FIC: All Foam, No Beer (PG) (3/6)
- "So, are you gonna bite off his head or what?"
Jean looked across the kitchen table at Logan, then down at the chocolate bunny left over from last Easter that was lying in front of her. She just wasn't in the mood to commit an act of decapitation on a poor, defenseless piece of confectionary today. And since there was only one way to eat any chocolate item in the shape of an animal, Jean scowled and pushed the bunny towards Logan.
Logan grinned and chomped happily on the chocolate. Scott was the one who'd suggested chocolate when it came to dealing with the problems of the last three days. Logan had suggested a slow, painful torture session featuring whips, chains, hot pokers, needles under fingernails, an extremely rusty Iron Maiden, and Jean's tuna casserole surprise.
So. Chocolate, it was.
Truth was, if anyone in the kitchen that morning had been able to form a coherent thought -- and almost all of them couldn't have done it without a six-pack of Play-Doh and the help of a registered nurse -- they might have thought, "Gaaaah."
Oh, they'd showered. And they'd dressed. Oh, that wasn't saying that their clothes matched or anything. The teachers had all gotten just this side of "not naked" and had promptly quit.
Let's examine the scene, shall we?
You've got Storm with her head in the freezer, Logan in yellow spandex, the Professor wearing a bright pink Halloween fright wig and a pair of iridescent green sunglasses, Jean setting up a Mousetrap game, and Scott cooing softly and lovingly fondling the coffeemaker.
Um . . . you know what? Let's not examine the scene and say we did.
Okay, so they were all having their little problems. So the entire place had turned into a Monty Python skit practically overnight. So all of the teachers had gone out of their minds.
Logan glanced around at the other people at the kitchen table and remembered how tough he'd used to think these guys were. Of course, they'd been going up against Magnet Man, Kitten Boy, Smurfette the Unholy, and Kermit the Frog's evil twin. But still.
He, personally, was fine. Just peachy freaking keen. Ignore the fact that Mick had torched his entire wardrobe -- supposedly, it was an accident, but with Mick, you just couldn't be sure -- leaving him only the gag-gift yellow spandex costume that Jeannie had gotten him last Christmas, and Logan was feeling all warm and fuzzy inside. (Really. He was starting to feel like he'd swallowed a rabbit whole. Of course, he was anticipating carnage. It sounded like fun.)
As for the others . . . well, they were certifiable. Wimps.
Logan took a swig of hot coffee and ruffled his too-straight hair with his free hand. Logan's hair was finally starting to lose the perm that Mick and Jubilee had put in it in the middle of the night, although Jean's hair straightener was working wonders on it in the mornings. Not that the perm looked all that bad, but Logan was a firm believer in the rule that the only reason anyone should have an afro was if they were in a Motown band with their five brothers.
He was, however, starting to like the yellow spandex. That was bad. Very bad.
Jean, meanwhile, had retreated into a childlike state. From the looks of things, Logan was pretty sure it was Utah.
Jean put the finishing touches on the Mousetrap game, then squealed with delight before saying, "So, Scott, how long have you known this guy, anyway? You never mentioned him to me."
Scott stopped hitting on the coffeemaker and, with a whimper of protest, sat down at the kitchen table next to Jean. "I never mention Mick to anybody. I was kind of hoping he was a pot-induced delusion."
The other stared at him as if he'd grown an extra leg.
It was the Professor who said it. "You smoked pot, Scott?"
"No, but I had a creative writing teacher who smelled way too ... herby."
"And he went to school with you?" Jean asked.
"Well, yeah. I mean, he did teach there."
"I meant Mick."
"So did I."
Logan clutched his mug tighter in his hands. Something told him he was going to need coffee nearby for this conversation. "Why do I have a hard time picturin' that?"
"It was only a basket-weaving class. It wasn't like he had a teaching degree or anything. It was just an elective." Everyone was still staring at him, even Storm, whose head was still lying in the freezer. "And he was a graduate student ... sort of ..."
"You're kidding," Jean said.
"Can you see him teaching anything else?"
"No, I meant, you took a basket-weaving class?"
"What? It was either that or Sanskrit."
Logan shook his head and eyed the coffeemaker, wondering briefly if Scott would go nuts if he went for another cup of the stuff. "I'm not even gonna bother askin' what college you went to, One-Eye."
"It was a good school!"
"With a basket-weaving class."
Scott shrugged. "We had a football team."
Logan just shook his head and said, "How did a guy like you manage to make friends with a guy like that?"
