Title: Readme.txt
Part: 7/?
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. However, Sadie and Bryan are mine. Which is presumably a good thing (;
Spoilers: Nada.
Warnings: Slash (m/m relationship), AU (which means Alternate Universe, for those who don't know.)
Notes: More Weasel/Forge, because I think I've developed more than a mild obsession with Weasel/Forge. I think it's safe to say that once "Readme.txt" is over, I'm going to have to write a Weasel/Forge fic that involves the rise of Antisthenes. Or something?
Oh, and Sadie and Bryan get a cameo. Just because. :D
Additional Notes: Hugs, kisses, and other gestures of affection (that may or may not be construed as sexual harassment) go out to my reviewers and supporters: Morwen O'Conner, BatE, Lyo, Olhado, Sheena, sugar.coated, N, S, Flick-chan, Pyromaniac, Katreon of Team Socket, Ouvalyrin, Imhotep Ardeth Bey, Katherine, MiracleChick, Doomkitty1, Edainme, LB, Absolute Alcohol, Ishida Kat, and last but not least, Laureate. Thank you all so much!!
Additional-er Notes: Go check out The Blind Fish Archiv! It's oodles of fun, and we're always looking for submissions! The link is under the squeaky-spooky skeleton at www.geeky-pirate.net.
Enjoy and Review!!!...please?
--
"Good morning, everyone," Lance said cheerfully.
"It's four in the afternoon," Johnny said.
"Good morning," Forge said. Apparently, he'd decided to humor Lance. He also seemed irrepressibly chipper.
"If you don't tone that down," Jubilee said in warning to Forge, "I'm gonna start humming 'Pop Goes the Weasel' again."
Forge shut up and studiously attempted to look neutral. He ruined it by grinning at me and asking, "How are you, Mr. Summers?"
"Fabulous," I said. "I think I broke my neck."
"Man, I can't believe you got into a bar fight without me!" Johnny said, looking especially pained.
"It was a very short bar fight," I told him in consolation.
"Short and brutal," Lance said. "I fuckin' kicked the guy's ass."
"You came, you saw, you brawled, huh?" Jubilee asked with amusement.
That was putting it rather nicely. Quaint little near-rhyme, too.
We were currently sitting around in the bus, waiting for 'go time.' The plan was to sign autographs before the concert, since Lance had been a no-show this morning. The venue Antisthenes was playing at was near the Chinatown district, too, so it wouldn't take too long. Permitted, of course, that we didn't get lost. It wasn't too big a concern to me, since I figured that Forge would never get lost.
Unless someone mentioned Weasel, that is.
Speaking of the jailbait mechanic himself, Weasel clambered rather unexpectedly into the tourbus and smiled so brightly that the ghost of last night's migraine came back to haunt me. This morning's migraine, I mean.
Jesus, these two weeks were really messing with my biological clock.
"Oh--hey, everyone," he said. "Mr. Summers," here he gave me my very own, special, six-years-difference handshake, "how are you?"
"Pretty spectacular," I said.
He sat down on the couch next to Forge and just beamed aimlessly and cheerfully about.
"Hey, aren't you supposed to be--?" Johnny started and Weasel grinned, reassuring him,
"Oh, don't worry about that. Lanie and I got all the prepping done last night so that we could check out the town this morning."
"Oooh," Jubilee said. "Did you shop?"
"No, but we did go on a carriage ride," Weasel said. He grinned a little and looked up at Forge, who had a sappy little smile on his face. I hyperventilated quietly and chose not to comment.
"Now, do they narrate on those rides or something?" Lance asked curiously. "Y'know, like, 'That park there's where mah horse shitted last night,' and crap like that?"
"No, not really," Weasel said wonderingly. "That would be interesting, though."
"No, it'd be horseshit," Johnny giggled.
Weasel smiled and inconspicuously cuddled with a contented look on his face. Forge just rested his arm around Weasel's shoulders, and the two of them began talking quietly in earnest. I looked at Lance. He raised his eyebrows at me.
I tried to telepathically communicate the word 'Lolita?' but was unsuccessful.
"Say, Scott," Forge said suddenly. "Join me and Weasel in the back for a second, would you?"
Backroom what?
Johnny wolf-whistled and crowed, "The deal-makin' room!"
"Um," I said. Forge smiled benignly at me.
Rats. No way out of this one.
"Sure," I said nervously. I glanced at Lance for help, and he just snickered at me.
Well, you're lots of help, Mr. Alvers. Remind me to jot down that you're a pathological liar. I'd love to include that in my article.
Forge herded me--and I use the word 'herded' in the most pleasant way possible, really--into the backroom and grinned a little too reassuringly at me. Weasel was right behind him and clicked the door shut to the sound of Jubilee saying incredulously,
"Hey, wait, why aren't I invited--!?"
"Mr. Summers," Weasel said in the kind of way that vets did before they told some little kid that their dog had died.
I sat down in a butterfly chair and tried very hard not to feel like I was being interrogated.
"Um--uh, yes?" I asked apprehensively.
"Well," Forge said very calmly, "Weasel and I just wanted to talk to you about--"
"We're not making you uncomfortable, are we?" Weasel blurted out earnestly. His already large almond-colored eyes were practically the size of turntables from anxiety.
