Fic: Intervention (Logan, X-23) PG
Title: Intervention
Author: eva_roisin
Fandom: X-Books
Characters: Logan, X-23
Description: Logan talks to Laura about her post-X-Force plans.
Spoilers: Second Coming (#14)
Rating: PG (language)
Notes: This story takes place directly after this scene. I was annoyed that Logan told Laura to get a life and then just walked away. So this is either AU or a scene extension.
Intervention
For the past three years of his life Logan has feared a lot of things, but none of them more terrifying than an intervention. He is dreadfully certain that someone somewhere is going to intervene.
This phobia all started with Jubilee.
A few years ago he used to visit her every so often, dropping by her apartment unannounced on Friday nights. He was sad to see her alone, but she always seemed happy to see him. “Intervention’s on,” she’d say. “My favorite show. Even better than Lost.” And she’d park Logan on sofa in front of the TV and tell him not to touch the remote. Then she’d order a pizza or pop some popcorn and then the fun part would begin: a TV show about the worst day of people’s lives.
Logan doesn’t have a weak stomach when it comes to other people’s suffering, and he’s certainly not above schadenfreude. But this-watching heroin addicts get dragged out of sewers and bulimics stashing zip-up bags of vomit in the living room closet-is not his cup of tea. He’s had enough drama in his life.
“Someday, Logan,” Jubilee said one time, smiling. “Someday you’ll get your very own intervention.”
“Ha ha,” he said.
It was the sort of offhand comment anyone would make-just a joke. But it stuck. Maybe she was right. Maybe certain plans were already in motion. Maybe he would get his very own intervention, be intervened upon, be interrupted and interfered with.
He wondered if he’d see it coming. Based on what he’d seen of the show, he doubted it. People generally don’t think their nearest and dearest are in the practice of trading secrets, of ganging up. His people would wait for some awkward moment to surprise him. Like a birthday party, no cake. He’d walk into Utopia to find everyone there, converging in one place with letters and speeches and pop-psychology pep talks about how much he needed to get help. His life would bottom out; his stomach would pitch and roll. They’d pull out all the stops. “We know you and this isn’t you,” they’d say. “It’s an illness. You’re ill.”
(How is he ill? Which problem, specifically, would inspire an intervention? Take your pick. There’s the drinking, of course. And the workaholism. The anger management issues. The laundry list of personality “quirks” that make him indispensable to a team like X-Force and a problematic individual elsewhere in society. He wonders what kind of twelve-step program would even begin to address these concerns, what rehab facility would willingly take in a workaholic human weapon who likes to drink and occasionally flies into unpredictable manic episodes. Would they make him keep a journal? Anything but a journal.)
As time passed, his fantasy about an intervention became increasingly elaborate.
Certain people he always pictured in attendance. Kurt, for instance. Cyke. Emma. Jubilee. Jubilee would cry. She’d read a letter about how things just hadn’t been the same for the past few years, and how she wanted the old times back. Kurt would be understanding but firm. Scott would look to Emma, and Emma would nonchalantly trot out a bottom line. “We’re only doing this because we care,” she’d say, pleasantly detached, that small smile in her eyes. (Like him, Emma is a person not above schadenfreude-just more obvious about it.) “We just want what’s best for you.”
Logan could picture his own intervention down to the refreshments and time of day. One thing he could never envision, however, was X in attendance. This was a failure of imagination on his part-or perhaps just brutal insight. Laura wouldn’t understand the concept of an intervention. She couldn’t possibly grasp the idea that certain people need to be saved from themselves. If Logan has a problem, why can’t he just correct it? Why can’t Cyclops just order him to correct it? Only with careful coaching from one of the other kids could she write him some kind of letter. I do not understand, she’d write. Anything.
He’s just finished talking with her. Well, not talking with. Talking to. Laying into. He got a glimpse of her rage and frustration, two emotions she keeps carefully checked. Two emotions that she’s convinced don’t really exist inside of her.
He got her riled and then he did the thing he does second best: he walked away.
He stops at the corner. He knows he should stick around, but he’s done what he came to do and told her what needed to be said. I used you. We used you. You don’t understand anything, and that was very convenient for us. The confession wasn’t cathartic-not least of all because Laura doesn’t react the way she should, the way other kids would. All of that rage and anger should be for him, for Cyclops. Instead it’s directed inward, at her own inability to process, to delineate, to feel.
