment before catching it by the neck as it swayed.
"That's what it comes down to," Lance said. "Being a little fuckin' snot and writing like you know every-fuckin'-thing."
"That's not true," I argued, a little louder than I intended.
"Blow me," Lance said.
"What the hell is wrong with you?" I exclaimed. "All I'm trying to do is write a--an article featuring your band! Why won't you just cooperate?"
It was like he was some kind of paranoid chimp or something!
"Why the fuck should I cooperate?" Lance asked, leaning back, dropping his now empty bottle on the floor, and rolling it under his foot. "Why should I fuckin' cooperate when you're gonna sit here, play nice, then go back and pretend like you fuckin' know me?"
"It's my job," I said, the only word in my head repeating over and over: Bastard, bastard, bastard. Jesus, I hated him. I hated him.
"It's your job?" Lance laughed out loud. "Your job is to fuckin' get to know me? Well, I'm tellin' you right now, Summers--you might know where I'm born, who my parents were, what my middle name is--all this fuckin' shit, but you don't know the first fuckin' thing about me."
"Yeah?" I asked, not knowing what else to say.
"Yeah," Lance said harshly, leaning forward.
"You're a jackass," I said, practically shaking from anger.
"Fuck you," he said.
And then we kissed.
...
And kissed and kissed and kissed.
Holy fucking Jesus.
Holy fucking Jesus Christ.
"Mr.--Alvers," I said finally when I could breathe again.
Don't panic.
"Hey, I think you're crushin' the beer," he said very nonchalantly.
I was in his lap, my hand braced on top of the case of beer he'd brought.
Don't panic. Happy things--bunnies, ducks, babies--babies? Spooky--Don't panic.
"O-oh," I said and shifted off of him. He followed me with his eyes. I rubbed at my mouth.
"Um-m," I said.
Oh, fuck. Fuck. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
"That bad?" he asked, half-smirking.
"Uh-h," I said.
No, it really wasn't. Which was bad. Very, very, very--
"Hmm," Lance said, uncapped another bottle of beer, and gave it to me. He looked at me strangely before saying slowly,
"I'm gonna go to bed now."
"Okay," I said.
He wandered into the bedroom where I heard him take off his shoes, drop them on the carpet, and then silence.
I looked down. Parts of me were doing happy things that had nothing to do with bunnies, ducks, or spooky babies.
"Jesus," I muttered and threw back the bottle, downing almost half of the beer at once.
"Jesus."
I woke up the next morning with a headache the size of Manhattan, a half-empty bottle of beer on my stomach, and Lance's hand down my pants.
"What the hell are you doing!?" I yelped and immediately wished I hadn't. My head spun so much I was practically seeing funhouse mirrors.
Lance rolled his eyes, his hand actually groping around under my pants.
"You're sittin' on my room key, asshole," he said.
"Shit," I mumbled and rolled off the couch onto the empty cardboard beer case. Apparently, my common sense had eloped with my sense of logic and my idiocy had decided to have a party without them.
Then I remember last night and began panicking.
"Christ, you're just fuckin' peachy in the morning," Lance commented almost cheerfully.
He flung himself into the armchair, snagged the complimentary cashew mix off the coffee table, and started tossing them up and catching them in his mouth. Like a seal.
A smirking, sonuvabitch seal.--Hey, alliteration.
Jesus, I was never going to drink again.
I pushed myself up from the floor, swayed, and caught onto the top of the television with difficulty. Lance watched me with amusement.
"Fuck, you really cleaned out, hey?" Lance said, glancing around and kicking an empty bottle. I ran my hand through my hair.
"I'm going to go take a shower," I mumbled.
"Have fun," he called after me with a snicker.
Bastard.
I managed to stop hyperventilating long enough to take a shower, pack, and reach the lobby without having an epileptic seizure. So far so good.
"Scottyboy!" Johnny was a morning person, apparently. I generally was, too. When I wasn't nursing the mother of all hangovers, that is.
"Mr. Allerdyce," I said.
"It's Johnny," He reminded me, slugging me playfully in the shoulder.
Ow.
"Man, you look like shit," he said cheerfully.