Jesus, this was the most mortifying conversation in my entire life.
"Uh--that is, no! No, I'm--fine," I said.
"Because, you know, we can--I don't know--adopt a non-PDA policy while you're here," Weasel fretted. "If it'd make you--you know--more comfortable."
"No, no, you don't have to do that," I hastened to reassure him.
"Are you sure?" Forge asked, a lot more composed than his younger counterpart. Six-years-younger counterpart, that is.
"I'm sure, really," I said.
Was this what happened when you got three disturbingly polite people in the same room and asked them to converse about private things? Because I was beginning to lose faith in etiquette.
"It's legal," Weasel said very solemnly.
Barely. "I--know, I mean--I'm not really bothered by...you know."
Weasel did a little nervous dance on his toes, then subsided and settled for playing with a small stress ball that had been on the nightstand. I grinned a little. He was actually very cute when he was distressed.
Six-years-difference cute.
"So you don't have a problem with our being a couple," Forge said, just as serious as Weasel had been. Only, he pulled it off better, because Weasel had been just a little too bubbly when he said it. Of course, I was beginning to suspect that Weasel was always bubbly. Like carbonated drinks.
Six-years-difference, nonalcoholic carbonated drinks.
"No, I don't," I said. "You look good together."
And they did. Honest.
Six-years-difference good.
"Are you sure?" Weasel asked, looking very flustered. "I mean--thank you--that is--about you know, are you--are you--?"
I blinked.
"Are you sure you're alright with it?" Forge translated. Weasel gave up talking and just waved his hands a little, then pulled his cell phone out and played with it. And no, I don't mean--Jesus, I really was spending too much time with Lance lately.
"Yes, I'm positive," I said. "I mean--it's a little strange knowing that bit about your personal lives, but..."
"Well, we're all adults," Forge said.
Yes, but only barely for one of us.
"You must be used to that," Weasel chimed in. "I mean, since you're a journalist and all. You must know a lot about a lot of people."
That's journali--oh. He did say journalist.
Well, good for him. And people say that education of the youth of this country is going down the toilet...
"Well, yes," I said. "But I don't--I mean...I just...It makes me a little uncomfortable. Not because of your relationship," I added quickly. "Just...knowing about your relationship. Because--I feel like I shouldn't. You kn...ow?"
"Yes, perfectly," Forge said. "It's like that for me with you and Lance."
I stared at him.
"Oh," Weasel said, his eyes becoming very round. He looked up at Forge, his mouth slightly ajar in wonder.
"Oh!" he repeated then smiled brilliantly at me. "That's great. I mean, for you and Lance. I think that's really fantastic!"
"I'm sorry," Forge said, furrowing his brow. "Was I not supposed to--?"
"Did Ms. Lee tell you?" I asked, trying not to hyperventilate.
"Well, no," Forge said, now looking very unsettled. "I just--assumed, since you seemed a lot...friendlier with him."
Yes, but hands-down-the-pants friendlier? I didn't think I was being that obvious.
"You're so cute together," Weasel said.
"Uh--thanks," I said.
"Just to make sure," Forge said, "you're okay with Weasel and me?"
"Yes," I said.
"Okay okay or just okay?" Weasel bubbled anxiously.
"Okay okay...?" I said hesitantly.
"Alright," Forge said.
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus.
"Well, if we make you uncomfortable at any point..." Forge continued, and I started eyeballing the distance between the door and me. Maybe I could lunge for it?
"Don't worry," I said, hyperventilating. "I'm okay. Okay okay. And--okay."
I fled. Behind me, I heard Weasel say guilelessly and perplexedly,
"I think that that went well, didn't it?"
Six-years-difference well, maybe.
"What's going on?" I heard Tabitha ask from outside the bus.
"Scott, Forge, and Tinkerbell had a fantastical orgy of epic proportions while you were gone," Jubilee informed her.
"Ooh, did you get it on tape?" Tabitha asked gleefully.
"No!" I yelped, almost skidding into a lamp and-backslash-or coffee table as I made my valiant retreat.
"Ah, Summers," Lance said.
"None for you," I declared, pointing at him and then hyperventilating some more.
"I'm going to go sit in the passenger seat," I said.
"But Weasel's gonna sit there," Lance said, looking slightly bewildered. Probably because I'd said 'None for you,' I'd imagine.
"I'll keep the seat warm for him," I said.
"But Scottyboy," Tabitha wheedled from outside the bus, "I want details."
"Draw a picture and I'll tell you if it's accurate. Later," I added and quickly left before I had an aneurysm and my head imploded.
Someone really hates me up there. Maybe I should abandon my secular ways and join a cloister.
Or I could always hang myself--a pleasant and popular option.
Hmm. The choices, the choices...
My cellphone rang and I glanced at it. It was Jean--something that could be either very, very good, or even worse than everything else that'd happened so far today. And that's saying something.
"Hello?" I finally picked up.
"Scott, Scott, Scott," Jean said. "Why haven't you been calling me?"
I decided to take the direct approach. "Because I've been too busy sleeping with a rock star."
