Title: Readme.txt
Part: 9/9
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: Well, it's the end. The--End, scrawled in purple magic marker on a billboard that's sporting an unseemly splotch of graffiti that reads, "ANTISTHENES WAS HERE." It's been a fun and wacky ride. And um. *pulls a Jack O'Neil* I have the feeling that I should say something meaningful and inspirational here...
...
...
...
Nope, I got nothing. (Let's just do it?)
Sorry to say that there's yet some more angst in this chapter--right off at the beginning, too. Hope it's not too much of a downer, though I guess some people are rooting for angst (;. Also, huge, huge, huge thanks go to Morwen O'Conner (Psst. Check out her fics, yo (;) for helping me storyboard this chapter.
Additional Notes: I'd like to thank all of my reviewers and supporters. This has been a huge, novel-sized journey, and I couldn't've done it without you all. You make me feel like a tru-u-u-e w-o-ma-a-an...and not like JC Penny does, either (;
I kid. >.> I'm sorry, I had, like, two hours of sleep last night, so I'm just a teensy bit incoherent. Anyway, this one's for you guys :D
'You guys' being: Absolute Alcohol, Agar, Alex, BatE, BlackCat9, Doomkitty1, Edainme, Flick-chan, Imhotep Ardeth Bey, Katherine, Katreon of Team Socket, Kit, Laureate, LB, Lyo, Mata, Melly, Melodie, Mercuria, MiracleChick, Morwen O'Conner, N, Nine Bucks, Olhado, Omega Orange, Periwinka, Phoenix, Pyromaniac, Risty, S, ShadowCreature, Shawna, Shindo, Shirt_Ninjas Impersonator, sugar.coated, Suzaka, Swythangel, Tera, TurtleClarinet, and last but not least, VertigoMesmerizer.
Holy crap, alphabetization! Anyway, thanks again, and I hope to see you again in another fic :D
Additional-er Notes: The mandatory and ever-hopeful, Please go to Biff! Which is 'Blind Fish Archive," that is. It's under the magical, spooky skeleton at www.geeky-pirate.net. We're looking forward to your submissions! :D
Also, I'd just like to say that the Readmeverse has taken over my mind like a virus that's the twice-removed cousin of an STD, so I will probably be writing many spin-offs and sidestories. If you have any suggestions, feel free to drop me a line at chanc@uakron.edu or you can just comment in my fic blog (the URL is up in my profile). I'll gladly take any suggestions into consideration :D
Enjoy and Review!!!...please?
--
"Well, this fuckin' sucks ass through a crazy straw," Lance said.
I sighed and rubbed a hand over my face.
"They went to Wendy's," I said dully. "I can't--believe--they--went...to Wendy's."
We were currently sitting on the curb in front of the hotel with our luggage, waiting for the rest of the band to come back in 'just a minute' (according to Jubilee). Well, it'd been twenty minutes, and I don't know about Lance, but I hadn't seen any sign of them.
Lousy liars.
"It ain't like we're gonna be late or anything," Lance said. I glared at him.
"You're pretty laid back about this, aren't you?" I said. "Think of the fans."
"Did you know," he said, "that half the fans aren't even there for the fuckin' music?"
"Of course they are," I said. "Why else are they there?"
"A quarter of the fans are there for the Jono," he said. "The other quarter of the fans is there for fuckin' show."
The headlining band, Chamber, was a one-man act with rotating accompaniment. Kurt tells me that lead singer-slash-guitarist of Chamber, Jono Starsmore, wasn't the only one with the idea, but it was still something worth noting. Dutifully, I 'noted' it, and moved on.
Jono kind of scares me, you see. He reminds me of Rogue. Rogue, who happens to petrify me beyond belief. So I generally stay away from him. I actually haven't seen him anywhere besides onstage, so it's entirely possible that he wouldn't want to talk to me either. In any case, I think I would have a better chance of not getting melted into a random pile of slightly-more-than-crispy journalist if I didn't talk to him.
Also, after catching a glimpse of our favorite, elusive goth, I now have this theory that Jubilee didn't actually steal Rogue's makeup, but was covering up for Jono, who, in fact, wears entirely too much eyeliner. Spooky.
The only thing that Jono's ever said to me--and believe me, I try not to think about it often--is, "Move, I need a napkin."
Just that. Deadpan. In a strangely clear voice, too. And I say "strangely" because he had this weird...gauzy...black thing over his mouth and chin?
Jesus, I don't know. I've stopped trying to understand anything.
"So do you get a lot of fanmail?" I asked after a moment of silence, watching an ant transverse the road and climb up the curb. It crawled around Lance's thumb and headed straight for the concierge's little podium.
Lance snorted. "Not too much."
"Not too much?" I said, grinning a little in disbelief.
"Well, okay, we get shitloads," he admitted. "But it's not like they're about anythin' real fuckin' deep or anything."
"What do you do with them, then?" I asked.
"We answer some of them, update our FAQ page, and Johnny makes clothes outta the rest o'them," he said.
I had a mental image of Johnny dressed in a waistcoat made entirely out of notebook paper and a flap over his ass that said, 'Love me.' in all caps.
"How perfectly wonderful," I said.
"How perfectly sarcastic," he replied pointedly. He sounded awfully amused.
"How perfectly observational," I said, smiling.
"How perfectly...your mom," he said.
I grinned.
"Ran out of things to say?" I asked.
"Fuck you, man," he chuckled and shifted a little, tilting his head so that he was studying the road.
I grinned and started to reply when I heard a quiet rustling in the bushes. I blinked and glanced over quickly. I didn't see anything, but of course I knew what it was. Or, who it was, rather.
"Oh, Jesus," I muttered.
