Title: Readme.txt

Part: 5/?

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: A little less humorous than the other chapters toward the end because there's an element of angst, but hey. It was bound to happen at one point or another >.> I like to think we're over that hump in the hill now.

Hey, speaking of humps, you kids are going to love this chapter (; ...I think. ...I hope? ...Er, yes. Look to the chapter title for hints about what happens (;



Additional Notes: My eternal thanks goes to my reviwers and supporters: Morwen O'Conner, N, Olhado, Lyo, Sheendo, BatE, Ishida Kat, MiracleChick, Mercuria, Absolute Alcohol, Edainme, sugar.coated, BackstageMark, Swythangel, Katherine, ShadowCreature, Kit, Katreon of Team Socket, Laureate, Omega Orange, BlackCat9, Melodie and last but not least, Doomkitty1. Thank you to all of you!!



Additional-er Notes: The Blind Fish Archive is officially up and accepting submissions! Please check it out and submit your fic. The link is at www.geeky-pirate.net.



Also, I would just like to say that Morwen O'Conner and I will personally devour the souls of anyone who uses the term "Scance," "Lancott," or any variation thereof. Squishing names together to signify a pairing was not cool when I wrote "Pietrance," and it still isn't. In fact, "Pietrance" was actually a joke. Maybe it would work if we had cool Japanese, multisyllabic names like Taichi and Yamato, but we don't. We have to play with characters whose names are Lance and Scott, and when people put their names together, it sounds like a new kind of foot fungus.


And so we respectfully urge you to please don't do it.


Thanks :D



P.S. "Evietro" works, though. We're not sure why, but it just does. It might have to do with the fact that they have multisyllabic names, but it also has to do with the fact that we heart batE.


Enjoy and Review!!!...please?





--



"You're like a bad detective movie," Lance said amusedly. He was upside down on the couch of my hotel room, his legs thoughtfully taking up the entire back of it. With one hand, he held my hat--one of those detective hats, too; tell me that's not classy--on his head, and with the other, he channel-surfed.

I was sitting at a table directly behind the couch, drinking a glass of milk.

Yes, milk. If I wanted to drink beer, I would've stayed in college for a lot longer--maybe go through and get another major. The culinary arts, maybe?

"How're the grandkids?" Lance asked me, snickering.

I propped my feet up on the back of the couch, ignoring that they were between Lance's, and said mildly,

"They're fine. Betty's going through college right now--you know how it is."

"Betty," he said. "Were you on a fuckin' acidtrip when you named her that one?"

"I didn't name her," I protested.

"What're your kids' names, then?" he asked. "Lucy and Mike?"

"Lucinda and Mikael," I said.

"Your parenting skills suck," Lance said absently, flipping past a Spanish soap opera, a music video of two Japanese girls biking, and settling on porn. I coughed.

"Could we...not watch that?"

"Why?" he asked, his eyes not leaving the television screen. "Your pacemaker's gonna overload and fuckin' set your lungs on fire?"

"That's graphic," I said.

"That's good ol' fuckin' fashioned comedy," he replied with a grin.

"Why are you in my room anyways?" I asked curiously.

"Fucking," he said, still not paying attention to me.

I rolled my eyes. Earlier, he had explained his theory to me that any question--within reasonable parameters--could be answered with 'fucking.'

"How are you?" I asked experimentally.

"Fucking," he said, shifting slightly and spinning my hat briefly on one finger before replacing it on his head.

"The meaning of life?"

"Fucking," he said as if there weren't any other answer possible.

"The reason we exist in this univers--?"

"Fuck-ing." He sat up slightly and grinned at me. I tried not to look at his stomach and settled for wondering if he did sit-ups often, because that looked fairly easy for him.

Hmm. I think I'm going insane.

"This milk really doesn't have the kick it ought to have," I said with distaste, glancing at the cup.

Lance quirked an eyebrow and jerked his head forward, flinging my hat a pathetically short distance before lying down again.

"Ouch," I said. "You threw that so hard at me my kneecaps actually imploded from the impact."

"Blow me, Summers," he said carelessly.

"Hmm," I said, mimicking him.

"Blow me, Summers--" he repeated.

"Oh, blow me-e-e," came from the television. Lance was quiet. I started laughing.

"This just fuckin' confirms my theory," he said.

"Of life being fucking?" I asked, coughing and trying to hide my laughter.

"Well, life's a fuckin' porno, apparently," he said dryly. "Close enough, hey?"

"Close enough," I agreed.

We sat in silence for a while, me looking anywhere but the television, and him staring fixedly--but with some boredom, I'm glad to say--at the screen. Finding nothing interesting on the walls except for a painting that may or may not have been a pear, I resolved for watching him instead. I made a mental note to add that to the list of crazy, inexcusably kitschy things that I've done so far this week: sat in a hotel room watching a rock star watch porn. Brilliant. I'm just full of good ideas.

