Alright. Going for the home stretch now.
Toad (c) Marvel.

Mortimer paced in his apartment, rubbing his hands together furiously and blowing on them in a futile attempt to drive some warmth back into his frozen fingers. Maybe, he thought bitterly, he should have gone for an apartment that had heat. But then, it had been a choice between heat or a computer, and he could live without one. He hoped. He cast a sour glance at the elderly laptop that sat on a dilapidated bedside table next to an ancient Murphy bed. Bloody thing barely worked, and the internet on it was slower than a retarded ant. Deliver me from dial-up, he thought, rolling his eyes heavenward as he sat down on the bed to check his accounts again. They weren't going to last forever. Hell, they probably wouldn't last until spring. And then what was he supposed to do? Back to pick-pocketing like he had in York? Eh, he'd been a lousy pick-pocket anyway, and back then he had at least been small enough not to be noticed if he found a big enough crowd. Anyway, he was above that. Stuff like that, it was for kids, little boys lost on the street who could barely stay alive one day to the next. And he wasn't that anymore. But what was he?

"Bloody hell!" He slammed his hand down on the bed and cursed again as it hit one of the harder lumps. This was more like the early, unsure days of the Brotherhood, except this time, he had no leader, no goals, and no idea what he was going to do. The idea of not having to be part of the grand Fight for the Future had seemed alluring, but at least serving as a soldier of destiny had given him a purpose in life. And a place with a heater. As it was, he had already spent three months in this crummy hell-hole, trying to "find himself"--or at least figure out what the hell he wanted out of life. He still wasn't sure. He could make a list, but it got hazy once he moved away from the basics. I want to know that I'll have enough money to eat. I want a place to live. I want to settle down and maybe have a sort-of normal life. I want my stereo-system back. I want a place where I can practice. I want to find someo--Bloody HELL I want some heat!

Finally coming to the decision that staying in his room was almost as warm as being outside in the snow, Mortimer stood up stormed down the stairs, being sure to stop and give the landlord's door a good glare. He knew he could fix the bloody furnace in ten minutes if the man would let him, but for him to even try would violate some agreement formed only in the crazy old coot's mind and see Mortimer kicked out. And he couldn't risk loosing this place. It had been so hard to find an affordable flat that wasn't a death-trap for mutants. Still, it wouldn't have hurt the man if he would just let Mortimer look at the sodding furnace.

After a brief trudge through the snow, Mortimer found himself in a Starbucks. He sloshed up to the counter and ordered the cheapest thing that was hot. One thing he liked about the weather--it gave him every excuse to be bundled up head-to-toe, so there'd be no disgusted stares or refusal of service to the mutant. Hell, he'd be impressed if anyone could see a single patch of skin on him, let alone remark on it's odd color. He cradled his cup in his gloved hands, relishing in the warmth (while at the same time musing as to how they could refer to anything this miniscule as a "tall" and, moreover, how they could get away with charging three bloody dollars for it), and sat down in a secluded corner. This had been a good idea, he thought to himself, and wondered why he hadn't thought of it before. Hell, as long as no one noticed anything out of the ordinary about him, he'd be free to stay here all day. He propped his computer on the table to make it look as though he were actually doing something. He'd only brought it along because he knew better than to leave anything of value in his room. Utterly bored, he found himself playing Minesweeper and sighed angrily.

I'm in a bloody rut, is what I am, he thought, glaring at the screen. And, what's more, I can't afford to be in one. He sighed into his coffee and let the steam cloud his vision. The more he thought about it, the more unpleasant it seemed, and the more he knew he'd have to get around to it sooner or later. It was inevitable. Mortimer Toynbee needed a job.

But what? Quickly checking to make sure no one could see his screen, he opened up wordpad and began making a list of any skills he could think of. Martial arts, weapons expertise, wall-crawling, piloting... he listed them out as specifically as he could, noting which models of guns and vehicles he was familiar with. After the list went down for about a page, he stopped and looked it over. He snickered quietly and grinned without humor. Well, at this rate, he could hire himself out as a professional assassin, but not much more. Didn't he have any skills that weren't illegal in most states? He sipped at his coffee. Maybe being a bounty hunter wouldn't be too bad. Hell, he knew how to disable most security systems--maybe a professional thief like in that show they used to watch back at St. Augustine's. He grinned. Heh. Finally, knowing all those bloody saints names that they drilled into our heads could come in useful, he thought, then frowned again. But what about wanting to settle down? What about wanting a quiet life. I may not deserve much, but I'd d-mn well like to just be normal for once. Absently, he clicked and highlighted the lines, scrolling up and down, letting his gaze wander. His eye stopped on a word. He blinked and cocked his head. Hmmm. A half grin formed on his lips. Now that...that just might work.

Mechanic.