Thanks, I know I'm stunning after eight restful hours of beauty sleep--as opposed to five hours, four of which were spent passed out, dehydrated from an obscene amount of cheap beer, that is.
"Rough night," I said.
"Ooh, get lucky?" Johnny asked with a squirrelly grin.
I blanched and squeaked, "No-o-o."
"Was she cute?" Johnny elbowed me in the ribs.
"No, I--" I began when I was interrupted by Lance, who drawled,
"She was hot as fuckin' hell."
Bastard!
Johnny whooped and thumped me on the back a few times. I tried to ignore him and poured a cup of the complimentary coffee. It actually fossilized my tongue upon contact, the coffee, and I made a face.
"What was her name?" Johnny was gleefully asking Lance.
"Lauren," Lance said, smirking at me.
"Blonde?" Johnny grinned. I couldn't tell if he knew Lance was bullshitting or not.
"Brunette," Lance answered, kicking his heels back and on top of the stack of magazines on the coffee table that was between two couches arranged to mimic a living room in the lobby.
"She wasn't at all what I thought she was like," I said, attempting to be venomous but only succeeding to sound slightly prissy.
I'm going home right now to self-flagellate.
"And what did you think she was like?" Lance asked, turning to look at me. He was smirking.
"I thought that she was a self-righteous b--itch," I said flatly, "And--well, I guess I was right, actually."
Johnny started laughing. He grinned at me and I grinned back, but stopped when I looked back at Lance. Instead of smirking or retorting back with some half-assed insult, he was just looking at me. He didn't seem upset or anything, but he was just...looking at me. I coughed and tried to look away, but I kept getting distracted and looking back at him.
Finally, he leaned forward a little and said, very clearly and very slowly:
"Summers?"
"Ye-s?" I asked, finding the tile ceiling very interesting all of a sudden. Hey, look. It's three shades lighter than the, uh, light blue in our office. Intriguing.
I looked back at him. He arched an eyebrow.
"How's your headache?"
"Um, better," I said.
He stretched a little. "Too bad."
I blinked.
"Hey there, kiddies!" Tabitha swaggered in, wearing a black pinstripe suit, sunglasses, and a matching cherry-red tie, heels and beret. She looked like a mime who had turned to the sinful ways of the Italian mafia. Must be the beret.
She tipped her sunglasses so that she could look over them. "We're loading the bus now--hey, Jubes-sweetie! John-John, Lancers, Sc-ottypie--so get some breakfast and meet you on in fifteen!"
Johnny mock-saluted, and she clicked her heels together, winked, and did a sharp military turnabout before leaving the lobby, marching.
"Man, oh, man," Johnny moaned, "I'm gonna marry that chick someday."
He laughed, slapped Lance in the shoulder with the back of his hand, and pointed at him, "I'm dyin' for a bagel. You want I should getcha one?"
"Nah," Lance said and glanced over to the other couch. "Jubes?"
I hadn't noticed Jubilee before, mostly because she had managed to curl herself up like a shrimp. She was wearing a neon green hoodie, so I'm surprised I didn't see her.
She unfurled, yawned widely, and rubbed carefully at one eye, making sure not to smudge the matching green eyeshadow there.
"Mmcereal," she said sleepily.
Johnny bounded over to her like an obnoxious Jack Russell and threw her over his shoulder, one arm locked behind her knees. Jubilee just crossed her arms on his shoulder, pillowing her chin on them, and waved to us as they left.
"Um," I said and tentatively waved back.
When they had gone, I looked back at Lance and started hyperventilating again.
"You know," I said, "we should get something to eat, breakfast being the best medicine and all."
"That's laughter," Lance said.
"Wouldn't you like some fruit? Fruit's good--fresh."
"How the fuck did you get laughter and breakfast confused, you dildo?"
"How about toast? Toast is...toasty."
"Love, I could understand. Hell, anything but breakfast."
"Pancakes?"
Lance quirked an eyebrow and I stopped babbling. Jesus, just get me out of here.
"So," he drawled, "you think I'm a self-righteous bitch, yeah?"
"Um," I said.
He stood up crossed the room and was soon only a few feet from me. He looked at me for a minute, apparently unimpressed.