"Man," he said, sounding almost awed yet mostly snide, "I didn't know you could get your knees so fuckin' high."

"With the right amount of rope, you can do anything," I said. I meant with pulleys. Lance just snickered.

"Rope indeed. They're breakin' out the bondage gear now."

"Bondage?"

"Ha--this is bitchin'."

"What? It's porn."

"Quality entertainment, Summers. Quality."

"You're not serious, are you?"

"I dunno," he stretched a little here and made a small sound that seemed like a yawn, "it makes me laugh."

I stared at him. Was this sleepy Lance?

I grinned.

"Aw," I said. "Little Lancers need a nap?"

"Fuck you," he said, lobbing the remote controller over at me.

I fumbled with it, but managed to catch it. "That nearly fell in my milk, you know."

"You and your fuckin' milk and your fuckin' cookies and your fuckin' Santa Claus," he said with a laugh.

"I'll have you know," I said, "that my fuckin' Santa Claus is the one who gave you your Power Ranger action figures when you were little."

"Man, that shit you're drinkin' must be drugged," he replied, his voice low and almost drowsy. I wondered if that was what he sounded like when he made pillowtalk and suddenly had the absurd mental image of him singing garbage to some woman in a heart-shaped bed.

Wow, Scott. I'm sure that happens every night.

"The shit I'm drinking is healthy," I said, smiling. "Something completely foreign to you, I'm sure."

"Hmm," Lance said.

I loosened my tie and scooted my chair back a little, lifting my legs from the back of the couch and stretching them across onto the other chair opposite of me under the table. I slumped down a little and clasped my hands on my stomach, half-closing my eyes and watching the flickering light of the T.V. on the walls. As pretty as porn can get, I guess.

I was exhausted mentally from mulling over confusing Lance-subjects and physically from all the travel. Vaguely, I wondered if Jean was still awake, even though it was probably around three in the morning in New York presently. Oh, well. Her and Ray were probably at some loud concert, where she was going to pretend she liked the music and then make Ray take her ballroom dancing. I snickered to myself.

Ray. With his mohawk. Ballroom dancing.

Oh, I'm funny when I'm half-asleep.

Yeah. Funny with a mohawk.





I must've dozed off, but when I woke up, it was only starting to get light outside. I stretched, wincing at the stiffness in my arms and neck and hesitantly swung my feet down before getting up and walking groggily to the bedroom. The clock read 6:21--an hour before we were supposed to board the bus. I yawned and rubbed at my eyes. Terrific.

After a nice, warm shower--water pressure is overrated, apparently, to hotels--I was ready for caffeine. My body was awake but my brain was still contemplating the most efficient way to go about counting the number of grains of sand on a beach. First priority: to get a decent cup of coffee. Of course, that may be more difficult that anticipated.

I stumbled into the living-room area, looping my tie, and paused when I caught sight of Lance. Rather, Lance's knees. He was still hanging upside down. I wonder if all the blood rushing to his head has killed him yet?

I cleared my throat.

Nothing.

"Um," I tried.

"Um yourself," Lance replied sleepily. He groaned and sat up with difficulty, his hair tousled from sleeping like a bat. A vampire bat.

A rock-star vampire bat?

"Um," I repeated. He swung his legs down, narrowly missing my head, and switched off the television, which was exploring the fascinating topic of yoga when in the context of sex.

"Guess what I learned while I slept," he said cheerfully. Apparently porn put him in a good mood.

"What?" I asked, picking up my room key from where I'd left it on the table last night.

"The fuckin' lotus position," he sat up the right way now, "allows easier access for th--"

"I don't want to know," I interrupted hastily, and he snickered.

"Too fuckin' much for your delicate mind, yeah?" he asked.

"I'm beginning to think that you're bipolar," I replied.

"It depends on the week." He stood, stretched--no, I did not watch his t-shirt slide up and rumple back down, thank you very much--before rubbing his eyes and muttering,

"Shit."

"Not a morning person?" I guessed.

"This isn't morning," he informed me. "This is really, really, really fuckin' late at night."

"How ever did you survive high school?" I mused aloud.

"I didn't," Lance grinned at me. "I nearly failed--what--eight times?"

"Am I allowed to put that in my article?" I joked. He gave me a strange look.

"I'll see you on the bus, Summers," he said, yawning.

"Where are you going?" I asked without thinking and cringed. Yeah, that's great. Sound like you really are a stalker.

"What kind of journalistic question is that?" he asked, snickering.

"Shut up," I said.

"Well," he said, "might as well use your shower."

"No water pressure," I warned.

"Hmm," he said. "I'll see you on the bus, Summers."

"You're dumping me for water pressure?" I asked, joking nervously.

"No," he smirked. "I'm dumping you so I can masturbate in peace."

And he left. I stared after him.