"Myst-ique," Lance sing-songed when he noticed my concern. "She's comin' to getcha, Summers."
"That's not funny, Lance," I said.
He smirked and called, "Hey, Raven, why don't you come out and say hello?"
There was silence.
He shrugged.
"Maybe she left," I said nervously.
"Maybe she has to take a piss," he replied.
I frowned and tried to convey an ambience of general dissatisfaction. Not having picked up my telepathic memo, Lance hummed to himself, seeming quite content.
"I hate your fans," I said darkly.
"Then I guess it's good you're not a fan," he said lightly.
"Huh," I said. I cleared my throat awkwardly.
Lance sighed and kind of cocked his head to the side, staring forward in a listless way.
"What the hell is it?" he asked, sounding somewhat amused.
"Back in Chicago," I said slowly, "Ms. Lee said that--they thought you might get into a relationship with, uh, some of the--journalists? That've interviewed you before, I mean."
He didn't reply--just sat there on the curb, leaning back on his hands.
"I don't mean to be nosy," I said quickly. "I was just wondering--since, you know..."
"Why do you want to know?" he said then, very quietly.
"We're a--you know, thing," I said, a little exasperated. "I mean--we can't just...have sex all the time."
"Why the fuckin' hell not?" he said, turning a little and grinning at me crookedly.
"I--" I blinked, then laughed.
Oh, Jesus. Why didn't I think of that before?
He arched an eyebrow questioningly.
"If sucking on things were considered the epitomizing act of love," I said, not able to contain a smile, "then lollipops would be pretty damn romantic." After a moment's thought, I added, "But they're not, are they?"
Lance laughed and shook his head. "Lollipops. Who the fuck says 'lollipops' anymore?"
"I do," I said, pretending to be insulted.
"Mm-hmm," he said, and returned to studying the pavement.
I hesitated, then asked, "Did you?"
"Did I what?" he said, his words spoken into his mouth and coming out sounding lazy and muffled.
"Get--involved with anyone else from the media?" I said, a sinking feeling spreading a chill from the pit of my stomach upward.
Jesus, just say no, Lance, would you? Just say no, and we can get on our lives.
I frowned. He was probably deliberately being troublesome.
"What's it matter to you?" he said, just as evasive as he'd been before.
I sighed with frustration and shifted so I could turn to look at him. The sun had started to sink below the horizon and was casting a cityscape of shadows over his face, and for a brief moment, I was completely convinced that the shadows were there just so some deity could smack me in the forehead with the word 'enigmatic.'
"It matters to me," I said sharply, "because we're--"
"We're what," he said, still not looking at me. "We're--in a fuckin' working relationship?"
"We're together," I said quietly.
"What're you puttin' in this article of yours?" he asked then, looking up and ahead. "What's your fuckin' angle, Mr. Summers?"
"I don't know yet," I said, startled. "I've got all the notes--I mean, I know my angle, but I haven't put it together yet--"
"Fuck that," he said.
He stood up, and I looked dumbly at him. Jesus, where the hell was this coming from? He'd seemed fine just minutes before, and now he was flipping out?
I would've briefly considered the merits of Lance probably being bipolar, but I was in too much shock.
"Fuck that," he repeated, looking more pissed off than I'd seen him yet. "That's just it, idn't it?"
"What's it?" I protested. "I don't know what--"
"You've known your angle from the fuckin' start," he said, with a sort of ridiculous calmness--the kind that someone had when he'd practiced what he wanted to say over and over and over. "You knew what you were gonna write."
"And how do you figure that?" I snapped, automatically standing up as well. "How do you figure that I knew it? I didn't, Lance--I had no idea. Music's not my--"
"Oh, fuck you, Summers," he said loudly. "Fuck you!"
"What the hell is this about?" I demanded.
He shoved my suitcase at me.
"You left it unzipped," he said in a low voice.
I looked down. There was a sheaf of papers curling a little in layers. The first words I saw when I looked down were from the prep file Pietro'd given me. I read them numbly and remembered the conversation that I'd had with him--the conversation that nearly mirrored the bullet points on the file:
Get in touch with the lead, hone in on details, get underneath and analyze, figure out--
"It's not what it looks like," I said bleakly.
"I knew it," Lance just said. "I knew it from the fuckin' beginning."
Jesus. What the hell was he talking about? From the beginning?--I--
"It's not what it looks like," I repeated.
Jesus.
"Just business as usual?" he said, laughing harshly. "It was just fuckin' business as usual, yeah?"
"No, I--" I started, and he cut me off with an impatient wave of his hand.
"Read the press release, Summers," he said. "Read the fuckin' press release, talk to my fuckin' manager, and stay the fuck away from me."
All without yelling.
I stared at him.
He stuffed his hands into his jeans pockets and walked away. Slouching.
And not looking back at me.
Not one glance.
"Jesus," I said.
I felt the porcelain hardness of the small Buddha statuette in the pocket of my slacks, and I pulled it out.
I grinned slightly and tried not to feel just a little lost.
He'd forgotten the gift Jubilee gave him.
I tucked it into the front pocket of his overnight bag and sat down on the curb again, my suitcase next to me.
I wrapped my arms around my knees.
And waited.
Saturday and Sunday passed without much event. Jubilee, Johnny and Tabitha acted as if nothing happened--though Jubilee did look questioningly at me once or twice--and I sat up front with Forge. I'd resolved my uncertainty about their six-years-difference relationship, and decided that it seemed fine, even if Weasel was a frightening, needs-to-be-bubblewrapped nineteen-year-old. I figure that as long as his blood pressure doesn't skyrocket and his head implodes or something that everything is fine.