There was silence. Then a click.
Three seconds later, my cellphone rang again.
"Jean?" I asked.
"Hi, Scott! I had the weirdest dream that I called you and you told me you'd been--"
"That wasn't a dream," I said.
She made a sound like she was choking, then asked in a strangled voice, "What?"
"We're a thing now," I said.
"What?!"
"We were stuff before, but now we're not," I added.
"Scott," she said.
"It's horrible," I said. "It's truly, positively horrible."
"When did this happen?" she asked.
"I don't even remember. I think I've been anesthetized. Last night, he molested me with a Buddha, and I didn't even blink," I said.
"Buddha molested you?" she asked, confused.
"No, Lance did. With Buddha."
"Lance and Buddha ganged up and molested you?"
"Lance and a puppet Buddha," I said.
"Pinocchio, Lance and--?"
"Jean," I said disapprovingly.
"Sorry," she said vaguely. "But seriously--what...?"
"I don't know," I said. "I got involved with him. I mean--talking involved. Then things got physical and--"
"This must be some kind of record for you," Jean remarked. "You usually take months before you're willing to--you know."
"Yeah, I know," I said. "But we did. I mean--we slept together. In the space of--a-a week or something."
"Wow," she said. "So how do you feel about it? You don't feel like it's going too fast or anything, do you?"
"I feel--I don't know," I said. "I'm still adjusting. I can't figure out whether or not he's joking a lot of the time. It drives me crazy."
She paused, then asked slyly, "Crazy in a good way or bad?"
"Kind of both," I admitted at length. "He's...funny."
"Funny," she repeated.
"And hot," I said grudgingly.
"Hot," she sighed dreamily.
"And--I don't know," I said miserably. "Things have gone from bad to worse!"
"Worse? What do you mean?" Jean asked. However, I didn't get a chance to answer, because I heard someone clear their throat from behind me.
I turned around.
Lance arched an eyebrow at me. He gestured toward the back with his head. I swallowed hard, and said distractedly into the phone,
"I'll call you back."
"What? Wait, Scott--"
I stood up and blinked as Lance slid into the driver's seat and exited through that side. I got out of the passenger side and followed him around back, where he popped open a small hatch somewhere near the far middle of the bus.
"Ladies first," he said jokingly, and I was too shell-shocked from both my conversation with Weasel and Forge and Lance obviously overhearing my conversation with Jean to even so much as glare at him.
This was doing wonders for my conversational skills. I would forever now be known for my lightning-fast quips.
Jesus.
"'Bad to worse'?" was the first thing Lance said when we got inside.
"What?" I asked.
"'Bad,'" he said, as if pronouncing something very difficult with distaste, "'to worse'?"
"Well, yes," I said, almost affronted. Yeah, that made sense: How dare you eavesdrop on my conversation about you behind your back!
"I mean, I didn't plan on sleeping with you, you know," I added.
"And why is that a fuckin' bad thing?" Lance asked. He reminded me of a stern parent, requesting the explanation for why a cookie jar was empty.
Great--first Forge, now Lance. Only, I wasn't screwing Forge.
Ouch. 'Screwing'? Since when was my internal monologue so crass?--oh, right. That'd be Lance's fault.
I gawked at him in response, almost sputtering. Why was it bad?
"My reputation!" I reminded him crossly. "If anyone finds out--"
"Maybe I'm worried for my fuckin' reputation, too," Lance argued. He was obviously just trying to be difficult. I glared at him.
"I don't think so," I said. "I mean--you've got it made. No one cares what you do offstage. But I'm just a--just a--"
"Reporter?" Lance finished for me.
"Journalist," I corrected.
"Whatever," he said and flopped onto the bed, spread-eagle and staring at the ceiling.
I was reminded of a fish.
A spread-eagle fish.
Okay, not so much a fish anymore.
"It's not like I'm being totally professional with you," I said. "Since the--you know."
"Yeah, so?" Lance twisted a little and rummaged under the bed, surfacing with a ping-pong paddle and a whiffle ball. He began bouncing the whiffle ball on said pad. I watched him and thought about thrilling things like sine graphs.
"So I tend to think of this as being a bad thing," I said.
"Our thing is bad?" Lance asked casually. "Funny--I thought you were the one who wanted this fuckin' relationship so fuckin' badly."
"I--" I began, then stopped.
You said that our what?
I grinned. A mostly sappy grin, but there was a hint of 'Ohh, now you did it' in there, too.
"You...?" Lance prompted after a moment.
"You admitted we have a relationship," I said.
He blinked. His expression didn't change, but I noted that he missed the whiffle ball and had to catch it before it rolled off the side of the bed and toss it up into the air again.
"We've had one for a few days," he said, as if it weren't a big deal.
You are so very bad at economics, Mr. Alvers, because, you see, it's a very big deal. Supply and demand, you see? Obviously, the supply--otherwise known as the potential for this 'thing' to be a 'thing'--is in direct proportion to your demand.
And I'm not just talking about the amps between your legs, Mr. Alvers.
No, I'm not.
I almost giggled. Chortled, was more the word, really, but--
"But not officially," I said. "You never said officially."