"My last year in the dorms, he shared a room with me. We used to have a lot of laughs. You know, keg parties, going out drinking together ..." Scott squirmed under Jean's intense gaze. He couldn't help it, really. The following Mick part, that is. To be honest, Scott would follow Mick anywhere, but only within reason and mostly out of morbid curiosity. "You know how it is, hon. Every once in a while, I like a good old brewski."
Jean rolled her eyes. "Oh, please, Scott. You slur your words after too many Pixie Sticks."
Logan let loose with a low growl. Obviously, there was no talking sense into the Boy Scout. Next up to bat -- the Professor. "So, Wheels, yer lettin' him stay?"
The Professor shrugged, his wig shifting dangerously to the left with the action. He kept telling them it helped reduce stress. Personally, Logan was starting to wonder if Mick hadn't put that temporary tattoo of Betty Boop on the Professor's forehead with pretty colored LSD. "Why not? He's harmless." Off Storm's glare, he gave a squirm reminiscent of the best Scott had to offer and mumbled, "Sort of."
"Is he going to be all right by himself here while we go replace the mirror in the hall?" Logan asked.
"And buy five more coffeemakers," Scott added.
"And buy more ice," Storm tossed into the mix, trying to breathe as deeply as possible to get away that horrible wasabi burn she'd gotten last night after Mick had "spiced up" her vegetarian egg roll.
"I don't see why not," Scott said with a shrug.
The others looked at him as if he'd Krazy glued a live ferret to his forehead.
"The boys hate him," Jean said.
"The girls won't leave him alone," Storm added.
"He's wearin' a pair of underwear on his head."
At Logan's remark, all eyes turned to the kitchen window, which overlooked the backyard.
Scott had been nice enough to buy Mick underwear to replace the ones Bobby and St. John had glued shut after their stuff had been glued to the ceiling. It was the same trip on which Mick had bought the boys a couple of packages of UnderRoos. Leonardo DiCaprio UnderRoos. God only knows where he'd found them, but Bobby and St. John had absolutely refused to let their rear ends anywhere near Leonardo (although sitting on the real Leonardo's face so he couldn't breathe was not out of the question).
And since the boys weren't using them, Mick had taken to wearing them on his head. Scott was half tempted to ask him for a pair, if only to remind him of that Kelly LeBrock fantasy he'd had in the mid-80s.
Scott shook his head. Mick wasn't making this very easy. Then again, he never made things very easy.
With a grin, he glanced across the table and said, "You could always stay behind and babysit the kids, Logan."
Logan didn't quite know how to respond to that. He quickly went over the usual options -- kill, maim, torture, beat up, antagonize, drink beer with, growl at, and bombard with lame come-on lines -- and noticed with a wistful sigh that "scream like a girl and run for the hills" was not on the list.
"Are we ready to leave?" Scott asked, looking around the table.
Jean opened her mouth to protest that the only things they were ready for were meds (and lots of them), but Scott chose that moment to stand up, whacking the Mousetrap game and setting it off. Jean groaned. "Yes, dear. Whatever you say, dear," Jean muttered.
Scott grunted and said, "Logan, do you think you can try to make it through the day without beating the ever-loving crap out of someone?"
Logan tried not to look disappointed and failed miserably.
After three days at Xavier's school, Mick had established the following:
Scott made girly noises when you gave him a rattlesnake bite. Jean muttered into her shoulder when she was really annoyed. And Ororo hated it when you told her she was aces in "BAPS."
Aside from that, there was no alcohol to be had.
Mick was almost tempted to go drinking with Scotty and the rest of the teachers, but after seeing their costumes, he was afraid the sots would want him to get a bit tarted up before they left, and he refused to do that unless there was money involved. Or women. Or Jujubes, but that was a memory he'd rather not dwell on.
However, he did feel an urge for something to whet his thirst that didn't come in a sport drink bottle.
Now, here was the thing. Mick's brain fell into two categories, Comfortably Sober and Unpleasantly Pissed. It was times like this that Mick despised, the times when he told his brain over and and over again that just because he was invulnerable did not keep him from feeling like the night after a Manchester United win if he got pissed. He did have a bloodstream, after all, which on a good day had more blood in it than whiskey.
Those trying times, however, were usually promptly followed by the instances when his brain flipped him the bird and headed off to the nearest pub. And what with their being firmly attached at the spine and all, Mick had to tag along. He had no choice in the matter, really.