Anyway, so everyone seemed to be fine with me. Everyone except for Lance, of course. Not one to compromise, debate, or anything that involved actual intelligent conversation, he either avoided or ignored me for the rest of the trip. He actually disappeared at one point, and I couldn't find him anywhere. At first, I thought he'd locked himself in the back with Rogue, and after several hours, I built up my courage to go and ask her. But when I did, all she did was grunt and glare at me, very obviously saying that he wasn't there.
And so I checked with Jubilee. And she didn't know where he was either. He wasn't on a bus, he wasn't on a train. He wasn't on a bike, he wasn't on a plane.
And then I realized that he'd probably gone to ride with Jono, which was just playing dirty. It also broke the nice rhyming of my internal monologue.
Jesus, though. I couldn't decide if I was mad at him or if I was mad at Pietro for causing this kind of misunderstanding to begin with. All I knew, though, was that no matter whose fault this whole thing was, I was feeling more dejected than I had felt in pretty much all my life, as cliché as it sounds. It's right up there with the first time we moved, and I had accidentally left my Batman action figure back at the old house. (It was an experience that has scarred me and still remains with me even now, seventeen years later.) It felt like our relationship had already ended even before it had begun.
Another thing I knew was that my brief relationship with grunge rocker Lance Alvers, lead singer of rising breakthrough band-of-the-year Antisthenes, was at an end. I wondered if I'd look back on it as a sordid affair--something that should've never happened. It didn't seem real. I mean, come on. Who the hell gets into a relationship with a rock star, anyway? It's right up there with 'rocket scientist.' No one's a rock star.
However, I had liked Lance. I'd liked him enough to want to get to know him, and I'd done a pretty damn good job juggling our relationship and a story assignment without letting one interfere with the other.
So what if I'm a journalist? It doesn't matter, right? I'd expect Lance of all people to not really give a damn anyway. But there he was going on about how I'd had some--some secret agenda all along. And I hadn't. I'd been completely honest from the beginning. He was the one who lied about everything. Absolutely everything. And then came the kicker:
Who was he to say that our relationship was over, anyway? I hadn't been doing anything wrong--if anything, I should be the one having serious issues with our relationship as it were.
But no. Instead, Mr. I'm A Rock Star, Suck Me gets to decide it's been fun, but now he has places to be, people to do?! What the hell is that?
In any case, I was determined to correct this particularly infuriating misunderstanding. Or at least end things on my terms. And maybe punch him a few times, too.
At least, that was the plan.
"This might be a little more difficult than I imagined," I said to myself.
The tour bus drove away, Jubilee and Johnny pressed up to the back and waving like maniacs. I waved back tentatively and turned, trudging back to good ol' reality.
And a half-empty office.
"Mr. Summers," I heard Pietro call, and I glanced around, grimacing.
"Jesus," I said, "everyone really cleaned out, didn't they?"
"Thank God you made it back," Pietro said. He looked a little ragged around the edges.
What's the matter, Mr. Maximoff? Haven't gotten into bed with any secretaries lately?
"I'm fine," I said. "Really. No mono, no nothing. I guess I left before the bug got around," I added.
"Good, good," Pietro said distractedly. "Your article?"
"Here," I said, holding out the manila folder I'd put my article and my notes in.
"Fantastic," Pietro said. "I'll get back to you on that."
And he vanished into his office. I walked around for a little, wondering if Bobby was slinking around and fiddling with the locks in his apartment or if he'd actually come back to work. When I discovered that both his cubicle and the watercooler were abandoned, I just wandered back to my own cubicle. My good ol' cubicle. With my good ol' computer with good ol'...a hundred eighty-four unread messages. O-kay, getting out of my cubicle now.
Pietro finished going over my article in a surprisingly short amount of time, presumably because he didn't have anything to do with no staff. He called me into his office, and when I got there, he was just sitting there, staring at his desk with a sort of pensive look. I sat down and watched him apprehensively. Jesus, I could feel a million hacks coming.
Finally, he leaned back and looked up at me, my article in his hands.
"No." Pietro let the draft slip from his fingers, leaned back and rolled his shoulders forward then back. The unstapled papers of my article fanned out slightly and hit the desk with soft slaps, nearly inaudible. He arched an eyebrow, and, tucking his pencil behind his left ear, he inspected the wall directly behind me.
"No?" I blinked. It was just over a thousand words, which was an issue with length, really, but I'd been led to believe that it wouldn't matter too much. Give me some guidelines, would you, Associated Press?
"No," Pietro said again, sounding rather exasperated.
He hadn't even bothered slashing anything out or commenting on an out-of-place quotation here or a run-on sentence there. In fact, he hadn't even taken a second glance at my article until I nodded toward it, asking,
"What did I do wrong?"
"I'm disappointed in you, Mr. Summers," Pietro replied. "What did you do wrong? All of it."
"All of it?" I stared at him helplessly. "Why--"
"You've never written a feature story for our arts and entertainment section before, have you?" he interrupted impatiently, waving off whatever questions I had.
"Well, no, but I--"
"You probably thought it wasn't all that different from a regular news story, correct?"
I was beginning to get annoyed. "Yes, I just thought--"
"Now, generally you'd be right. On the spot, you know." Here, Pietro J. Maximoff grinned at me almost conspiratorially. He leaned forward, the sticky leather covering of his chair--a needless expense --crinkling a little at the motion.
"However, I think it's time we bend the rules a little," he said.
"Bend the rules?" I repeated. At this point, I had become aware that I was beginning to sound like one of those toys that kids played with; what was it called? Oh, that's right: A yak bak. Fabulous.