"So?" He was very obviously squirming. Okay, maybe not obviously, but I think that Mr. Alvers wasn't nearly as 'cool' with this whole conversation as he was acting.
Or maybe I'm reading him completely wrong. But I think I'll go with my instincts on this one, for the sake of my sanity and pride.
"We're a thing," I said, a lot more gleeful than I would've liked. "I mean--a thing thing."
"A thing thing?" he repeated amusedly.
"Like Forge and Weasel," I said.
He arched an eyebrow.
"If you get your idea of a perfect, lasting relationship from Forge and Tink, then you're seriously fucked up," he said.
"Why?" I asked, puzzled. "Besides the--you know. Six years...you know?"
"Because," he said. "That relationship's never gonna last."
I stared at him with a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach, which could have just been the fajita I'd had for lunch earlier, but I really didn't think so.
"Because," he said again. He paused almost thoughtfully for a moment, then continued, "Weasel's mom is gonna fuckin' shit a taxicab."
I blinked.
"That's all?" I said incredulously. "But--that has nothing to do with their relationship."
"You idiot," he chuckled. He glanced up and eyed me.
"If you'd ever met Weasel's mom," he said slowly, "you'd understand."
I blinked again.
"One," Lance bounced the whiffle ball a few times on the paddle, "she's scary as fuck. And two--" here, he backhanded the whiffle ball into the wall mid-bounce. "Forge gets a healthy dose from her of what he's gonna be coming home to in twenty years."
"What?" I asked.
Lance schooled his face to a blank, then perked up in the most disgustingly chipper way possible;
"Hiya, Forge! How the fuck are you today?! Oh, lemme take your coat! How was work? Oh, I wish I coulda been there! Gotta stay home and take care of these five dozen adopted kiddies, though, yeah?! Awww, I wuv you, Forge! Wuv you, wuv you, wuv you! Let's go have sex now and pretend we can have babies...!"
I stared at him, aghast.
I knew Weasel was bubbly, but I didn't know that he was kooky, needs-to-be-bubblewrapped bubbly.
"He's not like that yet," Lance said very calmly as if he hadn't just been mimicking a rabid monkey. "But if his mom is any indication, Weasel'd better start practicing tonin' it down, hey?"
"They have medication for that sort of thing," I said weakly.
"Not if it's fuckin' genetic, I imagine," Lance said.
"They talked to me today," I said. "Forge and Weasel, that is."
"About what?" he grinned. "A double date?"
I glared at him. "No. They were just making sure I wasn't...you know, uncomfortable with anything."
"Summers," he said, "you're always uncomfortable."
"Am not," I protested.
"You're so uncomfortable, I gotta wonder if you've got a clamp in the gig area," Lance continued, ignoring me.
"Lance," I said.
"Ring-etapilis of the cock-olus," he said.
"I hate you," I said.
"Right back atcha, sporto," Lance said, and we kissed.
"It really is insult-kiss," I said afterwards.
"Hmm," Lance said. "I hope I still have some cigarettes."
"Sign it with love, please," said a hyperactive girl with multicolored hair in pigtails and a neon pink shirt-skirt ensemble. She bounced a few times on her heels and grinned like a maniac. I eyed her with suspicion.
"How about this," Lance arched an eyebrow and read what he'd just written, "'Signing this picture is like baking a casserole.'"
He looked at me as if to say, 'With love. Get it?'
The girl grinned even wider. "Perfect, thanks." She flounced off, dragging by the arm a short boy who had been asking Jubilee,
"Will you marry me? I know this guy at McDonald's who could do the vows--hey! S-adie, I was busy!"
"Doof," I heard the girl say.
"Aw, how cute," Jubilee said, grinning, and waved the t-shirt she'd been signing for the boy before slinging it at him. He caught it and promptly adopted an expression as if he'd just touched the feet of the Dalai Lama.
I sighed and tried to ignore the fact that I was wedged between Rogue and Lance, the former worrying me much more than the latter. Though, Lance was trying to cop a feel under the table every so often, so that was kind of bothersome, too.
I didn't even know why I was here, but I tried to make do and look attentive all the same. And by attentive, I mean that I put on my shades and made sure my expression was neutral and blank rather than bored and suicidal.
Then I noticed a certain purple babushka down the line for Lance.
Oh, shit.
Wasn't that the 'Mystique' lady who'd been stalking us in--well, stalking us everywhere? Stalking Lance, to be more accurate, but still. It was spooky.
"Lance," I said as quietly as I could.
"Hmm?" He drummed his hands on the table, grinned at the sullen girl who had approached the table, and held up his pen.
"Oh. My. God," said the girl, who suddenly seemed to experience a miraculous change from Gloomy Goth Girl to Giggly Goth Girl. Which seemed just a little wrong?
I blinked and looked over.
Wanda?
Behind her was Todd, who lit up when he saw me.
"Scott Summers, hey?" he said.
"Um, yes," I said. "How are you?"
"Oh. My. God," Wanda said again, staring at Lance.
Lance quirked an eyebrow at her. She held out a CD, and he pulled out the inside cover.