It was another idea that he should've had sooner. He blamed the cold weather for slowing him down so badly. So he had a marketable skill that didn't involve killing people or breaking into things. It was still a far cry from having a job. He did an online search of "job applications" and pulled up half a dozen random pdf. forms. A quick glance through each and his heart sank again. He didn't have anything he needed to fill out one of these: no social security number, no visa or green card (not a real one, anyway), not even so much as a telephone number. References? Well, he's served the Brotherhood loyally for nine years. Not like he could put that down. He chuckled at the idea of that phone call--"Hello. This is Magneto, Master of Magnetism." "Mr. Magneto, we're calling about a former employee of yours. What can you tell us about 'Toad?'" "Toad? Ah, yes, hard-worker, good with machines. Excellent pilot, but not too bright. He can kill a man in thirty different ways, you know." Well, even if references weren't necessary, a background check would be. He eyed the question that asked "Have you ever been convicted of a felony? (if yes, please explain in detail)" and frowned thoughtfully. Had he ever actually been convicted? Didn't you need to go to court first? The Silicone Valley incident was the only one he could think of that was connected to his real name, but he'd never been caught. But still...if a background check on the name Mortimer Toynbee came up, so would some sordid details of a heist-gone-wrong in California.

Doing another quick check to make sure his screen was still out of the site of any other , he searched "mutant rights organization" then added "New York" after seeing the list that came up. That narrowed it down somewhat. He clicked on the first one. A website labeled "M.O.N.S.T.E.R." popped up. Toad raised an eyebrow at the name but scrolled down, skimming the page. Some kind of "underground" mutant organization (though how something "underground" could possibly have a website was beyond him), founded after the brutal death of a six-fingered mutant. Read with the right cynicism, the whole thing sounded like a mutant version of the Laramie Project, except you didn't see anyone trying to write musicals about the mutant plight (though Mortimer was willing to bet that, given another couple of years, Andrew Lloyd Webber would at least try and hack something out. Soccer games and talking trains had to be losing their freshness). He clicked around randomly on the site, but it wasn't very helpful. Any useful information such as location, meetings, and contacts had, of course, been filtered out. From what he could tell, the only way to get into M.O.N.S.T.E.R. was to know someone who was already in it. Catch twenty-two. Lovely.

He mulled around on the links page until he found something that looked promising. "Affirmative Action." He knew he'd heard those words before, but he hadn't been paying attention. Fortunately, there was an explanation on the new site. Ah, right. Affirmative action. Making quotas of certain minorities mandatory in the job place. He hadn't known mutants were included in those minorities. He read through the page. Oh. They weren't. Still, the site was helpful and did provide a list of contacts. He was about to click one when he noticed the name below it. Michael Robicheaux. He stopped. Mike. That was him, wasn't it? Gabby's friend. He gnawed at his lip and thought for a long moment, then closed the site and shut down his computer. He sighed and glanced at his watch. He'd been sheltering in the Starbuck's for a good two hours, going on three now. He glanced around, but no one was taking any notice of him. By the unwritten law of the coffee shop, once he had bought something he could sit around in the place all day and they couldn't do a thing about it. Still, he was getting antsy, just staying in one place so long. He packed up his laptop and left. He didn't know where he wanted to go, just that he needed to walk. Once his legs started moving, his thoughts might too.

Without quite meaning to, Mortimer ended up in the same area of Central Park that he'd met Gabby in earlier that week. He grimaced down at his treacherous feet and cast a glare around. At least she wasn't here this time. Seeing here that day had been...it had been hard on him. As it was, it had been difficult just to walk away after paying her back, and he wouldn't've gone anywhere near her, except that he had promised. But after that, when she--he shook his head angrily. She'd made it almost impossible to leave.

His hand dug around in his coat pocket and came up with the now slightly crumpled photograph. He leaned against a lamppost and stared at it for a long time. Gabby. He'd tried to forget about her, or at least excuse his feelings as gratitude. It hadn't worked. He did his best to smooth some of the wrinkles out and smiled--a sad, hopeless smile. Three months. After three months he'd almost been able to convince himself that she was just a rare nice person that he didn't need to see anymore. And five unexpected minutes with her had shattered that hastily built wall. He wanted to see her. To talk to her. To be with her. Now.

He blinked and narrowed his eyes. Well, why the hell not? It wasn't like he was doing anything. A strange rush of freedom washed over him, as startling and heady as it had been when he first left the Brotherhood. That's right. He wasn't doing anything. He had no obligations holding him back, nothing to lose. He could just go by and see her. And besides, hadn't she invited him over. Not to mention-- Mortimer rubbed a gloved finger lightly over his lips, the beginnings of a grin forming. He carefully put the photograph back in his pocket. She wants me back a part of him whispered, daring Toad to argue. Any protests were feeble and half-hearted as the memory of her words and the kiss came blazing into his mind. The grin turned into a triumphant smirk.

"She wants me back..."

That night, Mortimer fidgeted nervously against the side of the building, still debating whether he should go up or not. He wanted to see Gabby, he wouldn't deny it, but what if, say, Angie opened the door? Or if Gabby had someone else over? Like a boyfriend. He growled and ran a hand through his hair, leaning heavily against the wall. He stopped. Looked up. And grinned. Who said he had to go up the normal way? After removing his gloves, he pressed his hands to the wall. It had been a while since he'd done any serious wall-crawling (he was certain that if he tried it in his apartment building, the whole wall would collapse like a cheap movie set), and the fifth floor was quite a ways up. Taking a deep breath, he started.