"Y'know, you really are just a fuckin' prude," he said.
"Oh," I said. "Scotch tape."
What?
He stared at me. "What?"
"I don't know," I said. "But they say you can tell if someone's a prude by, uh, whether or not they reuse scotch tape dispensers."
"With your track record with idioms, I'm pretty sure you're fuckin' this one up, too," Lance said.
"No," I said, "it's--scotch tape."
"How the fuck is that even possible?"
"You get a new roll," I said, gesticulating. "And-and you stick it on the, uh...dispenser-thing."
"A new roll," Lance said flatly.
"Yes."
"That you stick on the...dispenser-thing."
"Yep," I fidgeted. "Sounds right."
"What if you have one o'those cheapass plastic ones?"
"Same difference," I said nervously.
"Oh, same difference," he said, mocking my scotch-tape wisdom.
"You really are a jackass," I said.
"So're you," he said agreeably.
And I kissed him.
Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck.
I could hear my little Kurt-voice that pops up every time I do something stupid, and it was telling me that it was confused because I'd said the word 'fuck' more in the space of less than a day than I had in my entire life. It was also telling me that this was a very fucking good kiss. And that, like an idiot, I had forgotten to breathe.
"Jesus," I said, but it came out as 'Jebuthh' because I'd forgotten to actually disentangle my lips from Lance's before I'd started talking again.
"Are you noticing a vicious cycle here?" Lance asked. "Y'know, insult-kiss, insult-kiss?"
"This has only been the second time," I said.
"Asswipe," he said.
"Bastard," I said.
He pushed me against the reception counter and slid his fingers through my hair and I wrapped an arm around his shoulder and another around his waist and we kissed. A lot.
"Oh, shit," I said.
"Good shit or bad shit?" he wondered rhetorically.
I braced my arms on the counter to keep myself upright. My knees had stopped functioning somewhere around the time Lance had untucked my oxford, and now I was having trouble breathing. I glanced up and he said decisively, eyeing me,
"Chicken-shit."
"Jackass," I said shakily.
"You've already said that one," he said.
"Jackass," I repeated, and he kissed his way down my neck and I had my mouth against his ear when I heard Johnny cavorting down the hallway, singing loudly and off-key,
"I wanna be an airborne ranger!"
"Jesus," I muttered and Lance pulled away from me. He quirked an eyebrow.
"Dipshit?" he tried.
I glared at him and redid the top three buttons of my shirt he had managed to unfasten. He spread his hands, shrugging as if to say, 'Hey, brownie points for effort?', and I couldn't help but laugh a little.
"I'm beginning to think that this is an unhealthy relationship," I joked.
"Oh, so there's a relationship now?" he asked, half-smirking again.
I froze.
"Do you wanna be an airborne ran-nger, too?!" Johnny yelled, swinging around Lance and airguitaring.
"Is that the only line you know?" Lance snickered.
"C'mon, man," Johnny said loudly and cheerily. "C'mon, dude!"
He jogged off and Lance rolled his shoulders, walking after him. He had his hands in his jeans pockets and he slouched a little as he walked. I stared after him.
"Uh, yes?" I said dumbly, a little too late since Lance was already out by the tourbus now.
I ran my hand through my hair and licked my lips once.
That bastard. I think I want him.
"J-Jean?"
"Hi, Scott! I have mono."
Sigh. "Oh, Jesus..."
"Ha. I think half the office is coming down with mono, actually."
"Jean."
"Oh, come on! You don't feel sorry for the guy, do you?"
"No, but we do have a newspaper to publish."
A pause. "Oh, yeah."
"Jean."
"Hm. That's your 'I just spilled half my Pepsi on myself' Jean, isn't it?"
"What?"
"Well, every time you say 'Jean' this certain way, it usually means you screwed something up really badly--oh, my God, you're not stranded somewhere because they kicked you off the bus, are you?!"
"Shut up!"
"Okay, I guess not." Giggle.
Grumble. "It's worse."
"UFO encounter?"
"Something like that."
"What?" Bewilderment. "I was kidding."