"That was a joke," I thought out loud after a moment. "Right?"

"Summers!" I heard Tabitha screech from outside my door, banging on it insistently.

"Is Lance in there?!"

"Uh, n--" I opened the door and staggered back when Tabitha nearly punched me in the face in an attempt to knock some more. "N-o, he's not."

"Was he here last night?!" she peered about.

"Uh, yes?" I blinked.

"I found a fuckin' suicide note taped on his door," she said, seething. "This'd better not be a goddamned prank!"

I heard someone laughing down the hall and a loud,

"Bitchin'."

"I'm gonna kill you," Tabitha declared.

"Not healthy for the band," Lance's voice said. "Not fuckin' healthy at all."

"We'll dub you in," she shrieked, grabbing the customary feedback sheet and clipboard from the wall and darting out into the hall. Jubilee, who'd been directly behind her tottered back a step or two and blearily watched Tabitha tear down past an ice machine and Johnny, who was armed with a toothbrush and a mouth full of foam.

"Huh," Jubilee said.

"A suicide note," I said.

"He got real creative," she said, playing with her hair and smoothing down odd bits. "I think he mentioned something about fantasizing about being sliced to bits by being trapped inside a giant blender."

"I saw something like that in a James Bond flick once," Johnny offered, wandering over.

"Does Mr. Alvers, uh, do...this a lot?" I asked with some measure of disapproval. His idea of a joke was a suicide note?

"Mm-hmm," Jubilee grinned, "Tabitha should know better by now. I think she just freaks out for the hell of it, though."

Sounds like fun. I fly into indescribable rage when I'm looking for a good time, too. "Oh."

Johnny withdrew a crumpled piece of paper from the pocket of his orange cargo-shorts, reading from around his toothbrush, "'And I have no longer a reason for to keep me on this mortal plane.'" He giggled.

"'No longer a reason'?" I repeated. I couldn't help but grin a little.

"He spelled 'mortal' wrong," Jubilee observed, reading over Johnny's shoulder.

"Did not," Lance said, walking by. Apparently, he had escaped Tabitha's unholy fury. "No 'e'?"

"No 'e,' dumbass," Jubilee said, mussing his hair. He yawned.

"Gonna take a shower," he mumbled and wandered off down the hall.

"A suicide note," I said again, incredulous.

"Quality entertainment," Johnny said with a laugh before handing said note to me and heading back to his own room. Didn't Lance say that when we were talking about porn? Jesus, there are so many things wrong with that sentence, the biggest problem being the word 'porn.'

Jubilee shrugged when I looked at her in askance, so I just hung onto the note, folding it carefully and putting it in my jacket pocket.

I grabbed my suitcase and headed down for the lobby. When I got there, Tabitha was sitting in a plush armchair. She seemed to be in high spirits.

"Um, Ms. Smith," I said.

"'morning, 'morning, Scottyboy," she said cheerfully. I stared at her.

Okay, so everyone was bipolar.

"How are you?" I asked politely.

"Fabulous," she said and gestured at a table off to the side; "Want some coffee, sweetheart?"

"Thank you," I said and carefully set down my suitcase down on the sofa, thinking about how it was bizarre how every hotel we've been to so far has tried to emulate someone's living room. It was beginning to make me nervous--it was like the hotel was saying, 'Stay here. Forever.'

Okay, Scott. Just drink some coffee, then maybe you'll feel less like a nasally whiny high school girl in a bad horror movie.

I poured myself a cup and downed half of it before I realized it tasted like crap.

"Blegh," I said.

"You could scrub pans with this shit," Lance said. I turned to face him. He'd just come down, fresh from a shower from the looks of it.

I made a sound and glared at the cup of coffee in my hand.

"You could use it to clean bathtubs," I said with distaste.

"Y'know, people always say that with bad coffee," he said. "I wonder what good coffee would be described as?"

"Going with that analogy," I said, "good coffee would be setting a dryer on tumble."

He eyed me. "You really are gay, aren't you?"

"Shut up," I said. "And what do you think you are?"

He threw a grin at me that was no doubt supposed to be charming: "Alternative."

"Hey, the Alternation," Johnny said, hopping in on one foot. "I love that radio station."

He propped his other foot on Lance's knee and leaned down to tie the shoelaces.

"Get off me, asshole," Lance said.

"Suck it," Johnny replied brightly, finished tying his shoe and kicked Lance's shin. Lance rolled his eyes and shoved Johnny, who tumbled over an armchair and made a great show of yelling and gasping in pain.

"Are you sure you didn't hurt him terribly?" I asked mildly.

"Not fuckin' terribly, no," Lance replied offhandedly.

"Where're the donuts?" I heard Johnny ask before trotting off to the complimentary breakfast area.

"Complimentary everything," I thought out loud.