He’s not going to look back. He reaches up to tip back his hat to scratch the patch of his hair that sometimes forms an unsightly widow’s peak.
Then he sighs. Glances over his shoulder.
Laura hasn’t left. Hasn’t moved. She’s still standing on the corner, arms crossed in front of her, eyes fixed on the ground. If this was anyone else, any other kid he works with, he’d think that she was going to cry. But it’s Laura.
He turns around and walks back to where she stands. Stops in front of her, hands on his hips.
She gives him a quick glance, eyes doubtful and partially hidden by her wind-tossed hair.
“You eat?” he says. “Have you had lunch?”
***
They sit across from each other in an Irish pub. Laura quietly pages through a menu, spending a sufficient amount of time going over each section. Logan already knows what he wants.
The waiter arrives, a kid with sandy blond hair and slight arm muscles. Between high school and college, Logan guesses. Needs book money. Drinking money. That’s the only reason why an eighteen-year-old would take a job that requires him to wear green suspenders.
“Can I start you folks off with something to drink?” He lingers over Laura.
Laura looks up from the menu. “I am ready to order.”
“I am too,” Logan says. “I’ll have the fish and chips. Bottle of Guinness.”
“Will this be one check or two?” the waiter says.
“One.” Logan takes a sip of his water.
Laura stalls for a second. When the waiter thinks Logan’s not looking, he gives her breasts a furtive, longing glance.
She looks up. “I am going to have a bowl of French onion soup, a turkey burger with American cheese, relish, peppers, tomatoes, lettuce, and mayonnaise on the side. I would also like a side of onion rings with barbecue sauce, Coca-cola, and a brownie sundae.”
The waiter scribbles everything down and gives her a playful smile. “You want the brownie sundae to come out first?”
“No,” she says, “I want it for dessert.”
“Anything else?” he jokes again. “You sure you don’t want to wash that down with a chocolate milkshake?”
She stares at him, unblinking. “I want only what I have ordered.”
The smile fades from his face. “I’ll get the soup out to you as soon as it’s ready.” He walks away.
Logan sets his water glass down. “Well, you seem pretty decisive about certain things.”
“Pardon?”
“Nothing.” He glances past her at the door. It’s something he always does. He can’t help himself.
Laura sits with her hands folded in front of her on the table, back straight, waiting. She’s got the kind of posture that yoga instructors envy. He’s trained her, fought beside her. He knows everything she’s done. But in this restaurant she’s just another teenage girl having lunch with some older guy, probably her father. And so the waiter is interested. Of course he is. He thinks she's pretty. He thinks she's jailbait. He has no clue.
“Why are we here?” Laura says. “Have you brought me here to tell me how I’ve failed?”
Logan startles. His attention snaps back to X. “No, Laura, no. You haven’t-” He wants to reach across the table and set his hand on her arm. That’s what he would do for anyone else. (So why not her? What’s stopping him?) “You haven’t failed. Why would you think that?”
“Because you are angry, and I haven’t been able to figure out why. Usually we talk only when you’re angry.”
“Oh no, honey. I’m not angry with you.”
She studies him, her eyes scanning his face, putting things together. “But you’re angry.”
“I’m angry with a lot of people.” He takes another sip of water. “You’re not one of them.” He thinks of Storm and tries not to roll his eyes. The way she lit into him about X-Force, so sanctimonious, so holier-than-thou. That was fine. She doesn’t understand the world that they live in.
But Kurt. Kurt had understood the world they lived and worked in; he’d been a part of it.
The waiter comes by and drops off Laura’s Coke and his Guinness; Logan feels himself relax. He slowly pours the contents of the bottle into a tall mug.
Laura punches her straw against the table to remove the wrapper. “So why are we here then?”
He waits for his beer to settle. “We’re having lunch.”
“But why?”
“Because I thought it would be a nice thing to do, that’s why.”
Laura sits back. She sips through her straw.
Silence. Logan doesn’t quite know how to fill it.