"It only works if you think about it as UFO encounter leads to probing which leads to--"
"God, you had sex, didn't you!?"
"Ow! Would you lower your voice?--And, no, I didn't!"
"Then what? Probing?"
"Jesus. Okay, well...I...I sort of...um..." Quick mumble.
"You fished?"
"I kissed."
"You kissed a fish?"
"No! I--"
"You wished you kissed a fish dish?"
"...I'm sure you think you're very funny, but the truth is that you're not."
Small laugh. "Okay, okay, I'm sorry. You kissed what?"
Mumble.
"Dance? You kissed a danc...ing...fish?"
"No!"
"Well, all I heard was 'kiss' and something that ends in '-ance,' which could only b--...Oh, my God."
"Yeah."
"...Scott."
"Yeah."
"You--?"
"Uh-huh."
"...You realize what this means, don't you?'
"My entire career is shot. I'm going to be known as the Wallstreet slut!"
"Scott..."
"I'll have to go work for Fox news because no one else will want me!"
"Scot--"
"I'm ruined!"
"Okay, Mr. My Byline Says Melodrama, first of all, your career won't be ruined, and second of all, you're forgetting the more dire implication of your steamy little make-out session with our favorite little rock 'n' sex star."
"What?"
"He's gay."
"...Well, bi, I'd say."
"You mean you don't know?!"
"I didn't ask."
"Why not?"
"Well, how the hell was I supposed to do that?! 'Say, could you remove your tongue from my throat for a second? I'd like to ask you about your sexuality.'"
"Oh, whatever! It doesn't matter. All that matters is that all his fangirls are going to be pissed."
"Great. That's just great."
"Scott, are you serious about this?"
"I'm not joking, if that's what you mean."
"No, I mean, are you and Lance...uh...you know?"
"What? No! I mean, uh--I-I don't know!"
A pause. "Huh. Oh, well."
"What's that supposed to mean?"
"I mean, you still get to make out with him, right?"
"Jean!"
"Well, you do."
"Jean, that's beside the point!"
"...Aww."
"...What?"
"You're flustered."
"I am not!"
"You like him."
"On the contrary, I think he's a conniving sonuvabitch."
"Ouch. That's harsh."
Sigh. "Anyways, I have to go now. I'll call you later?"
"Please do. It'd be even better if you could give me all the details about th--"
"Good-bye, Jean."
"But...!"
"Good-bye!"
"Off to Wisconsin now," Forge said cheerfully when I got back in the passenger side. We pulled away from the rest stop with a loud rumble.
"Wisconsin?" I asked.
I hadn't known that people visited Wisconsin for things other than relatives.
"Yeah, trippy, isn't it?" Forge started whistling a jaunty tune.
Wasn't Wisconsin the cheese state?
"How long are we staying in, uh, Wisconsin?"
"Probably just a day," Forge replied.
Surprise, surprise. You mean there aren't any exciting nightlife attractions deep in the heart of Wisconsin's throbbing cities? I was reminded of Ohio (1).
"Huh," I said.
Forge hummed idly, and I glanced at him, suspicious. He seemed disturbingly chipper.
"Have a good night's sleep?" I asked mildly.
"Mm-hmm," Forge nodded slightly, still humming under his breath.
I peered outside, trying not to think about Lance and our maybe-sort-of-kind-of relationship.
I think investigative journalism could wait one day.
Yeah. Sounds about right.
We reached the venue in Wisconsin at a reasonably sane time--about six in the evening or so. It was, uh...small.
"Babies, how's everything going?" Tabitha cried when she clambered down from the small luxury car that she and Mr. Xavier had been traveling in. I watched her with resentment. Why didn't she have to travel with her crazy band?
"Peachy keen," Johnny said brightly. He looked a little wilted--something, I learned later from Jubilee, that was attributed to his being locked in the back with Rogue for an hour and a half--but regained his usual peppiness once he saw the venue. Rats.
"Oi, Tabs, we've almost got the stage up," said a girl with short, choppy blonde hair in two small pigtails. I hadn't seen her before, since usually I didn't venture backstage. However, from the looks of the place, the backstage was probably as big as the tourbus. How roomy?