"Fuck this complimentary shit," Lance muttered, peering into a styrofoam cup of his own. "I'd kill for a decent cup of coffee."

"I would, too," I agreed emphatically.

"Well," Lance tossed his sludge into a trashbin, "we could go AWOL."

He grinned at me. I carefully arched an eyebrow.

"AWOL? In Wisconsin?"

"You're right," he said after a moment's thought, "we'd be caught in a fuckin' second. Hey," he slapped me in the shoulder with the back of his hand, "we're going AWOL in Detroit, though."

Sounds fun.

I sighed and was about to finish drinking my coffee when I noticed something hiding behind one of the potted plants. Someone, that is. I frowned and turned to get a better look, but all I caught was a flash of blue and gray.

Hmm. Very curious.

Though, of course, I suppose nothing should surprise me anymore.





"Are we there yet?" Johnny asked.

"No." Forge drummed out a rhythm on the steering wheel.

"Are we there yet?" Jubilee cupped her chin in her palms and watched the back of Forge's head.

"No," Forge replied patiently.

"Are we there yet now?" Johnny hopped from foot to foot.

"No."

"Now?" Jubilee played with her fringe necklace.

"No."

"Now?" Johnny tried to lick his own elbow. I wondered if anyone had told him that it was physically impossible. Then again, that's probably why he was trying it.

"No." Forge started humming quietly to himself.

"You're both idiots," Lance said, poking his head through the door in the partition.

"We're bored," Jubilee explained very calmly.

"Go be bored somewhere where I can't hear you," Lance replied.

"Rock city Detroit?" Johnny asked hopefully, looking at Forge.

"No," Forge said.

"We've still got a couple of hours," I said mildly.

"Hours," Johnny said with disgust.

"Hey," Jubilee said, paused dramatically, then asked, "are we there yet?"

"No," Forge said.

"Are we there yet, are we there yet, are we there yet, are we there yet, are we there yet, are we there yet?"

"C'mon, Summers," Lance said, rolling his eyes.

"Okay," I said immediately and tried not to look at Forge and the Peanut Gallery.

Six years.

I wonder if he knows I know?

It's not like I have a big problem with it, I just don't feel comfortable when I know about other people's private lives.

Other people's private lives involving six years difference.

"Hey, Lance," Forge said pleasantly, "can I talk to Scott for a minute?"

"No," Lance replied good-naturedly.

"Later then," Forge said.

"Forge, Forge, Forge," Johnny chirped.

"Yes, yes, yes?" Forge reached up and adjusted the rearview mirror.

"Are we there yet, are we there yet, are we there yet?" Jubilee and Johnny chimed.

"No..."

Lunatics, all of them.

Lance closed the door firmly and flung himself into an amorphous beanbag chair. I watched him nervously. Last night seemed so far away. Mostly because we had left the hotel several dozen miles behind.

"So," I said. "Um, I should--I need to ask you a few more questions."

Lance quirked an eyebrow and spread his hands.

"Uh," I fumbled with my notebook, "So--"

"Actually," Lance said, "it's my turn, isn't it?"

"Okay," I said, not bothering to keep track anymore. Too much energy. Too...much energy.

Jesus, I needed a vacation. Or a raise. Maybe both?

"Are we gonna fuck or what?" he asked.

I stared at him. I was too far gone and I'd gotten too used to him to even be offended.

"Okay," I said again.

"Hmm," Lance said. "That's no fun."

"No fun? What the hell is that supposed to mean?" I asked, annoyed.

I was beginning to feel less and less like a sacrificial virgin about to lose all innocence and more and more like a small rabbit caught in a hunting trap being poked at for fun. Cruel fun. Cruel, spooky fun, because rabbits are generally creepy.

"You didn't flip out or anythin'," Lance said, smirking.

"Asshole," I muttered.

"Is that gonna be in your article?"

"Shut up," I said.

"I'm hurt," he said.

I straddled his lap without even thinking about what I was doing, and then we were kissing. It still confused me, but I placated my sense of decency for the time being with a friendly reminder that we were technically 'stuff.' A very friendly reminder. In fact, you could say that Lance's hand on my ass also gave a friendly reminder. Hel-lo...

There was a clattering sound from the back and I yelped, rolled off of him, and made a small squeaking sound when he simultaneously tried to do the same. And landed right back on top of me, of course.

"Oops," he said unapologetically.

"Asshole," I hissed. "Get off me."

"Hey, you started it," he said, making himself comfortable.

The hatch in the back opened to a no doubt disturbing scene of Lance lounging on top of me, pretending to have the time of his life.

Bastard.

"Hey, Rogue," he said cheerfully.

Oh, crap. Rogue?!

A shadow slanted us and I wanted to cry. Without moving, I could see a bit of fishnet out of the corner of my eye. I wonder if you can strangle someone with that stuff?

"This is Scott," Lance continued, ruffling my hair.

"Hate you," I muttered.