He can’t help but think about the times he’s been out and about with students and other young teammates-lunches, late-night post-mission breakfasts, games of pool. Other kids always have enough to say to fill a few hours. They laugh. They tease each other and smile. They can be annoying, but they always-always, always-greet the future with open arms. There’s something special about young women, something hopeful and energetic. That hope usually fades once they reach young adulthood. (He tries not to think of Kitty. He will not compare Laura to Kitty.)
Laura’s eyes scan the décor on the walls. The waiter brings her soup and she begins to eat it. Now Logan doesn’t have to worry about filling the silence between them anymore.
He told Laura that he wasn’t angry with her. Maybe he’s lying. Maybe she senses this. Maybe he’s always angry with her. Not directly. Not because of anything she’s done, but because of who and what she is, and because she’s not who he wishes she would be. And it’s completely unfair that he makes her the target of his quiet rage and resentment. It’s wrong that he let her get drafted into X-Force-but it’s worse that he doesn’t talk to her that much, that he doesn’t make enough of an effort, that he sometimes avoids her when he’s home. And let’s face it: he’s rarely home.
But it’s hard, he thinks. And no one else knows what it’s like. Most people don’t know how it feels to share genes with a junior assassin, with a little girl who’d cut your throat as easily as she’d hand you a napkin. Most people like their kids and genuinely enjoy spending time with them. Logan hates the fact that he’d secretly rather be anywhere else right now.
Ever since he found out about Daken, he’s become privately obsessed with genetics, with what gets passed on and what gets left on the big chromosomal cutting room floor. Looks, for instance. Logan is short and bandy-legged and big-nosed; Daken and Laura both have these graceful bodies and petite, angular features.
The differences are striking; the similarities just piss him off. When he looks at Laura he sees the worst parts of himself reflected unflinchingly-the cold, calculating aspects of his personality, the high tolerance for pain and death, the inability to just relax and enjoy life, the need to always have a task to fulfill. Part of it isn’t genetic-Romanian orphans probably receive more emotional fulfillment than Laura did in her formative years-but he can’t help but assign a lion’s share of the blame to his own DNA. He knows plenty of kids who haven’t had it easy, but many of them are still bubbly, still interesting, still feeling. And then there’s that Hope girl, who just shows up after time traveling all over kingdom come, who’s never so much as had a birthday party, and even she seems to have a richer emotional life than Laura.
Laura would walk in front of a freight train for Hope if Cyclops told her to-but that’s the problem. She shouldn’t have to.
That’s what pisses him off the most. Laura’s utter lack of self-awareness and dearth of self-concern made her easy for Scott to exploit. Logan fed that. These are the people worth dying for. Our lives are nothing. We aren’t important.
If Logan should be furious with anyone, it's himself. But Laura is so much like him that it's difficult to not project. And what makes things harder is that his own kid--his own flesh-and-blood son--is a walking embodiment of his worst fears. He can't let Laura go that way. He has to believe that intervention is possible.
He watches as she eats her soup. “How is it?” he asks.
She looks up. “It’s fine.”
“Good.”
Laura stirs the soup, poking a hole in the center of the cheese. “So I do not work for Cyclops anymore. Or you.”
“Kid,” he says.
She looks up.
“You understand that . . .” He gropes for the words. He needs to try harder. “There’s more to life. There’s more to life than taking orders and carrying out missions. You know this, right?”
Laura studies him again. She’s cataloguing everything about him, every facial expression and vocal inflection and smell.
Even now, even on a “day off” at the wharf, Laura’s working very hard just to understand. He remembers watching a TV special about therapy for autistic children, children working with flash cards to match the facial expression to the emotion. Happy, sad, angry. Well, Laura has no trouble telling happy from sad from angry-she just doesn’t understand the why or the so what.
“What I mean,” he says, “is that you should be out enjoying yourself. Having fun. Spending time with friends. There’ll be plenty of time for missions when you get older.”
Her face relaxes. The gentle crease between her eyes goes away. “So when I get older I will complete missions again.”
“No.” He holds up his hand. “I shouldn’t have said that last part. I mean, you can, but only if that’s what you want. Look-” Once again, he has the desire to reach across the table and touch her arm. “You have other things you enjoy doing, right? What about school?”
“You think I should complete my schoolwork.”