The girl--Lanie, I'm assuming--seemed to have a permanent scowl on her violet lips. She was wearing a denim jumpsuit and thick, orange, rubber gloves. Her arms were crossed over her chest and she held a wrench in one hand. For a split second, I was afraid she was going to throw it at someone.
"Ah, perfect, perfect," Tabitha gushed, throwing an arm around the Lanie's shoulders. "And where's our favorite little Tinkerbell?"
Lanie snorted, untangled herself from Tabitha's arm, and yelled, "Hey, Weasel!"
The mechanic formerly known as Tinkerbell?
I saw a short boy with tousled, slightly spiky black hair jog in. Resting on top of his head was a pair of large goggles. He also had a gray bandanna tied as a headband around his forehead, which he pulled off as he approached us so that it hung around his neck like a scarf. Like Lanie, he was wearing a denim jumpsuit and thick rubber gloves, but instead of a wrench, he had a big box of tools. It seemed very heavy, because his shoulders were pulled down to a hunch and he looked a little off-balance because of it. He toddled over to us and grinned brilliantly. I stared at him.
Jesus, the kid looked like...well, a kid. He couldn't've been more than eighteen, nineteen years old!
Sweatshop labor?
He breathed a sigh of relief as he carefully set the box on the ground, pulled off one glove with difficulty, and held out his hand,
"Scott Summers?" he asked tentatively, still smiling.
"Um, that's right," I said, shook his hand.
"I'm Weasel," Weasel said brightly and politely, "and this is Lanie. Nice to meet you."
"Introductions!" Tabitha crowed, clapping Weasel on the back. "You're such a cutiepie, darling."
Weasel smiled indulgently and shook his slightly damp bangs out of his eyes.
"How's the stage set-up goin'?" Johnny asked, leaning an elbow on Weasel's shoulder.
"Oh, just fine," Weasel said, made a face, then added with excitement, "Well, they've got some real ancient stuff in here that's completely incompatible with our equipment, so we've got to take some transistors and build a conduit to leak off the excess electricity and..."
Johnny turned Weasel around, arm still on his shoulder, and steered him toward the concert hall as Weasel continued on, apparently intrigued.
"Wow, that's great, kid," I heard Johnny say with amusement, and Lanie, who was trailing behind the two of them, rolled her eyes.
I blinked.
"Met Weasel, hey?" Lance said from beside me. I started and moved away from him, hyperventilating.
"Uh, yeah. How old is he?"
"Nineteen," Lance said, "I think. He's only barely fuckin' legal."
He grinned. "When he first joined us, we had to get permission slips for this guy. Crazy, hey?"
"Yeah," I said. "Crazy."
He arched an eyebrow at me.
"What're you bitchin' to yourself about now?" he asked.
"What? I--nothing," I said, bewildered.
Lance rolled his eyes. "You've been acting fucked-up since yesterday." He paused. "Well, you've always been fucked-up, y'know, but...moreso."
"I'm not--!" I protested.
Lance buzzed at me.
Yes, he actually buzzed.
How?
"End of story," Lance said. "Sorry, but the voting booth is closed."
"Wha--"
"Please come back tomorrow, and pull the fuckin' lever," he said, and promptly scaled the side of the tour bus. I stared after him. I heard a loud thump as he went ahead and sprawled on the top of the tour bus, humming loudly, his head pillowed on his crossed arms.
Jesus, this guy was crazy! Of course, that was no news, but still.
I heard the driver's side door slam and Forge emerged from the other side of the bus, glancing about furtively.
"Forge?" I asked, confused.
"Scott," he said pleasantly enough, then: "Have you seen Weasel?"
"Oh, I just met him," I said, turning to gesture at the concerthall, which was labeled 'Rosalindj.' How coherent. "He went to finish setting up, I think."
"Oh," Forge said vaguely, "thanks."
"Are you--?" I began, but he just walked past me and disappeared through the back door.
"--okay?" I finished pointlessly.
Why was everyone acting so strange today? Johnny, Jubilee and Tabitha were the only ones who were--dare I say it--somewhat normal. And that's just not right.