"Now, where's my good journalist?" Lance snickered. "Is he crabby today? Is he?"

"Oh, shut up," I said.

"He's really crabby," he told Rogue. Jesus, she didn't even move. She was like a goddamned statue or something. Then again, most statues aren't obscenely frightening.

A gargoyle, perhaps?

Finally, I heard her walk over to the other sofa and sit down, then the sound of a magazine or a book open with the crinkling of pages.

I shoved at Lance's shoulder.

"Jesus, you're smothering me," I said, annoyed.

"With love," he cackled and promptly didn't move.

"Hate you," I repeated with gusto.

Lance slid off of me then and stood, asking graciously,

"Could we use the back room, Rogue?"

Rogue waved her hand flippantly without even looking up from her book. Lance grabbed my tie and yanked me with him through the hatch.

"You--are a jackass," I said sharply as he closed and locked the back door. I readjusted my tie and thought mean things about him.

"Hey," he said then, grinning crookedly and uncharacteristically, "I want you."

You--?

"Oh," I said in a small voice.

I glanced around. How convenient--a bed in the corner.

"Oh," I repeated, then reached up to undo my tie.

Jesus.

Why the hell not?





"What're you doing?"

"Having an after-sex smoke." A small stream of gray curled under my nose and I sneezed.

"Well, stop it."

"Blow me."

"Already did."

"Ha--clever."

A rustle of bedsheets.

"I thought people smoked for the rush, anyways."

"We do."

"Well...didn't you already get a rush?"

"This is a different rush."

Mildly, "Yes, this rush causes cancer."

More rustling.

"Ow! You kicked me!"

"You pansy."

"You kicked me."

"Do you want me to say sorry and kiss it better?"

"Oh, shut up."

Content sigh. Rustle.

"...What the fuck're you doing?"

"Reading an after-sex magazine."

"...National Geographic?"

"Look--the country of Indonesia has a bay right off of their--mmph?"

Rustle. "Don't fuckin' read National Geographic right after I jellified your brains, Summers."

Mildly, "I don't think 'jellified' is a word." (1)

"Thinging."

"I'm never going to hear the end of that, am I?"

"Nope."

I sighed, flung the magazine onto a chair, and turned over on my side so that I was facing Lance. He had gotten through half his cigarette and was now attempting to blow circles with the smoke.

"I bet your insides look like black currant jam," I remarked.

"Hmm," he said. "Yum?"

"I don't think so," I said.

He caught me with his arm and brought me close. I pillowed my chin on his chest and considered the fine lines of the indistinguishable tattoo on his opposite shoulder. Then I thought of something.

"Hey," I said, "did you really mean that?"

"What?" Lance asked, succeeding in blowing a quivering little ellipse. He scowled at it and batted it away when it drifted toward his jacket, which was hanging from a hook on the wall. Kind of like a kitten would bat at a ball of yarn. A Lance-kitten? A rock star kitten?

I just had a mental image of a cat with a mohawk smoking a bong. No more digression for me.

"You said that I didn't know anything about you," I said, perturbed.

"Hmm," he said lazily. "What about it?" He stretched a little and extinguished his cigarette stub on an ashtray on the nightstand just within an arm's reach.

"Well, did you mean it?" Just answer the question, please.

"Yeah," he said. "I meant it."

I lifted my chin a little so I could look at him better, and frowned, "What? But--I mean, I think I know a little about you, since I've been asking you all these questions this week."

"Well, no, you don't."

"Why not?" I was beginning to get irritated.

"Because," he said sleepily. "I lied to you."

I stared at him.

He--?

Wha...but--?

"Guh?" I said.

"Eloquent, Summers," he said, amused. "Truly fuckin' eloquent."

"About what?" I asked, disturbed.

"Oh, everything," he said offhandedly.

"Everything?!" I exclaimed, jerking away and staring at him.

He blinked at me and pushed himself up on one elbow.

"Well, yes," he said.

"Why?!"

"Calm down," he said.

"Fuck off," I growled.

He blinked again, then commented, "You're sexy when you're angry."

"Shut up," I snapped. "Why the hell did y--?! Your parents!"

I pitched myself over him and rummaged around my jacket pockets, fishing out my notebook. I flipped through the pages and thrust the goddamned thing in his face,

"Look! Y-you said that your parents were practically rich and your father died in a car accident and your mother in a fire! Are you saying that that's a lie?!"

"Well, yes," he said again. "But--"

"What about your high school!? Did you go to high school with Johnny!?"

"Well, no," he said. "But--"

I wanted to scream. "What about your inspiration? Your first music lesson? You never played the oboe, did you!?" I accused, prodding him in the chest with one finger.

"Well," he said, pretended to consider it, then said, "no."

I buried my face in my hands.

"You," I said, "are a...a..."

"Motherfucker?" he supplied helpfully.