"You know, do some touch-up on the A&E section." Pietro's teeth were far too white in the dim lighting of his office. I was beginning to feel a little antsy. I didn't like seeing things through a haze; I wanted to either see things or not. Fluorescent lights or absolute darkness. Black or white. Vanilla or chocolate. Strawberry or...hm. I'm not sure what the opposite of strawberry would be. Maybe...?
"You mean maybe add a few columns or change the focus?" I asked.
"Kind of," Pietro said slyly. He's a very clever man. A little too clever and a little too ambitious--all in the wrong way. In my opinion, that is.
"I'm thinking a total change from Ororo Munroe's pristine reign of absolute, mind-numbing boredom," Pietro said with an inexhaustible air. "Come on, Mr. Summers. I was bored near tears! You can't tell me you weren't."
I didn't like where things were going.
"I thought the way Ms. Munroe organized the newspaper was fine," I said, a little defensively. Ms. Munroe was an acquaintance of mine and a better boss than Pietro was turning out to be. And that isn't just my opinion.
"Fine?" Pietro asked, his voice rising marginally with incredulity. "Please. It could've withstood some change--it could've withstood a lot of change."
Again, he leaned back, looking bored. Pietro looked very young in his suit and tie even though his hair is so blond it was almost white. As if conscious of such, he reached up and loosened his tie.
"Did his father drink?" he asked, and I was immediately taken aback. "Was he abused? Did he have sisters? Were they abused? Did he ever have to live in a shelter?"
"Wait, what?" I asked, barely thinking before I interrupted the stream of even questions.
"You heard me, Mr. Summers," Pietro said. "Where's the good stuff? The dirt?"
"We're a newspaper," I started.
"What we are," Pietro interjected, "is a literary organization of the public domain, and frankly, Mr. Summers," here he clasped his hands, "this is the sort of stuff that people are interested in."
"But, I--it's--that's sensationalism," I sputtered.
"Exactly," Pietro said, pointing a finger at me. "Exactly. It's sensational. There's a reason they came up with that term, Mr. Summers," he added, "and I suggest that we make use of it."
"What you're asking me to write," I said hotly, "sounds like something out of the National Enquirer."
"Don't be a prude," Pietro scoffed. His twenty-three years were showing. "The times are changing now; it's the information age. People aren't just interested in the facts anymore."
"Just because some of the media are portraying biased viewpoints--" I began, but Pietro held up a hand, seeming all business again. A cruel, calculating sort of business. Like the business of someone who skinned the fleece off of sheep and painted them strange colors or something. Or maybe just like the business of someone who wanted sensationalistic reporting to overtake decent journalism. Jesus, I was going to spit in his coffee later on.
"I didn't call you here to discuss ethics, Mr. Summers," Pietro--sorry, Mr. Maximoff--said, smiling only slightly now. "I recommend you fix your article."
"I think it's fine," I said. The wood of the armrests was cutting into my palms.
"I think it's fairly decent," Pietro said, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes.
"Yes, it's very decent," I said. "I have just the facts."
"It's not enough," Pietro said.
"Then what do you want?" There was a hint of cologne that wasn't mine on the collar of my dress shirt. I tried to ignore it, but couldn't help grimacing slightly, unable to forget it, since I knew whose it was and how I might never see that person again. And it was all the fault of the intolerable little brat sitting in front of me. Okay, so I might not have all the seniority required to call Pietro a brat, and maybe I was a little--maybe a lot--biased against him, but he was still a brat. An intolerable brat, who was trying to get in Jean's little sister's pants. Jesus, maybe I'd pour glue in his coffee instead.
"I already told you what I want," Pietro said, very cross now. Didn't have your afternoon nap, P.J.?
"Well, I--"
"How about this," Pietro crossed his right ankle over his other knee and drummed his fingers on the desk, "You get a revised copy to me," writing in big letters at the top of my draft now, "by tomorrow morning, nine sharp..." he finished with a flourish and looked up at me, "or you're fired."
He said it so sweetly and simply I almost didn't catch it. I stared at him. Bastard.
"Or how about this," I said. "You take that draft and run it by the copy desk, tomorrow morning, nine sharp," I stood up and Pietro watched me, seeming almost amused, "because I quit."
"How charming of you," Pietro said.
"Go to hell," I said.
And that was that. My career at the College Press Times was over. And Thank God.
I packed up my cubicle and immediately headed over to Jean's apartment. Once I got there, I hesitated and almost didn't knock. After I did knock, I just kind of stared into my box of random office supplies and really, really hoped that Jean and Kurt weren't doing some sort of strange making-out sort of thing.
The door opened, and Jean blinked at me for a few seconds.
"No, you didn't," she said, sounding horrified.
"He was going to fire me," I said. "So I quit."
"Scott," she said, grabbing me by the elbow and ushering me inside.
I must've looked a lot more pathetic than I thought I did, because she immediately put the teakettle on and took out a can of powdered hot chocolate.
"It's seventy-seven degrees outside," I said, thinking that maybe I ought to inform her that not everyone drank hot chocolate when it was warm outside. And it was warm.
Just a little.
"I don't care," she said, sitting down on the couch and pulling me down with her. I sighed and put the box on the coffee table.
"Pietro wanted me to write a sensationalistic story," I said bitterly.
"He what?" Jean asked, startled.
"Dirt," I said, letting my head fall back on the head of the sofa and staring up at the ceiling. "He wanted me to--to write about how big Lance's machinery is, how many years it's been since he's talked to his--his goddamned parents. He wanted me to--screw him over," I added softly.
Jesus, I sounded melodramatic, but I didn't really care at this point.
"Well, you did screw him," Jean joked, but she still looked worried. It sounded weird hearing Jean say 'screw,' but I'm assuming that she did it because I had said it, too. Then again, it sounded weird hearing me say 'screw,' too.