“Well, yeah,” he says. “It’s important to have an education. And that’s beside the point, ‘cause it’s the law. But is school something you like?”
Laura stares at him.
“You like your friends, right?”
“Yes. I like them very much.”
“Well, that’s something. That’s something important. I’m glad. That’s what you should focus on right now.”
Laura looks down at her soup again and pokes another hole in the cheese. She stirs. Seems to falter a little.
“What’s wrong?” he says.
“My friends. I do enjoy being with them. But . . .” She glances up at him.
But they don’t like being with her as much, he thinks. Or perhaps she’s been absent for such long stretches of time that they’ve forgotten exactly what they shared with her.
She sets her spoon down. “May I have a quarter?”
“Sure.” He fishes his pockets and produces a quarter covered in fuzz. “Can I ask why?”
“There is a juke box in the corner. I’d like to play a song.” She slides out of the booth and makes her way to the juke box.
While she’s busy, the waiter arrives with his lunch and Laura’s second course. Logan’s glad she’s not there. He doesn’t want to witness any more painful, clumsy flirtations.
When she saunters back to the table “Any Way You Want It” is playing.
“Good choice,” Logan says before digging into his sandwich.
X seems very relaxed. She’s evidently glad that her burger has arrived and that she’s allowed to request the music she likes. She plows through her food and then starts on the onion rings. Soon she’s asking for another quarter. Logan gives her three. “Running on Empty” is playing by the time she makes it back to the table. So she’s got a thing for seventies music. Who knew?
Laura hums the tune and dips her onion rings into the barbecue sauce. “What will happen?” she asks. “What will happen now?”
He wants to tell her that everything will be okay, but she’ll know he’s lying. “I don’t know. But that’s not for you to worry about.”
She wipes her fingers on her napkin. “Cyclops has been sad since Cable died.”
Logan takes a long swig of his beer. He actually thinks that Cyke’s been taking things pretty well, and he wonders if there isn’t a price to be paid for so much resilience. Then again, he doesn’t presume to know what really goes on in that man’s head. That's Emma's job. “It’s very tragic to lose a child.”
For a while he envied Scott. Even if Scott’s relationship with his son was different . . . at least it was a relationship. He’s not envious anymore.
Laura sips her cola.
He puts his beer down and stares at its shrinking foam. “Losing a child is the worst thing that can happen to a person. The absolute shits.”
Laura thinks for a moment and then nods. It’s another thing she’ll remember and bank in her memory, even if she doesn't quite understand it. It’s tragic to lose a child. The worst thing in the world.
He wishes she could make the connection between them, to know that his words are meant for her. He wishes he could say it, but he can't.
A few minutes later, she’s waiting for her brownie sundae and singing softly along with the music. Logan considers that kind of thing slightly eccentric-but also okay. He wants to be the sort of person for whom it is acceptable to sing out loud.
***
When the check comes, Logan plops down his Utopia credit card. This is the sort of thing that Scott can write off on their taxes. He picks up the pen to label the receipt. Thinks about writing “intervention.” No, that's giving himself way too much credit. Instead he writes “guidance counseling session.”
“This was fun,” he says as he and Laura slide from the booth.
“Fun,” Laura repeats as if trying out a new word.
They make their way to the door, to the blustery afternoon outside. On the sidewalk they stand side by side. He puts his hands in his pockets. X crosses her arms in front of her chest again.
“What are you going to do now?” he asks her.
“I don’t know.”
“You could go back to the island and spend time with your friends.”
A look of inquisitiveness crosses her face. “Is that where you’re going?”
“No,” he says, but not without hesitating. “I have some things to take care of.”
She nods. She's waiting. Longing for him to tell her something, anything.
He wants to tell her that she did a good job-that she saved people, that no one worked as hard as she did. But he also wants to tell her that it’s okay to not work so hard, and to let other people do the saving. He just doesn’t know how she’ll interpret this kind of advice-and as for encouragement? He shouldn’t allow her to tie whatever little self-worth she has to any X-Force “achievement.”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do just now,” she says. “Or where I’m going to go.”
He hears himself say something in response-something bland and noncommittal. That’s okay. That’s a start. And really, it is. He wants her to know this. More than that, he wants her to know that he wishes he were the sort of person who didn't know what to do next.