"I'm alright, yo," Todd said and loped up beside his girlfriend to talk to me. "How's the tour goin'?"
"Pretty well, I think," I said.
"Oh, my God!" Wanda said.
"Who's this for?" Lance asked offhandedly, having already written, 'Not for individual sale' across the middle of the cover.
"Wa..." Wanda said very coherently.
"Wanda," I told him once it began apparent that Wanda was unable to speak for herself.
Lance raised his eyebrows at me, but didn't comment. Finishing signing his name, he handed the CD back.
"Th..." Wanda said.
"Thanks a bunch, man," Todd said, pulling out his own CD from his hoodie's front pocket.
"I thought the bonus tracks were totally wicked," he added, doing a little dance as Lance signed said CD.
"Thanks. So you know our reporter, huh?" Lance said.
Journalist.
"Met him a week or so ago," Todd said brightly.
"He showed me backstage," I said uncertainly.
"For--?" Lance glanced up.
"Todd," Todd said, "Tolensky."
Lance grinned. "Hey, don't you know Jubes?"
"Yeah!" Todd said and practically glowed. "Did she mention me?"
"Once or twice," Lance said. "Said somethin' about art class?"
Todd laughed. "Yeah, man. That fuckin' ruled."
"Oh, my God!" I heard Wanda squeal from somewhere in the throng. I blanched, remembering how apathetic she'd been when I'd first met her. Jesus.
Maybe she'd had an allergic reaction to Lance?
Lance handed back the CD and remarked, "If you want, you could come back and hang out in the bus with us after the concert."
"If I want," Todd repeated and grinned so brightly I thought that he was Weasel for a split second. "Man, I'm be fuckin' honored."
"Alright, we'll check you later then," Lance said easily.
"Thanks, man," Todd said reverently and practically dashed off.
"Hey, Wanda, guess what...!" I heard him call.
Next in line was--Mystique?
I looked past her and saw a few wannabe-rivetheads eating their own boot-buckles, obviously having suffered from Mystique cutting in front of them by force. Ouch.
"Mystique," Lance said dryly. "Didn't expect to see you here."
"I followed you to Detroit," Mystique said darkly. "You're cheating on me."
"Uh-huh," Lance said, unconvinced. "Do you actually have something that I can sign?"
Mystique reached down and took off one of her pumps and set it on the table with a loud clunk. I stared at it.
Lance picked it up and scribbled his name onto it, looked up, and arched an eyebrow at her.
"I have something else," she said.
And she took out a picture.
Of an ass.
Of my ass, to be specific.
"Um," I said.
"Oh, hey, from the photobooth," Lance said as if there were nothing wrong. He picked it up and signed his name directly across both cheeks and onto his face in the picture.
"Who is that?" Mystique demanded, pointing at me.
"Scott Summers," I said nervously. "From--the College Press Times."
"He's our reporter for the week," Lance drawled, handing the picture back.
Journali--handing the picture back?! Wait--
"Um," I said and tried not to hyperventilate. "That photo--"
"Is this of you?" Mystique hissed, waving the picture of my signed buttocks under my nose.
"No," I lied. "But I could...ask intelligence to look at that for you, if you'd like."
Lance snorted. "What are you, the CIA?"
I ignored him and quirked an eyebrow at Mystique.
I could pretend to be a government official. Hell, I have sunglasses and a tie on, don't I?
Okay, so maybe that was the MIB. But same difference, right?
Mystique sniffed airily and glanced at the picture in her hand.
"I think I'll keep it," she said coldly.
Dammit. Mission failed.
She began to turn away, then paused, looking back at Lance.
"And I forgive you anyway," she said almost sweetly.
Lance rolled his eyes and drummed his fingers, saying loudly, "Next?"
Mystique put on her shoe and glared at me before hobbling away, still trying to get her heel inside her pump. I slumped down in my chair.
"Jesus," I muttered.
Lance snickered.
"You're a fuckin' celebrity now, Summers," he said.
"Bite me," I grumbled.
He just laughed and asked the next person, "Who's this for again?"
I glowered at his elbow and decided that if a certain someone snuck into my hotel room at any future time and smothered me to death, I would blame him.
Him and his Buddha.
Antisthenes signed autographs for another hour or so, then went backstage to warm up for the concert. I followed them and nearly ran into Forge and Weasel, who were busy playing tonsil hockey against some storage cabinets that were to the left of a giant fuse box. When Weasel saw that it was me, he turned a strange shade of crimson and tried to perform the Heimlich maneuver on Forge. As I was walking away, I heard Forge observe that pretending to give CPR might've been a better choice.
Jesus, I think I liked it better when I could pretend that Forge and Weasel didn't know about my knowing about their six-years difference.
After the concert, we headed back to the tour bus. There was one scary moment where I almost bumped into Rogue and nearly wet myself, but fortunately she was too busy concentrating her efforts on...sharpening her nails. With a nail file, to be sure, but most people don't sharpen their nails to points, right?
Gulp, shudder--avoiding at all costs.