"Jetlag," I said to myself.
"What?" Jean asked.
"Break-up jetlag," I said, grinning weakly. "I'm still saying some of the stuff he'd say even though--"
"Oh, my God," she said. "You broke up? With Lance?"
"No, with Barney McGee," I said wryly.
"Why?" she asked, sounding absolutely aghast.
"Because," I said miserably, "he knew before I did. He figured out that I was supposed to be there to get dirt. So he--well," I stopped myself before I could start blabbering and schooled myself to some semblance of calm. "It's over."
Jean stared at me.
I rubbed a hand over my face and grimaced. I hadn't meant to disturb her so much.
"I'm sorry," I said. "I didn't mean to upset you."
"I'm in shock," she said.
"I'm sorry," I repeated, frowning and feeling pretty awful.
"In shock," she repeated, then thwacked me on the head.
"Ow!" I said, startled. I reached up to rub the back of my head.
"You're an idiot," Jean said, scowling. "A grade-A idiot!"
"What?" I asked, taken aback.
"Most men are idiots," she continued as if she hadn't heard me, "but I expected more of you--"
"More what?" I asked, disgruntled.
"Oh, I don't know," she said, her voice dripping with sarcasm. "Maybe--common sense?"
"Common sense?" I asked. Jesus, I was an idiot after breakups, wasn't I? I'd been repeating people all afternoon.
Maybe what I really needed was a hearing aid, not hot chocolate in seventy-seven-degree weather.
"So he's a moron," Jean said, throwing her hands up. "That doesn't mean you have to be! He broke up with you for no reason--so you give him a reason not to!"
I blinked. "I--"
"I'm not done yet," Jean said darkly, and I shut my mouth and scooted back on the couch so I was sitting up straight.
Jesus H. Christ, Jean was scary as all hell when you got her started.
"Call him up and leave him a message or something," she said. "He's a moron, but he can't be that idiotic if you actually took time with him, right?"
"He's stubborn," I said feebly, hoping I wouldn't get her inexplicably pissed at me.
"Tie him to a chair and beat him with your shoe until he listens," she replied, looking like she was going to punch something.
"Um," I said and laughed nervously.
Then I got an idea.
"My article," I said.
"The source of all problems in the world," Jean declared.
"No, no," I said. "I could send him my article."
She paused mid-sentence, swerved to stare at me for one eerie moment, then grinned at me.
"Start up the computer," she said. "I'll get our hot chocolate and be there in a sec."
"Well, um, do you think I could do this alone?" I asked hesitantly. "Since it's personal...and...uh...guess not."
I chuckled uneasily at the look she gave me and headed off to the computer.
"What should I name it?" I asked when Jean came back. She handed me a mug of hot chocolate and I sipped at it.
I'd written out the e-mail--standard, 'No, I'm not bullshitting; please read' stuff--and was now staring at my article. I'd retrieved it from my desk, and as of now, it was merely named with the date and Lance's last name.
"Uh, I don't know," Jean said blowing at her own mug. "'Read Me'?"
I grinned wryly. "He'll probably reply with an empty e-mail saying 'Blow me' or something."
She snorted. "Oh, you've got an intelligent one here, Scott."
I shook my head and edited the file name nonetheless. "I guess it's better than nothing."
"It sounds important," she said with a grin. "'Readme.txt.' I like it."
"It sounds like I'm trying to send a virus to him," I said.
"Or something," she said vaguely, then said urgently, "Send it!"
"Okay, okay," I said. "Give me a second."
And so I sent it.
It was unreal--I had never expected to find myself drinking hot chocolate in seventy-seven-degree weather, e-mailing rock stars, and then obsessively checking for new mail. Jesus, maybe I ought to run off and have a giggly slumber party and resign myself to my fate as Number One Groupie.
That is, if you don't count Wanda.
"What do we do now?" I wondered aloud.
"I guess we wait," Jean said, seeming quite content to swirl at her melting marshmallows with a teaspoon.
"Right," I said and sighed. "I knew that."
Jesus.
Tuesday morning came and went. I'd read all night in Jean's living room and had passed out around one o'clock--uncharacteristically late for me--so I was entirely unequipped to deal with eight o'clock's call to rise. I got up anyway, of course, figuring that I might as well get back in routine. Routine for what exactly, I'm not sure, since I'm unemployed and all. I guess it doesn't really matter, though. It really depressed me that I'd have to go and clean out the rest of my belongings from my cubicle, but I'd survive. I'd scream a lot and drink about four pots of coffee to try to cheer myself up, but I'd survive.
I took a shower and changed into the spare clothes I had in the hall closet. By the time I'd finished getting ready to face the world--suicide attempts involving a razor aside--Kitty had already waken up and was seated at the kitchen counter with a glass of orange juice in one hand and what appeared to be an encyclopedia in the other.
"Good morning," I said.
"'morning," Kitty replied vacantly, absorbed in her reading.
"What's that?" I asked, gesturing at her book as I popped two pieces of bread into the toaster.
"In depth reading on quarks and charms," she said. "Just some light reading."
I grinned.
"Sounds interesting," I said carefully.
"Fascinating," Kitty agreed brightly.
What riveting conversation.
I busied myself by retrieving the margarine from the refrigerator and putting the coffee on.
"So, I hear you just broke up with your latest boyfriend?" Kitty asked suddenly.
I grimaced, imagining her beating me in the head with her thirty-two pounds of 'light reading' until my skull caved in.
"Yeah, no one you'd know," I said.
"What's his name?" Kitty said with girlish enthusiasm. "Maybe I'll recognize him from somewhere."
Maybe you will, and then you'll chew my head off in fangirl rage.