Once he got going, it was easier than he'd thought it would be. The whole rhythm of the maneuver came back to him, techniques practiced so often as to become second nature. He got to the fifth set of windows with no problem, then cursed suddenly. He had no idea which room was hers. Which meant he'd have to try and peek into every window until he found the right one. He sighed and said a silent prayer that he wouldn't get caught. The main benefit of wall-crawling was that no one expected to see anyone on a five stories in the air so no one was really looking five stories up in the air, but that wasn't always something he could count on. He edged over to the window farthest from the street. The sounds of an angry mother shouting at her noisy children could clearly be heard from outside. Didn't even need to look in that one. A quick peek in the next one over and Mortimer hurried away from that window blushing furiously. Geeze, people. This is New York. Get some bloody curtains if you're gonna be doin' that. Next window over. Nicely decorated, but definitely not the living room he'd spent three days going stir crazy in. Next one over. Curtains drawn. He cursed and moved on, hoping that wasn't it. Next one over.

Bingo.

Mortimer stopped and stared, surprised by just how familiar the room was and somewhat alarmed by his own pleasure at seeing it again. Memories of those three days fluttered around in his head. He blinked several times and had to remind himself to breathe. No one was in the room. The television was off, the kitchen counter and table were a mess. He grinned. Gabby was not one for tidiness, and apparently her roommate could care less as well. Unconsciously sticking the tip of his tongue through his teeth, he ran a hand over the window, trying to figure out the best way to open it without making too much noise.

"I'll be back by one, okay?" The sudden voice, muffled by the glass, surprised him so much that he almost lost his one-handed grip on the wall. He ducked out of sight, peeking down from the top of the window. Upside down, he could see Angie putting on a coat, grabbing her purse, and finally walking out the door. He let out a relieved breath and grinned slightly lopsidedly. He couldn't believe his luck. The evil roommate was gone. He muttered a quick prayer of thanks while jimmying the window. At last it opened and slid up smoothly and silently. He took a deep breath, and let himself in.

It was much warmer inside--cozy, actually--and someone had been burning a homey-smelling incense. Faint music was coming from the bedroom. He grinned like an idiot, then frowned suddenly. All right. Breaking and entering. I'm sure that'll look real good. Maybe it hadn't been such a bright idea. But he was in now, and he wasn't going to just turn back and leave. Silently as a thief, he made his way to the open bedroom door.

Gabby sat hunched over her drawing table with her back to the door, her blond hair gathered up in a messy ponytail from which several stray locks had escaped. The music was some Coldplay song that registered at the back of Mortimer's mind. He wanted to run up to her, tell her everything, hold her, kiss her. But for now, all he could do was stare at her and realize that for the first time since he lost his Sensei, he loved someone so much that it hurt. A new song started playing--something by David Grey--and he stood there quietly, feeling more right than he ever had until it ended gracefully. He took a few quiet steps into the room to see what she was working on so intently. Three small portraits of a young boy, with a grin remarkably similar to Gabby's own, lay on the desk, each done in different colors. The one that she was currently working on boasted dark green skin and gold eyes. Mortimer grinned.

"Intrestin' choice 'a color," he drawled. Gabby jerked her head up and stiffened for a moment, then bent back over her work.

"Yeah, well, we have to experiment with color patterns," she said, waving her off-hand at the other two portraits--one yellow and the other violet. "So don't get any ideas, y'know."

They lapsed into silence. Mortimer stood behind her, hands behind his back, now feeling a little awkward. He was pretty sure this wasn't the way it was supposed to go. Flogging Molly sang about some religious rebellion or other, completely killing the mood. When John and Paul began to sing "I'm Looking Through," Mortimer decided that maybe coming hadn't really been such a hot idea after all and turned to go.

"Wait." Gabby held up a paint-stained hand, still not looking up from the picture. Obediently, Mortimer waited through that song and the next, gnawing nervously on his lip. Finally, Gabby put her paint brush down leaned away from her work, then spun around on her stool, looking up at him with hooded eyes, an eyebrow raised expectantly.

"Well? What have you got to say for yourself?"

"Ah..." What else was there to say? "Well, I'm back."

One more to go.

Notes: M.O.N.S.T.E.R. is cannon Marvel. Unfortunately, I don't have the book where I read about it (Gen X Crossroads), so I couldn't get names or double-check my info. It's mostly a college club, I think. The Laramie Project is a play about the true-story murder of Mathew Shepard (a young man who happened to be gay) and the subsequent events. It is not a comedy, nor is it a musical, although I now have a few friends who are attempting to turn it into both (should be intresting). Quick side note: this chapter and the next are both named for Beatles songs (as was 10, as Lehcar pointed out), so they might not make sense, but the lyrics work.
Gabby's reaction may seem cold. My original plans for the whoel reuinion scene were much different. But one thing is--her reaction is fairly realistic given that a)Gabby's nuts. And she likes messing with people. And b) Gab's an artist, current (mid-november) working on final projects. I've been in this mode not two weeks past. You couldn't've moved me from my desk with an atomic bomb.

Right, okay...here goes...