And it being Saturday night and all ... well, off to the pub, it was.
It was midnight, which meant that all students were supposed to be in bed. And technically, Jubilee was in bed. The fact that she was in bed with a portable TV, laptop, CD player, cellular phone, and nail care kit did not negate the fact that she was technically following the rules, an occurrence that hadn't been seen since the Great Post-Thanksgiving Dishwashing of 1999.
The others, meanwhile, were trying to remember, past Jubes's blaring music in her headphones, that this was their friend and they loved her. Even if, later on that night, at about three in the morning, they were probably going to have to shave her head. It was only fair, really.
A shadow of a person raced across the ceiling, and Jubilee peeked out the window curiously. Instantly, she was on her feet. "Hey, Mick's sneakin' out!"
She bounded over Kitty's bed like a kangaroo and peeked out the window, watching Mick stroll down the driveway. "Where's he goin'?" she whispered to the others, before leaping in the general direction of her dresser and rummaging through it like a madwoman.
"Maybe he's sleepwalking," a voice said from the depths of Rogue's pillow.
"At least someone's still asleep," Kitty added.
Jubilee quickly slipped out of her nightgown and into a black baby tee before grabbing her favorite pair of leather pants. "Wanna follow him?"
"No," they both said.
Jubilee shook her head and sat on the edge of her bed to pull on her red leather pants. Unfortunately, she slipped and slammed her butt into the floor with a loud thump.
Both Kitty and Rogue groaned loudly and stuffed their extra pillows over their ears. Everybody in school knew that Jubilee used to be a big-time gymnastics nut, and she could still do all the flips and stuff. But late in the middle of the night, when no one else was around, Jubilee constantly proved beyond a shadow of a doubt that with the onslaught of puberty had come the grace and agility of a crosstown bus.
Shooting up and over to the makeup table before her roommates could say anything else in protest, Jubilee rumpled her hair until it straddled the line between finely styled and bed hair. "Fine," she said, "you two just stay here and sleep."
"Ah like that plan."
Jubilee scowled. Well, she couldn't very well chase Mick alone. She'd get in trouble. And while trouble was kind of fun, it was also kind of a group sport. "If the Professor finds out you two just let me walk out of here all alone, you'll get grounded."
"Goodie," Kitty said. "More time to sleep."
Damn. Take two. "Rogue, what's Logan going to say if you let me follow Mick?"
Rogue rolled over on her pillow just enough to mumble, "'Y'all get the duct tape and the X-Acto knife. Ah'll get those black leather boots she's so sweet on.'"
Jubilee's scowl deepened. This wasn't working. And there was no way she was getting in trouble alone. The last time she'd gotten detention alone, she'd ended up doing Mr. Summers's laundry. Including his underwear. There was a definite "eeeeeeewwwwwww" factor there.
Her gaze locked on a couple of things sitting on a nearby desk, and she couldn't resist a smile as she snatched them up in her grubby little paws.
With all of the courage she could muster, Jubilee cleared her throat loudly and stated, "I'm holding a DVD of 'Sense and Sensibility' and somebody's old, ratty yellow Popple."
And then she made a run for it.
There. That should work.
Scott groaned. It had taken him an hour to get to sleep, most of which had been spent trying to figure out how to get liquid lollipop out of suede. Jean was going to kill him if he found out Jubilee had ruined her favorite jacket --
Scott's brain, as smart as it was, shut down for a second. A strange, unearthly voice in his head, sounding much like the guy who narrated those informative Goofy cartoons, said, "What are you doing, you idiot? You're lying in bed next to a telepath! Did we have a brain tumor for breakfast?"
Damn his brain. He wondered briefly if he would have any problems if he got it removed. Seemed to be working for Logan.
With a groan, Scott squirmed closer to his fiancee and mentally asked, "Yes, Jean?"
"Mick's going out to find a bar."
So? "Shouldn't be hard. It's one of his mutant powers. Beer-dar."
A sigh echoed through the room. "The girls are following him."
There was a long pause before Scott said aloud, "I wonder how he does that. Think he's got some kind of adolescent girl whistle or something?"
Another sigh was heard, this time from the other side of the bed. "Right. Getting up, getting up."Troll Princess
Grand Poobah of Mischief and Sheepish Lord of Chaos
Go with God, my car's full.
Buffy Summers: What are you doing here, Spike? Five words or less!
Spike: [counting on fingers] Out... for... a... walk... bitch.
-- "Buffy the Vampire Slayer"