"I really doubt it," I said nervously. The toaster popped up two newly toasted pieces of toasted toast. (1)
"Toast!" I said. "Would you like one?"
"No," Kitty said slowly, looking at me as if I were shooting rays of death from my eyes.
"Scott," I heard Jean yell from the bedroom, "did Lance e-mail you back yet?"
Jean, I think you deserve a boyfriend like Kurt who will saturate you in cheeseburger grease then take you to the local Y for something "special."
"Uh," I said, "I have to go."
Kitty stared at me, her eyes glazed over. I could practically hear the gears to her head grinding to a halt as her expression read 'Cannot process.'
"I'll talk to you later, bye," I muttered quickly and left.
Once outside, I sighed and ran a hand through my hair.
Jesus.
I called a cab and headed back to the CPT. When I got there, it seemed even emptier than before. In fact, I checked for a 'Out to lunch--be back in ten' sign out front. No sign of one. I wondered if everyone had gone. However, from the bowels of the abandoned hellhole, I heard the sounds of Pacman battling evil and proving me wrong.
Bobby.
"Bobby?" I called as I neared the A&E area.
"Scott Summers," Bobby said cheerfully, wheeling out on a swivel chair and greeting me with a killer grin.
"I thought you had mono," I said wryly.
"The working man's ailment," he replied with an impish grin. "Maximoff called and offered me a raise."
"So you sold your soul to the devil," I said.
"I'm in bondage," he said with theatrical flair, then asked with interest, "Say, how'd that story assignment go? With Antisthenes?"
"Oh, fabulous," I said. "I quit."
"Yeow," Bobby said, starting and gawking at me. "You what?"
"Quit," I said.
"Yikes," he said.
"Yep," I said.
"Why?" he asked.
"Pietro," I said.
"Wh-o-a," he said.
"Yes," I said.
Bobby shook his head. "Scott--I never thought--"
"I didn't either," I said. "It's fine, though. I'd rather find another job than work for Pietro."
"So you're saying you'd rather be a hobo?" Bobby asked.
I glared at him. "I'm not going to be a hobo."
Bobby chortled and spun his chair around a few times.
"Seriously, though," he said. "How'd the assignment go."
"Alright," I said as calmly as I could. "They're interesting people."
I tried not to think about Lance.
"Swell," Bobby said, then leaned forward with a worrisome glint in his eyes. "Who was the opening band again?"
"Uh, Chamber," I said.
"God, they give me a boner," he said.
I stared at him. Thank you for this pleasant foray into the realm of Things I Didn't Want To Know.
"Um," I said uneasily. "I didn't know you were into..."
Into what? Goth? Cock? Jono's squeaky leather pants?
"The old school goth junk?" Bobby asked. He smirked. "I'm not."
"I'm going to go get my things now..." I said slowly, disturbed.
Apparently, Bobby was just a little fruitier than we'd thought he was.
Just a little.
I packed up the rest of my personal belongings and briefly considered doing something rash like stealing a chair or etching, 'Oh, my God, someone help me--it burns...!!!' into the cubicle wall. A second thought involving lawsuits made me discard the notion, though, and I sighed, feeling strangely discontent about leaving the cardboard box of a workplace that had eaten the last few years of my life.
To tell you the truth, though, I guess I was going to miss the CPT. I'd held a stable job there for a while, and now I felt like I was just floating around aimlessly.
Like a hobo.
Jesus, I was starting to get paranoid. A mental image came to mind of me dressed in clothes fashioned out of tattered carpet and paper bags. The hobo me held up a half-eaten tuna fish melt procured from a nearby dumpster, then skewered an alley cat and clumsily made a hat out of it.
Dear Jesus.
"I need to get back to Jean before I have a goddamned aneurysm," I muttered.
"Scot-t-t-t-t-t-t," I heard Bobby wail as I left the office, and I caught the beginning of Pietro yelling, "Mr. Drake, why isn't the sports page--!?" before the front door swung shut.
Poor Bobby. Maybe I'd ask Lance to put in a good word for him with Jono. Oh, wait--I almost forgot;
Lance hates me.
I sighed miserably and called another cab.
"The Mulridge building, please," I said.
"Where is he?" growled the driver in response.
I blinked and looked up.
Holy Jesus, son of Mary.
"My-Mystique," I stammered.
She glared into the rearview mirror with a pair of rather angry, heart-shaped sunglasses, then floored the pedal.
"Jesus!" I said.
"Where is he?!" she shrieked back at me as we ran a red light.
"This is all very cliché," I said, trying not to panic.
Too many action movies for Mys--
"Jesus!" I yelped. "Watch out for the guardrail--!"
There was a godawful screeching sound from the side of the taxi as we rode the guardrail, and I grimaced. It was as if someone had jammed eight-inch nails into my ears and was now shamelessly reducing my brain into bullet hole-riddled flan.
"Where is he?!" Mystique demanded once the unholy yowling had stopped.
"Jesus," I said weakly. "You could irrigate a third-world country with the side of this thing."
"Well?!" Mystique sounded like she was going to reach down my throat, pull out my heart, and use it as a slightly ominous decorative piece for her living room coffee table.
"'Well' what?" I squeaked.
"Where is he?!" she yelled over people who'd began honking at us as we passed them at a hundred and seven miles per hour.
"Where is who?" I yelled back, panicking. Christ, please stop, Miss Psycho Stalker Girl!
"Lance," Mystique hissed.
"Lance?" I asked, confused.
"He's here!"
"Here?"
"Don't lie--I followed him!"
"You followed him?"
"I followed him here!"
"Here?"
"Lance!"