"Jerk-off," I said.

"Ouch," he said with a smile.

I grumbled and leaned forward to kiss him.

"No more lying," I warned, shaking a finger at him.

"Sure," Lance said, grinning.

"Lance."

"Scott."

I paused. I'd never heard him say my name before. I eyed him suspiciously. He quirked an eyebrow at me.

"No more lying," I repeated quietly.

He shifted and lay back down, watching the ceiling with a considering expression.

"Are we a 'thing' now?" he asked, half-joking, I suspect.

After a moment's thought, I rested my head against his chest again, and said slowly,

"I think so."

And then he looked down at me, smiled, and said, almost sweet and mostly nonchalant,

"No more fuckin' lying."





Rock city Detroit--what Johnny referred to it as, that is--was a horrible, horrible place. Strictly in my opinion, that is.

Apparently, Antisthenes was booked to play at several venues in the area--not all in Detroit, of course. That left me with some fortunate breathing room, since I had the excuse of investigating the Detroit rock scene. We weren't heading to Seattle later on, but they tell me that the Seattle rock scene was supposed to be more renown than the Detroit rock scene.

I don't know, to tell you the truth; I'm just hoping that if I keep adding 'rock scene' to things, it'll eventually stick.

Or maybe not.

After Antisthenes' first gig in Detroit, Lance decided that going AWOL was the perfect idea. Despite the fact that he had a major press conference to attend, that is.

He showed up at my door all decked out in super-camo gear. I gawked at him.

"Are you crazy?" I exclaimed. He rolled his eyes, pulled me out of my hotel room and dragged me down the hall and out the building.

"Lanc--"

"Keep your head down," he hissed and tossed me a pair of shades before donning some himself. I glanced at him and raised my eyebrows at his black leather jacket, reflective sunglasses, and low-brim hat.

"Jesus, you look like a gunman," I remarked.

"I thought you fuckin' reporters were supposed to be good at being inconspicuous," he said.

It's journalists, dammit.

"What about your press conference?" I demanded.

"Jubes an' Johnny know what to do," he said, waving it off.

I stared at him, incredulous. "But--"

"Hey," he said. "Shut up, Summers."

I bristled. "I have a first name, you know."

"Huh," Lance said absently, "imagine that."

Idiot. Didn't he understand the point of having first names? It was useless arguing about it with him, though, since it would undoubtedly devolve into him telling me to "suck it." Very intelligent.

"Where are we going?" I asked instead.

"First date," he said.

"What?"

"Coffeehouse," he said.

"I--"

"Hey, your hair smells nice," he said, half-turning toward me.

I stopped talking and swore inwardly when I felt my face flush. After a moment, I grumbled,

"You're just trying to shut me up, aren't you?"

"Well, yes," he grinned, "but it does. Coconut?"

You and Tabitha both? "Ye-es."

"Kinky."

How?! "Oh."

Lance snickered and brusquely entered a coffee shop whose banner had two p's instead of one and an 'e' tagged on the end. How quaint.

"Here's your good coffee," he said.

"We'll see," I replied.

He quirked an eyebrow. "What, are you a fuckin' coffee aficionado or somethin'?"

"I guess you could say that," I said.

"You should start a fuckin' club," he said, squinting past his shades at the shelves of teabags and boxes of brew-at-home coffee that lined the walls.

"I'm just picky," I said mildly. I was startled when he laughed.

"Oh, you kill me," he said with a grin.

Bipolar much, are we?

I ordered a mocha frap and he settled for some hot chocolate without cream. Nice and simple. I reminded myself to pay attention next time and see if he took his coffee black.

We didn't say anything for a while, then Lance spoke almost pensively,

"There was this kid on the corner of our street. He'd fuckin' play the guitar and sing and shit. His name was Sid."

He picked up a packet of sugar, ripped it open, and let it swirl into his hot chocolate.

"He got one o'his kneecaps shattered in a drive-by, hey? Didn't have enough cash to pay for a--fuckin' operation or anythin' like that. So he sat on a corner. That's it."

He drank a bit of his chocolate, and I thought about after-sex smokes and porn. Maybe I had gone insane. Damned tour bus; I would've never ridden in it if I had known that insanity was contagious.

"I saw this guy--Sid--and his guitar was all scratched up and sometimes it went all outta tune, so he'd have to stop and crank the pegs some. But he was the best fuckin' guitarist in our neighborhood." Lance paused. Then said lightly,

"I mean, before a motorcycle skidded into his block and made him eat his own spleen."

Xavier?

I tried some of my frap and grimaced. I should've gotten something hot, but I'm stupid like that.

"They picked up his pieces," Lance continued, "with these fuckin' little Latex gloves or whatever, and they put them into these fuckin' little plastic bags. And then they just drove away. 'least they scrubbed down the sidewalk and all," he added. "It was all fucked up from tar or whatever it was."