Once we got to the tour bus, Lance did a funny thing with his eyebrows that I think was supposed to communicate that he wanted to head into the backroom and do things that didn't involve clothes. Remembering the Forge incident--where he did nothing to help me thwart The Most Horrifying Conversation Of My Life--I pretended not to notice. He tried to pout and look like a kicked puppy, but only succeeded in looking like someone who had been left to marinade in his own horniness and had emerged a little too burnt around the edges.
A brief respite from the fun-charged insanity was Todd and Wanda coming back to the bus to socialize with the band. Well, Todd more than Wanda, really; she spent most of the time saying, 'Oh, my God' and staring at Johnny's ass. Occasionally and unfortunately, she would lapse into a squealing fangirl when she broke through the fog of her shock.
"Oh, my God," Wanda said very intelligently when she saw the inside of the bus.
"If you're momentarily blinded by the tropical colors, feel free to swoon into my lap," Johnny said graciously and earned a thwack on the arm from Jubilee for his trouble, who then sniffed, tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, and asked Todd with interest,
"So, what've you been up to? Still into art, poetry, shit like that?"
"Not poetry as much," Todd said. "I try writin', like--y'know--lyrics and stuff sometimes. Got a, uh, garage band goin'..." he added in clarification.
"Hey, cool," Jubilee said, grinning. "What kind of stuff do you guys play?"
"Oh, my God," Wanda said.
"All sorts of stuff," Todd said. "We're trying to perfect our Blue Oyster Cult covers right now, though."
"Man, like 'Don't Fear the Reaper'?" Johnny interjected with enthusiasm. He air-guitared a few imaginary chords and swung his elbows around, jerking his head up and down and slightly resembling a strangled chicken.
"Self-proclaimed king of the air guitar," Lance drawled. "How you feelin' today, Johnny A.?"
He held out an imaginary microphone, and Johnny leaned in to talk into it, adopting the worst British accent I'd ever heard:
"Oi'm good, Lance--keen, wot? It's bleedin' ninety-four Celsius, though, an' I'm-a bustin' something that ain't purty!"
"Brilliant," I said. "Would that be from the Texan quarter of London--that last half, I mean?"
"You mock my ingenuity," Johnny cackled.
"Oh, my God," Wanda said.
Rogue wandered in from the backroom and pointed at her eye, looking a little more pissed off than usual.
"Eyeliner?" Lance guessed. "Haven't seen it."
She growled, snatched an atlas off of the coffee table, and stamped off.
Jubilee coughed, squirming a little, and Lance turned to smirk at her;
"Saved your ass, Jubes."
"Thanks," Jubilee said and glanced nervously at the back. "I was planning on giving it back..."
"You've gone from being half-senile to completely senile, huh?" Todd laughed. "Remember when you had, what, fifty strings tied on your fingers?"
"Hell, yes," Jubilee grinned. "I was hoping to start a new fad."
"If you'd tied Twizzlers on your fingers, it might've been a new fad," Todd suggested. "Like Ring Pops, only..."
"More unsanitary?" I suggested.
"He's our resident prude and reporter," Lance said. "We lucked out on this bargain, see."
"Shut up," I said.
"You shut up, sporto," he replied easily enough.
"Oh, my God," Wanda said.
Jesus, that was getting annoying.
My cell phone rang and I grimaced, apologized briefly, and glanced at the screen.
Jean again.
"Hello?" I said.
"Scott!" she said. "Can you talk now?"
"Uh, hold on," I said. I gestured toward the door, and Lance flicked me off. I ignored him and hopped out, glancing around.
No sign of Forge. No sign of Weasel, either...
Jesus.
"Okay, now I can," I said.
"Kurt got us locked in a phone booth," she said very darkly.
"He what?" I asked.
"I did not!" I heard in the background.
"Why are you two in a phone booth anyways?" I asked.
"Was going to--prank phone call," Jean muttered incoherently.
"You were going to what?!"
"Ve got Maximoff's home number!" Kurt crowed in the background and Jean hissed,
"Would you be quiet?"
"Jean--I--" I started, then sighed. Jesus, things were just falling apart back at home, weren't they?
"Sco-tt," Jean said, wheedling. "What do we do? Should we call information or something?"
"I guess so," I said. "You could call the police station."
"God, this is so embarrassing," Jean groused.
"It vasn't my fault," Kurt said.
"I--hate--you," was Jean's response.
"Wait, wait," I said. "Put Kurt on."
"Nngh," Jean said and I heard some shuffling, before she said loudly from the background, "You'd better be careful with that phone, Kurt Wagner! It was sixty bucks after rebate. After--rebate!"
"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Kurt said, then brightly: "Hey, Scott! How you doin'?"
"I'm alright," I said. "What happened over there?"
"Aw, no 'I miss you's?" he said impishly.
"No, you don't get an 'I miss you' until you tell me how you ended up being Jack-in-the-box's distant cousin," I said.
"Distant cousins," Kurt said. "With an 's.' And joined at the hip."
"Don't make me come over there," Jean threatened.
"Ooh, vhat're you gonna do?" Kurt asked, half-laughing. "Come one foot over and beat me vith your purse--Ow!"
"Serves you right," I said, smiling a little. "No taunting."
"Vhat's she got in there?" Kurt grumbled. "A ton of bricks?"