I glanced back at the bus and Lance's tennis-shoe-clad foot, which was the only visible part of him, and sighed.
Sometimes I hate myself.
I scrambled noisily up the hood of the bus--nearly falling and saved only by my quickly grabbing a windshield wiper--and plunked myself down uneasily on the roof of the bus. My legs were dangling off the side and I was clutching the railing on the sides just a little too tightly. I felt like I was about to puke up a new flavor of chunky oatmeal.
I'm just a little afraid of heights.
Just a little.
Lance, on the other hand, was on his back, his arms crossed under his head and his eyes closed. He seemed to be resting peacefully, the bastard.
"I'm not fucked-up," I said after a moment.
I watched him closely.
"Hmm," Lance said.
"And I'm not fucked-up about yesterday, either," I added. He didn't reply.
"Are you asleep?" I asked, annoyed, after waiting for several minutes.
"Hmmmm," he said intelligently.
"Jesus," I muttered.
I was just about ready to climb back down when I heard him ask groggily,
"Why do you always say that?"
I frowned and turned back toward him,
"Say what?"
"'Jesus.' You say it every fuckin' five minutes." He hadn't opened his eyes or even moved.
"I don't know," I admitted at length. "I guess I just do."
"Hmm," he said again. "Isn't that blasphemous?"
"What?" I asked.
"Ye of fuckin' Christian faith," Lance elaborated. "Don't you, y'know, get your fuckin' eyes plucked out by divine fire or whatever if you take God's name in vain?"
"Well," I said, "I'm not very religious."
Lance rolled over so that he was on his side, and he looked at me.
"Are you shittin' me?" he asked flatly. "You? Scott Joe-John-Jack-Bob Summers? I thought you'd be the one who was a fuckin' altarboy when you were little."
I was quiet.
"I got kicked out," I said finally.
He snorted incredulously. "You can't get kicked out of the fuckin' church."
"You want to bet?" I challenged. "I got kicked out."
"For what?" Lance asked, sneering. "You read the Bible so much you decided you were gonna fuckin' correct the reverend?"
"No, I...I, well, I..." I coughed and mumbled in as low a voice as I could manage.
Lance blinked.
"What?" he asked, baffled.
"Drunk," I said, annoyed for having to repeat myself. "I got drunk."
He arched an eyebrow. "No fuckin' kidding?"
"It was a dare," I said defensively.
"A dare," Lance repeated skeptically.
I glared at him.
"They said I wouldn't do it," I said, "and I did."
"Yeah, you showed them," Lance snickered. "Do you realize how fuckin' lame and unoriginal that is?"
"Shut up," I said, glowering.
Lance started laughing, continuing as if he hadn't heard me, "You can't even be badass without being a fuckin' prude...!"
I frowned and tried to ignore him. He was on his back now, chuckling to himself.
"It's not that funny," I said mildly.
"You should write a fuckin' article about it," he rasped in reply.
I opened my mouth to retort when the whole situation struck me as irrepressibly hilarious. I was sitting on top of a tourbus with a rock star--who I'd made out with several hours before--talking about how I'd gotten kicked out of church.
It was like a bad dream after a night of indigestion, and I had no doubt that the bus might be interpreted as Freudian.
Without much thought, I scooted back so that I was sitting next to him and stretched out my legs.
"Tried-and-true methods of delinquency," I quipped experimentally, "for all nonconformist punks."
Lance banged his hand against the roof and practically cackled.
"That's alright, Summers," he said, grinning. "That's okay."
I smiled nervously. I wasn't sure why Lance had been so inexplicably amused, but it was nice not getting insulted. I snuck a look at him out of the corner of my eye and wish I hadn't.
He was watching me, a faint smile still on his face.
I started hyperventilating again. Which must've been obvious, because Lance commented not-so-helpfully,
"If you keel over from shortness of breath, I'd like to remind you that it's pretty fuckin' far to the ground."
"I'm not going to keel over," I told him archly.
"Sure," he said, and I bristled, but for some reason I didn't feel too irritated.
So we just sat there. Well, I sat there, and he just lied down on his back and hummed to himself. I might've found it boring at another time, but for some reason, I didn't mind it nearly as much. It must've been all the beer from the night before.