"Lance?--Ow!" Mystique hurled a pair of fuzzy purple dice back at me and head me square in the eye. Thank you for saving me from one of the most asinine conversations of my life.
"I haven't seen him," I muttered.
"You're lying," Mystique growled.
"I was too busy quitting my job!" I protested.
"Li-ar!" Mystique declared and began randomly chucking taxi trash back at me while driving with only one hand.
"Ow--Stop it!" I yelped as I dodged debris. An airborne toothbrush nearly gouged my eye out, but luckily only flew out the window and bounced off a parking meter.
Suddenly, the cab sputtered to a stop and made a hissing sound, wheezing as it sank a little toward the ground.
"Flat tire," I said, feeling rather mystified. It was all happening so quickly.
"You broke it," Mystique accused, sounding morally offended.
I didn't have chance to defend my honor, however, as I was too busy running away.
I ran almost four blocks before I stopped to catch my breath. I'd forgotten my box back in the Taxi Cab of Doom, but it didn't matter. I tried to stir up at least a little bit of concern for whatever might've been important in the box, but I couldn't focus on any of it:
Lance was in New York.
It took me a good forty-five minutes to get back to the apartment, mostly because I was taking a rather long and winding route in hopes to thwart any Scottnapping plans Mystique might be up to.
I was down the hall and around the corner from Jean's door when I heard her talking to someone. Someone who smoked cigarettes and played with porcelain figurines and could deal with a lesson or two in a little thing called Communicating and Not Jumping To Conclusions.
"...Oh. It's you," Jean said rather starkly. "Why're you here?"
I heard Lance cough uncomfortably and shift a little.
"Wel-l," he said, sounding rather nonchalant. I could just imagine him slouching a little, his hands stuffed in his jeans pockets. "I think I made a small mistake. Is Summers here?"
"Hmm," Jean said. I heard her moving around a little, then asking rather innocuously, "What--what's that smell?"
"What?" Lance now, sounding rather confused.
A beat. "Oh. It's coming from you."
There was a rather tense, yet perplexed silence. Then Jean said rather sweetly,
"Smells like...testosterone."
"H--" Lance started, and I quickly rounded the corner, hoping to avoid any bloodshed.
"Lance," I said haltingly once I saw him.
He looked--good.
Jesus.
Both Jean and Lance turned toward me, the former still looking rather peeved, and the latter just sort of puzzled.
"Summers," Lance said.
"Scott?" Jean said.
"Jean," I said.
"Jean?" Lance asked.
"Lance," Jean said darkly.
"Jean," I said.
"Scott?" she asked.
"Lance," I said.
"Summers," he said.
"Scott," she said.
"Jean?" I asked.
"Summers," Lance said.
"Lance," Jean said.
"Lance?" I said.
"Scott," Jean said.
"Jean?" I said.
"Okay, stop it," Lance said loudly.
I hid a smile and tried not to look giddy.
"I need to talk to you," Lance said, looking at me.
"Oops," I said softly, feeling kind of dizzy. "The voting booths're closed. Come again tomorrow?"
"Scott," Lance said, and suddenly, he struck me as pleading and secretly desperate despite his indifference. He was also hot and wearing shades.
"Rooftop," I said, glancing at Jean. She crossed her arms and arched an eyebrow.
"Let's go," Lance said, and I turned to retrace my steps to the stairs, expecting and hoping he'd follow. Or at least have the decency to tell me to screw off so I'd know that I was wasting my time.
It was windy on the roof, but it was in a peaceful sort of way. A smoggy peaceful, to be sure, but everything still seemed so distant--probably because there were a good twenty stories of cement and air between us and the street.
"So, what did you want?" I asked, trying to sound unconcerned.
"You," Lance said with a slight smirk.
He shifted so that he was leaning against the five-foot concrete wall around the rim of the roof. I grinned and pressed my back to it from beside him.
"I got your e-mail," he said.
"Wow, so you do check it," I said.
"Toldja," he said, grinning briefly.
There was a moment of silence, then he asked,
"You didn't get fucked, did you?"
"I fucked myself," I said. I hesitated. "You were right, you know."
"I'm always right," Lance said, but turned toward me curiously.
"He wanted sensationalism," I said, grimacing. "I should've seen it coming, but..."
"You got fired?" Lance studied the traffic below us.
"I quit," I said. "I showed him the article, and it didn't cut it."
"Shitwit," he said. "Doesn't know fuckin' good journalism when he fuckin' sees it."
"Journalism," I said, slightly surprised, just as he began slowly, "Listen--"
I coughed.
"You go first," I said.
He gave me a slightly amused look.
"Wel-l," he said, "I was just gonna say that, y'know..."
He stalled and stared a stop sign.
Feeling rather benevolent, I suggested, "I think what you're trying to say starts with 'I'm' and ends with 'sorry.'"
"Yeah, that," he said vaguely.
I quirked an eyebrow at him.
"What?" he said, glancing around. "You already fuckin' know, so..."
"Now that I don't have a job," I said placidly, "I have all day."
He coughed. "Well, I'm..."
"Sorry?" I said.
"Sure," He said.
I crossed my arms.
"I apologize in a very fuckin' apologizing manner?" he tried with mock-sweetness.
"That works," I said.
He ran a hand through his hair.
"You're a fuckin' woman, I swear," he said, but he was smiling at me.
"Play nice," I said.
"Fuck you," he said.
"Lance," I muttered, and we kissed.
"You're supposed to wait for me to insult you back," I said when we parted.
"I'm impatient," he said, grinning crookedly at me.
"There's a difference between impatient and spasmodic," I replied and he snorted.
"Spasmodic," he repeated, cramming all his incredulity into three syllables.
"Spasmo-o-odic," I said.
He shoved me, then draped a haphazard arm around my shoulders.