"So, what happened?" I asked.
"Jean vas gonna make a prank phone call," he said, "and I wanted to hear it."
"Jean was the mastermind?" I asked, surprised. "Tell her I'm very disappointed in her."
"He says, 'I'm very disappointed in you,'" Kurt said smugly in his 'I'm a parent and I'm pissy, but I'm going to hide it by sounding like I'm talking to someone who is mentally deficient' voice. He always used that voice when he imitated me, and it drove me nuts. Fortunately for him, I felt that it was called for in this situation.
"Oh, shut up," Jean said. "Give me the phone."
"No," Kurt said.
I rolled my eyes. Whenever Jean and Kurt--two of the most intelligent people I know--had a conversation, it always devolved to the third-grade level.
"Kurt! It's my phone!"
"So?--Hey, ow! Stop--Scott, she's trying to--"
"Kurt!"
"Hey--" I started, but was interrupted by a loud crash and clatter on the other side.
No lost love, I guess. I really hoped that Jean hadn't found some way to stuff Kurt's face up the change slot.
"Jean? Kurt?" I asked, bewildered when no one said anything for a minute or two.
Someone picked up, but it was neither Jean nor Kurt. "Hello?"
"Kitty," I said after identifying the voice. "What the hell is going on?"
"I just found Kurt and Jean totally wiped out on the sidewalk," Kitty said, sounding bored out of her mind.
I coughed. "This wasn't one of those 'We pushed when we should've pulled' deals, was it?"
"No, I don't think so," she said. "I think their fighting just, like, broke the door or something."
"Oh, great," I said with a sigh. "Are they conscious?"
"And going at it," Kitty said.
"Oh, no, they're fighting again? Hasn't breaking the phone booth taught them any--"
"No, they're going at it," Kitty repeated.
I gagged. "What? But Ray--!"
"Jean and him broke up last night or something. I'm not sure," Kitty said.
"What? But...I don't--what?!"
I imagined Kitty shrugging. "Don't ask me. All I know is that she made a pile of KISS posters on our lawn and set them on fire. Totally flipped, you know?"
"Jesus," I said. "Did she start talking about feminist Marxism and how all men should be stamped with--"
"The Snapple logo?" Kitty finished for me. "Yeah. It was kinda scary. Anyways," she sighed. "I gotta run. Talk to you later."
"Okay," I said, but paused when I heard Jean call breathlessly,
"Ask him about the band!"
Oh, crap. Jean...!
"The band?" Kitty sounded perplexed, then squealed directly into my ear. I nearly lost my balance, and I completely lost my hearing.
"Lance?! Are you seriously hanging out with Antisthenes right now?!" she shrieked.
"Jesus," I said.
"Oh, my God!" Kitty yelled. "Oh, my God, oh, my God, oh, my God!"
What is it with Antisthenes and girls saying 'Oh, my God'?
"Scott, you have to get me an autograph or something!" Kitty begged. "Please?!"
"I'm working on it," I said.
"Tell him to steal an ashtray or something from them," I heard Kurt say.
"Tell Kurt that he can come up and commit petty theft himself if he wants it so badly," I said.
"He says that you can totally come up and commit petty theft if you wanna," Kitty said enthusiastically.
I mentally slapped my forehead. "I meant that in an admonishing way."
"It doesn't matter," Kitty said. "I don't want a stupid ashtray. Only idiots smoke."
Which would explain why Lance smoked? Of course, Lance wasn't exactly an idiot, but I was still a little peeved about the Forge situation.
"I'll get you an autograph," I promised.
"Do you have, like, a picture or something?" she asked.
"Uh, no," I said. "But I'm sure they have random pictures lying around that he'd be happy to sign."
Of course, the random picture Lance signed had better not be one of my ass.
"Fantastic," Kitty gushed. "Thank you so much."
"No problem," I muttered.
There was a pause, then Jean was back.
"She had a class," Jean explained.
"What's she majoring in again?" I asked.
"Astrophysics," Jean said.
I whistled. "Kitty and her astrophysics."
Kitty was disturbingly intelligent. Which was why Pietro had no chance in trying to fool her--something that appeased me greatly.
"Hey," I said, frowning then, "You and Kurt are--"
"I can't hear you," Jean said, her voice perfectly clear across the phone. "Sorry--I think you're--you're breaking up...?"
"What?" I asked. "Oh, no, you don't--!"
"Sorry, Scott," she said sweetly. "Static." (1)
And then she hung up on me.
She hung up on me!
"Not fair," I muttered.
Someone wasn't getting details later on.
I clicked close my phone and tucked it into my coat pocket before heading back to the tour bus. Lance opened the door just as I stepped up to do so. He arched an eyebrow.
"Have fun?" I asked, grinning a little.
"Tolensky's girlfriend's a whackadoo," he said.
"A what?" I said, confused.
"A basketcase," Lance said, stepping out and closing the bus door behind him. "A headjob, psycho, lunatic--y'know, fun words like that."
"Oh," I said, watched him haul himself up the side of the bus, and followed him a little hesitantly.
Lance had stretched himself out on his back, his head pillowed on his crossed arms like before. I sat down next to him, and linked my arms around my knees.