Or maybe it was Lance's hand on my knee.
Oh, Jesus. I think I really do want him.
"Jump up, bubble up, what's in stor-r-re," Johnny crooned. He leapt up and grabbed a metal bar that was hanging a few feet above his head, swinging on it for a few minutes before letting go and bowling into Lance.
"Motherfucker," Lance scowled and shoved him into a fusebox.
Johnny laughed, and I heard Weasel's voice drift over to us from the catwalk up above,
"Please watch the microphones, Johnny! They're fragile--" he cut off abruptly, and I heard him laugh softly a moment later, talking to someone else in a low voice. I briefly considered being bewildered, but I figured that I had expended too much energy on being confused and disturbed today already.
"Where're we going now?" I asked.
"Outta this goddamned state, hopefully," Lance muttered while Jubilee said firmly, "We're goin' for dinner."
"Jubes is fragile," Johnny teased, hopscotching over to her and pulling on one of her helter-skelter pigtails.
"Villainous fiend!" Jubilee declared in a high voice with a giggle, and he whooped and dashed off. She hopped a few times, tugging one of her sea-green pumps off, and ran after him, brandishing it.
I grinned ruefully, watching the flap of her yellow raincoat disappear through the door, and turned to face Lance. He was leaning against the wall, pushing one of the heavy stage curtains with his foot. He looked absolutely bored.
Maybe you can go brood in public, Mr. Alvers? It'll help your rock star reputation...
"Are we gonna make out now?" Lance asked.
Jackass!
I was about to retort angrily when I noticed a crooked little smile on his face. I blinked.
Was he...joking?
Okay, Scott, time to reevaluate the circumstances.
Lance is an asshole. But the bus was fun. Lance is still an asshole. We did make out in the lobby. And that was fun, too. And Lance is an asshole. Lance is the most ass-iest assholes I've ever met in my life. In fact, he's so much of an asshole...he's not?
"Chicken-shit," Lance said, as he was fond to do.
Okay, maybe he was an asshole.
But...in a jokingly asshole-ish way?
"Jesus," I muttered. "I've got a headache."
"Why don't use your scotch tape to--mmph?" Lance suggested.
Mmph? For a minute, I actually tried to figure out what 'mmph' was supposed to mean, but then I realized that whatever he'd been trying to say was muffled anyways because we were kissing.
"I'm tired," I said after we stopped, double-checking to make sure I had room to open my mouth this time.
"I'm thinking of a dirty pick-up line," Lance said, "try to guess what it is."
I glared at him, and he snickered.
"I still don't understand this," I said carefully, dragging my toe on the ground. Hm. Dusty. Mary Poppins would break out her kamikaze umbrella of doom if she saw this.
"Understand what?" Lance asked idly.
I started to reply, but was interrupted by someone gasping something indistinguishable from the catwalk. I peered up, gawking.
"Oh, that's probably just Weasel and Forge," Lance said, still watching me.
"What?!" I asked, startled.
"Y'know, fucking and all that," Lance said.
Wasn't Forge twenty-five?
"F--?!" I said intelligently.
"Oh, sorry," Lance rolled his eyes and said with a grin, "'Making love.'"
I stared at him.
"I said they were fucking once, and Forge got mad at me," Lance explained as if there was nothing wrong. Nothing six-years-difference wrong. Nope. Nothing.
"I--bu--they?"
"Oh, it's fine," Lance said. "Weasel's mom knows. I think. Maybe. Well, we help cover it up since Weasel's mom is a fuckin' fuddy-duddy, anyways."
"Fuddy-duddy?" I asked.
Did this count as sodomy in Texas?
"Yep," Lance said. Then he added, "We'd better leave now, before things get loud."
Of course, handshakes count as sodomy in Texas, right?
"L-loud," I repeated.
I'd like to say that I prefer my handshakes same-sex, and that's that.
"Yep," Lance said again, punched me in the shoulder, and headed out the door in his typical slouch. I watched him go, too shocked to follow him.
There was a loud rattling sound from the catwalk and a rubber-soled shoe fell down and smacked me right in the head.