"Fuck," he said good-naturedly. "You journalists."
I grinned at him and said slowly, "I think we just had a happy ending."
"Hmm," Lance said as he thoughtfully dragged us both down so that we were sitting on the ground, side by side, backs against the wall.
"At least 'til we go on an actual tour," he said.
I blinked. "What? When?"
"Tour, next week," he replied easily.
"Where? How?"
"Europe, fantastical flying machines made of metal and frozen yogurt."
"Europe," I said, choosing to ignore Lance and his yogurt for the time being. "For how long?"
He shrugged. I frowned and asked,
"Do you want my phone number?"
Lance grinned lazily at me.
"Why don't you fuckin' e-mail it to me?"
"Jesus," I said, and he laughed.
Game, set, match. Everything'd turned out--well, not according to plan. It seemed to make an odd sort of sense, I guess. I mean, I was searching for a new job, dating a transcontinental rock star, and dodging kitschy attempts at hijacks by a creepy middle-aged stalker who was in love with my boyfriend. Life was turning out to be fabulous.
Speaking of fabulous, the grapevine says that Todd and Wanda broke up. After talking Freddy into taking up bass, Todd's garage band became a brief local phenomenon before they faded back into obscurity. They moved out to Florida and are happily playing Elvis covers in retirement homes, though. They even hired some guy named Paul Barry (2) to be their official 'coffee man.' Unfortunately, after disappearing for a week, Paul showed up on Todd's doorstep babbling about groundhogs, aliens and Christmas trees. He then eloped with a disgruntled Shell's Angel (a burly woman riding a Harley and wearing a strange bikini-mermaid-barwench get-up) and was never heard from again.
Wanda was not as blessed as Todd was, as she simply became a go-go dancer pretending to be a goth pretending to be a vampire pretending to be sexually attracted to men who weren't in Antisthenes.
Jubilee kept in touch with Todd, as far as I know, and constantly flooded my inbox with chain letters about "making my wish come true"--something which I highly suspect is a euphemism. She reportedly had a brief fling with Johnny before they both realized that the sheer hyperactive energy between them might be combustible should errant hormones be added to the mix. Therefore, to avoid bringing about the apocalypse, they refrained from any possible baby-making acts.
(Lance tells me that this is not true, and that the only reason they didn't have a relationship was because they felt it was too strange and something akin to incest. I like my explanation better.)
In any case, the two have continued with business as usual: Jubilee attempting to capture homoerotica on video, and Johnny constantly hassling passersby and shamelessly flirting with Tabitha.
At this point in time, Tabitha has apparently not imploded in a random act of cellular ignition. However, the probability of her spontaneously becoming popcorn chicken remains high, and Mr. Xavier will no doubt be nearby to dip her in honey mustard sauce. Since she has yet to become tasty pseudo-food, Mr. Xavier has been busying himself with exploring the wonderful world of walk-in refrigerators. He's either planning on preserving his victims in case he gets the late night munchies, or he's going to buy lots and lots of cheese and other assorted dairy products.
Meanwhile, in the back of the tourbus, I hear Weasel and Forge's six-year-difference relationship is alive and well and kicking. Or, at least, screaming--loudly, at that.
Forced to occupy herself somewhere other than the bus, Rogue ran into Mystique at a crosswalk and proceeded to have an epic battle of pissed-off-womanly proportions. I hear the loser was forced to try out Mr. Xavier's meat locker--that is, refrigerator--and since I haven't heard of Antisthenes getting a new drummer, I'm assuming the best.
(Lance informs me that Mystique was not, in fact, sliced into lunchmeat, and had actually only been hospitalized for head trauma that she inflicted on herself while attempting to climb out the window of a police cruiser and consequently falling into a trashcan with a bicycle wheel stuffed in it. She recently awoke from her morphine-induced coma [the nurse had accidentally given her an incorrect dosage] with amnesia, and has now settled down with a nice blond woman named Irene and her seventeen cats. Again, I like my explanation better.)
In international news, Kitty invented sperm-friendly microwaves, preliminary hyperspace drives with pink liquid crystal displays and coffee holders, and a whole line of Antisthenes-themed compass kits. Apparently, NASA's drooling down the back of her shirt, and she may soon be headed down to Texas to do some 'light' high-tech tinkering.
Had Kitty planned on leaving sooner, I'm sure Jean would've invited Kurt to come live with her. As it stands, though, both Jean and Kurt overcame their temporary bout of insanity and broke up. Jean reconciled with Ray (whose mohawk had become three times spikier since I last saw him), and Kurt sequestered himself away to work on his comic book for Slave Labor Graphics.
This was, of course, after he quit the CPT. In fact, everyone seemed to quit the CPT except for Bobby, who stayed on the payroll and in his cubicle until the bitter, bitter end. Unfortunately, since Bobby was only playing Pacman and not actually doing work in his cubicle, he effectively and single-handedly sucked what life and funds had remained in the now-defunct CPT. He then used his money to go to London for 'business.' Maybe to buy bootleg Beatles memorabilia?
(Lance's explanation is that Bobby's boinking Jono. I have no alternative explanation, and so I guess we have to stick with that one--no matter how disturbing it is.)
What of Pietro, you ask?
Well, he was last seen working at Mr. Chicken, a family-owned chain-restaurant that stems from Ohio and makes its employees wear ridiculous hats and aprons that look like flattened clown pants.
As for Lance and me...well, I don't know. I'm meeting him at a coffee shop at two tomorrow. Or is it three?
I'd better give him a call and make sure.
~fin~
(1) Sorry XD I couldn't help it.
(2) Not Paul from the series--it's more of an inside joke. (see BatE (;)