"So who was that?" he asked nonchalantly.
"Who?" I asked, confused momentarily. "Oh--on the phone? That was Jean."
"The infamous Jean," he said. "Is she good friends with you or somethin'?"
"Yeah," I said, grinning a little. "I've been friends with her since, oh, third grade, I think."
"Wow," he drawled. "So you were, what, eight?"
"I think so, yes," I said. "The very first thing she did was punch me in the face with a plastic tea kettle. Entirely by accident, that is," I added. "She cried and her mom had to take her back home to administer, you know, the number-one, proven-to-work cheer-me-up."
"Yeah?" Lance seemed amused. "And what would that be?"
"Apple juice and graham crackers," I said, grinning.
He was quiet and didn't reply, humming to himself under his breath. I hesitated, then lay down, resting my head next to his shoulder.
"I wonder if we fucked if they'd be able to hear," he mused after a moment.
"I'd imagine so," I said. "Since we're on their roof and all."
He snorted and quipped, "Fuckerin' on the roof."
I laughed and teased, "'Fuckering'?"
"I had to make the syllables fit 'fiddler,'" Lance explained.
I grinned. "That's a play I don't plan on seeing any time soon."
"Too bad," he said flippantly.
"Are you the producer?" I asked.
"Naturally," he agreed. "It's my brainchild. It's brilliant."
"It's something, alright," I said.
There was a comfortable silence for a while. I tried to see the stars, but there was an extraordinary amount of light pollution from the city. I could see the moon, though, and it was brighter than any of the lights below. Still, I started dozing off, maybe because I still felt a little concussed.
Never again am I going to wrangle with a Norseman.
After what seemed like a pensive moment, Lance said softly and sleepily, his words slurred like he was confused or something,
"I--didn't really know my parents."
I stared at the sky and wondered if Lance had the Buddha with him or if he left it at the hotel.
"My dad was a half-assed drunk that was never home, and my mom was probably on five fuckin' different pills," he said. He didn't really sound like he cared at all, but I couldn't help but wonder if he was just a yarn-knit ball of angst inside or something. Hmm. Sounded like a song title or something.
"So, I guess that part of your story was right then," I said in what I hope was a light voice.
He chuckled. "Yeah, man. She didn't iron clothes or any shit like that, though."
I was quiet.
"Did they beat the living daylights out of you?" I asked, half-joking and hoping that they hadn't. I glanced up at him, and his head was tilted to the side, like something puzzled him.
"No..." he said slowly and vaguely. He sounded like he was very drowsy. "They just--ignored me, I guess."
"Oh," I said.
"Gave me time to start a fuckin' band, didn't it?" he grinned after a moment.
I wondered if I should say that I was sorry or something, or if I should bring something else up. I'd probably talk about my pet rocks or something, though, or bring up my gerbil again. Jesus, I sucked at these conversations.
Before I could think of something to say, there was a loud, "Oh, my God!" from inside the bus.
We grinned at each other.
"I guess that's all there is to it," I said. "'Oh, my God.'"
"Do you have a fuckin' speech planned out for an occasion like this?" Lance asked, smiling a little.
"Yes," I said. "Shit happens."
He arched an eyebrow at me. "That's it?"
"Flush the toilet and move on?" I tried.
"I was thinking more along the lines of 'Give it to someone else and it'll be their shit instead,'" he said.
"Well," I said, "shit leaves stains, doesn't it? Even worse ones than, uh, blood or...cherries."
"Cherries," he repeated.
"So," I said, "uh...you could say--philosophically speaking, of course--that the best thing to do with shit would be...um, turn it into..."
I paused, thinking, and said, "Fertilizer." at the same time Lance asked, "Shitade?"
"Shitade," I said with a laugh. "And you think I mix up my idioms?"
"It's a new idiom," Lance said placidly.
"Hmm," I said. "So is 'Breakfast is the best medicine,' then."
"But my new idiom's better than your new idiom," he said. "Yours is crap."
"Then I'll take my idiom elsewhere," I said airily. He scowled and shoved me a little.
"I'm gonna push you off," he threatened.
That's not the verb you usually use, is it, Mr. Alvers?
--Jesus, Lance had completely and totally corrupted me.
"You're evil," I said.
"I am many things, Mr. Bond," Lance said in a mock-British accent. "But e-vile is not one of them."
I chuckled and observed, "Your accent's a lot better than Johnny's."
"Johnny's accents are fuckin' awful," he said fondly. "And he can't hold one for more than two seconds."
"Oh, my God," Wanda said from inside.
"Exactly," I said to the roof of the bus. Lance snorted and shoved me again before settling down and wrapping an arm around my waist.
I grinned and moved so that my foot was dangling over the side. I was in such a good mood, in fact, that I imagined that if Weasel or Forge were to wander by at that exact moment, I would've kicked my shoe off.
Just in compensation, of course.
And not just six-years-difference compensation.
I think?
"Oh, my God," said Wanda.
I agree completely, Wanda. Completely.
~tbc
(1) Wow O.O What is that--like, six words in a row? I'm an alliterating queen XD ...or something. O.o;