"Tar?" I asked and wished I hadn't. It didn't seem appropriate.

Lance was wiping at his sunglasses with the back of his hand. "Yeah, some truck did a swipe a week before Sid bit it, I think. Spilled this shitty-ass goop all over. Anyways--" he made a face and pushed his hot chocolate away.

"He died, and I figured someone needed to play the guitar in the area."

So that was how he got into music. I coughed and glanced around. I wasn't sure what to say. I eyed him furtively out of the corner of my eye, and watched him pick at the fringe of his jacketsleeve.

"I had a gerbil," I blurted out finally.

Stupid, stupid, stupid.

He turned to look at me, grinning a little.

"His name was Ferdinand and he was--uh, he was milk chocolate brown." I tried to suppress the overwhelming urge to duck under the table and hide. Of course, there was also the fact that Lance would probably make some obscene comment if I ducked under the table. About how I wanted to--

"And, um, one day, I accidentally left the cage door open," I said. "And...Ferdinand ran away and got slammed in a door."

Lance had one hand flat on the table and the other curled around his cup of hot chocolate. He arched an eyebrow at me.

"I never got another gerbil," I said, sounding a lot more pathetic than I should've.

"But, um," I coughed. "I...I got a, uh, parakeet."

Dammit, why did our deep and meaningful talks always turn out like this?

"A parakeet," Lance said, as if he were mulling over something extremely philosophical.

"Yes," I said solemnly. "Not a gerbil. I couldn't replace him."

"Hmm," he said.

"We had a little funeral for him," I added. "I buried him in a shoebox with one of my, uh--well," I smiled a little, almost embarrassed but not quite, "one of my socks."

Lance laughed, looking surprised. "One of your fuckin' socks?"

"It was clean," I said defensively.

Lance was quiet, then asked, "Why'd you do a stupid thing like that?"

I shrugged, "I wanted something of mine to go with him, I guess."

Lance shrugged also and grinned a little, "You coulda used a marble or somethin'."

"How cliché," I said grinning back. "I think a sock adds more flavor to it."

"Oh, I'm sure it does," he snickered. "The maggots are probably thinking, 'Hmm, this gerbil filet tastes a little different than the others...'"

I couldn't help but laugh.

"That's horrible," I told him.

"Am I ruining your idyllic childhood memories, Summers?" he asked.

"I'd say so," I replied wryly.

"Aww, want me to kiss it better?" he sneered with a grin.

I gulped.

"I don't know," I said. "Do you think you can?"

"I think a little heartbreak might add spice," he replied and kissed me--a brief kiss, to tell you the truth. Almost disturbingly brief. I licked my lips.

Then he sat back and watched me, as if he were waiting for something.

"What?" I asked, fidgeting. Was I supposed to sprout wings and start shooting people with heart-shaped arrows now?

"Your article--?" he began.

"Oh, that," I said. "I have a few questions to ask you."

He grinned at me, and four and a half hours later when we stepped out of the coffeehouse, I still hadn't written anything down on my notepad. I had learned some things about his parents and his childhood, though he steered clear of Sid once it was all said and done, but I still didn't know why he played angry music and joked around like he was the king of the world or any of those crazy things. And I still didn't know any secrets of the trade, about insiders swapping agents or the one epitomizing fact of the modern rock scene.

However, I did know that Lance Alvers, rock star extraordinaire, likes Kix and waffles in the morning, orange juice instead of apple, and his favorite color was red.

Oh, and I also learned one very important thing:

He does take his coffee black.





"Don't look now," I whispered, "but we're being followed."

I'd been eyeing a certain purple babushka with suspicion for some time now. I was now becoming unnerved by it, partly because it seemed to be migrating closer and closer to us. In my head, I hummed the Jaws theme.

"Hmm?" Lance had been busy littering with a gum wrapper. I imagined Jean pouncing on him and rubbing his nose in his own trash, yelling, 'Chauvinistic ecosystem-destroyer! Baby seals are dying because of you!'

I hid a smile. Man, caffeine highs were fun.

"There's as lady in a gray business suit and purple, uh, shawl," I said. "I think I saw her back in Wisconsin, too."

"Oh, her," Lance said.

'Oh, her'? "Wh--?"

"Yeah, that's Raven Darkh--oh, sorry--Mystique," he said flippantly. "She stalks me."

"You seem to handle that quite well," I said dryly.

He shrugged. "She's harmless."

"She's unsettling," I said nervously. "Does she follow you everywhere?"

He grinned at me then and threw an arm around my shoulders.

"Why?" he asked, drawling. "You afraid she'll catch us in the buff or somethin'?"

"No," I said, annoyed.

"Hmm," he said in a low voice and leaned over to kiss me on the neck. I glanced around apprehensively.

"Stop it," I mumbled. "Someone might see us."