There was a pause, then I heard someone squeak,
"Sorry!"
"Oh, Jesus," I mumbled, hyperventilating, and hurried after Lance, "Wait!!"
I jogged, catching up to Lance in just a few seconds. He snickered at me when he saw me, and I just shook my head.
"They--I can't believe--"
"I can see that homosexual relationships fuckin' disturb you," Lance said dryly.
"That's so funny," I said. "I laughed so hard that my throat closed up, and I died a small death."
"That wasn't because of a fuckin' laugh," he informed me oh-so-helpfully, "it was bec--"
"I don't do euphemism-talks until the second date," I said.
"Hmm," Lance said and conjectured aloud, "I guess that makes my dirty pick-up line 'That wasn't because of a fuckin' laugh?'"
"I guess that makes my answer to your dirty pick-up line a 'no,'" I replied with a smile.
"I guess I'll have to stay with one-word pick-up lines then," he said.
"Then they won't be lines," I mused.
"You're just a little fucker, aren't you?" he said.
"That one," I said, "was much worse than your other one."
And he laughed.
It startled me, because I hadn't expected him to laugh. It was like on top of the--non-Freudian, by the way--bus; I hadn't expected him to do anything but ridiculing.
But he was laughing.
With me and not at me?
It was too much. I couldn't figure it out, and I couldn't just ask him, right?
Or could I?
I couldn't. I really, really just couldn't. It'd be--disastrous!
"Hey--" Lance started.
"Are we doing things?" I blurted out.
"Fucking?" he asked, confused and taken aback.
"No, I mean, are we a thing?" I panicked. "I mean, I know I'm a thing and you're a thing, but are we a--thing together?"
He stared at me. Then, he said slowly, "I don't really consider myself a fuckin' thing, y'know..."
"You know what I mean," I said, hyperventilating for the umpteenth time today. If I hyperventilated any more, I'd have to go visit my cardiologist and then get myself an Iron Lung.
"No, I really fuckin' don't," he said, quirking an eyebrow.
"I--I mean, are we thinging together?" I asked, blurring my words together.
"Thinging? Did you say thinging?" he asked, staring at me.
"I--oh, forget it," I muttered miserably. "Jackass."
Lance was quiet.
Finally, he said, "I don't know if we're a thing, but we're stuff."
"We're stuff?" I asked. "You can't be stuff. You're either a thing or not."
"Well, why can't we be stuff?" Lance argued. "If I want to be fuckin' stuff, then I'm stuff."
"Okay, then, what's stuff?" I asked.
"Stuff is before thing," he said.
"That's not even English," I said.
"'Thinging' isn't exactly proper Oxford shit either, now is it?" he retorted.
"So we're stuff," I said, "but not a thing?"
"We're going into the thing," Lance said. "I think."
"Maybe?" I asked.
"Sort of?"
"Kind of," I said.
"So we're kind of stuff," Lance said.
"Right before we're a sort of thing?" I suggested.
We looked at each other and promptly started laughing.
"Stuff...thing..." I gasped.
"Like turkey," Lance agreed.
"Stuffing a turkey?" I asked.
"No, stuffing a turkey-thing," he corrected.
"Right," I said. "Stuffing things."
"We're stuffing?" Lance sounded offended. "I'm not fuckin' stuffing."
"I guess you are," I said. "If you're not thinging."
Before I could think about being stuff, I heard Tabitha hollering at the top of her lungs. More precisely, she was hollering,
"Oh, my fucking God, someone's kidnapped Lance!"
"I think they think we fuckin' eloped," Lance said. "Turdbuckets."
"We can't elope," I said. "I don't elope with people who I'm stuff with."
"I guess we'll have to upgrade to thing then," Lance said nonchalantly, and I looked over at him. He was looking straight forward as he walked, a slightly amused expression on his face.
"Yeah," I said and felt a weird little happy bubble in my stomach that may or may not have been the hunger-beast striking. "I guess."
~tbc~
(1) If anyone knows a secret escape route from Ohio, please tell me. Soon. I don't want to get caught within these state borders should Jerry Springer becomes senator, y'know. >.> That would be disastrous. *ph34rs*