A certain psychotic someone who really ought to have a restraining order on her, that is.

He nipped at my ear and growled almost playfully; "What, are you chicken-shit?"

Okay, forget I said 'playfully.'

I spotted a photobooth further down and I slipped my hand into Lance's jacket pocket.

Sanctuary.

"Got spare change," he said vaguely, apparently having seen the booth as well.

"Isn't spontaneity overrated?" I asked casually as we both walked a little faster.

"Hell, no," he replied.

"You thrive on spontaneity, then?" I teased.

"The only fuckin' way to live, man," he said, grinning. "The only way."

"I beg to differ--" I began, but then Lance shoved me ungracefully into the photobooth before pressing against me. Hmm. 'Between a rock and a hard place,' I think, is how they describe situations like this. I think I was going to choose the hard place--Jesus.

Okay, so the hard place chose me.

I leaned back against the touchpad keyboard of the booth and Lance fell in a sprawl on the bench before leaning forward again. We clumsily fumbled around for a bit and I prayed I wouldn't break something.

What would I tell them, anyways?

'I'm sorry, but my assplate broke your photobooth.'?

Yes, I'm sure that that would go over extremely well.

"We probably shouldn't do anything here," I said. I was having difficulty breathing, and this time it wasn't because of hyperventilation.

"Chicken-shit," Lance rasped. I tugged him forward by the hair and we kissed and didn't stop. Somewhere along the way, his shirt and my pants came off and ran away. Like the plate and the spoon?

Jesus, my brain was completely scrambled.

Suddenly, there was a clicking sound and bursts of light from behind me that blinded us both. At first, I thought of scary, X-Files-type things that involved aliens and probing, then the panicked paranoia subsided. Into Lance's lap, of course. Unfortunately, panicking and thinking of scary, X-Files-type things made me scream like a girl scout.

I scowled.

"The fuck?" Lance rubbed at his eyes and I mumbled,

"I think I just had a stroke."

I bent to pick up my pants, pulling them up as quickly as possible. Then I realized--

"Lance, the photob--"

"Hey, Summers," he said, looking at a strip of photographs he had pulled from the dispenser next to the touchpad. "I've never seen this side of you before."

Asshole.

I sighed and ran my hand through my hair. "Shut up."

"Especially not from this angle."

"Shut up."

"Hey, your article--"

"Shut up!"

Lance snickered and pulled his t-shirt on. Shrugging into his jacket, he said with mock-sweetness,

"I'll keep these pictures close to me forever."

Of all the nerve.

"I think you're going to need them," I said pointedly and stepped out of the booth. "Since you're not going to be getting any help from me."

Lance emerged from behind the booth's curtain, grinning. "Cheeky, Summers."

"Lance--"

"A total fuckin' about-face."

"Lance."

"You're takin' a major crack a--"

"I'm going to take my notebook and shove it down your--!"

"Only your notebook?" Lance was smirking.

I grinned then. "Oh, so you think you're good?"

"I know I'm good," he said, leering.

"It was liking having a fish attached to my pelvis," I said pleasantly.

"Well, you're the one who was enjoyin' it," he replied just as graciously.

I chuckled at the sheer absurdity of it all.

There was a small beeping sound from inside Lance's jacket before I could retort, and he pulled out his cell.

"What?" he said.

He paused, listening to the loud buzz that was his answer.

"Hey, I got some pictures you might be interested in," he said then, very casual.

I glared at him. Jesus.

"Not funny, Lance," I muttered. He flashed a grin at me.

"Not funny," I repeated, louder.

"Summers verifies that you'd absolutely get a fuckin' kick outta them."

"No, I don't," I protested.

"Hey, hey--put Jubes on," Lance cackled.

"No!" I yelled.

"Put us on speakerphone," he said.

I made sure that he was only amusing himself by glowering at him. Convinced that he could win me with his charm, he curled his lips and mimed a growl and bite. I rolled my eyes and pretended I was Jean, effectively affecting an air that said, 'No, I'm really not impressed. And this isn't for show. Idiot.'

He mouthed, 'Fuck you,' and I raised my eyebrows. Sighing, he deliberately slumped his shoulders.

"Gotta go, Johnny," he said. "The fuckin' ball an' chain's callin'."

I tried not to laugh and settled for punching him in the shoulder instead.

"Mr. Allerdyce?" I asked.

"Yeah," he said. He smirked. "Heard that MTV threw a fuckin' fit."

"You really oughtn't promise things that you have no intention of doing, you know," I said.

"Oh, I'm sorry," he said. "Am I grounded?"

"Screw off," I said.

"The word, Summers," he said, grinning, "is 'fuck.'"

"My bad," I said, smiling back, and amended:

"Fuck off."









~tbc~




(1) Actually, 'jellified' is a word, according to Microsoft Word. I think we can chalk it up to freak accidents that Lance got that right (;