Resurgence (HL/X2 crossover), part 3/?
So here's part 3 of the (tentatively) Methos/Logan fic.
**feels virtuous**
part three:
Cyclops apparently doesn't trust Pierson in the slightest, because he hovers outside the door the entire time that Pierson and the Professor are talking. He's close enough that Logan can't linger nearby and eavesdrop, much to the latter's disappointment. Logan settles for leaning nonchalantly against the opposite wall and aggravating Cyclops with his mere presence. For his part, he doesn't distrust Pierson any more than he distrusts anyone else; he's just...curious. Pierson is an interesting puzzle; a normal with mutant abilities, an ostensible professor with the eyes of a killer, a clever old man with the face of a student. 'Interesting' is an understatement.
Almost half an hour passes before Pierson and the Professor emerge, the latter looking as if Christmas has come early, the former dressed in a pair of scrubs and regarding the Professor warily.
"Excellent news," the Professor says before anyone else can speak. "Dr. Pierson has agreed to stay and teach history."
"What?!" Cyclops demands, face reddening behind his glasses. "Professor, you know what he was."
"I also know that decent people do not condemn a man for actions he was forced into taking more surely than if he'd had a gun to his head. Or would you condemn me for what I nearly did to every last person on the planet?" The Professor's voice is quiet, but it cuts through Cyclops' anger like a knife, and he subsides visibly.
"Of course not," he mutters. Apparently he knows better than to say 'that's a different story'. The Professor certainly won't see it that way. As far as Logan's concerned, if the Professor thinks someone's trustworthy after a half-hour's conversation, he probably is. There's no way that the Professor would offer a teaching position to a man whose mind he hadn't at least skimmed through.
"He'll be starting classes on Monday," the Professor continues, as if the interlude had never happened. "Logan, will you show him to a set of rooms please? I believe you'll find that the ones at the top of the stairs are empty. The keys will be under the fern in the living room." Pierson seems to relax slightly at that; at least, the tense line of his shoulders is starting to ease. Logan understands. The prospect of having a place of one's own is always a settling one, especially when you haven't had one in a while. The bit about the keys was a nice touch.
"Yeah, sure," Logan ignores Cyclops' suspicious look. The man clearly doesn't trust his sudden acquiescence. The Professor merely nods in satisfaction.
"Good. I've arranged to advance him a portion of his salary to satisfy any immediate requirements he might have; if you could be so kind as to accompany him to whatever stores he may need to visit?" That's a look that Logan knows well. Apparently the Professor is worried that whatever remnants of Stryker's organization still exist might try to grab Pierson again.
"No problem. Come on, Pierson." The man looks startled at being addressed. "I'll even try and find you some clothes, so that you don't have to wear scrubs to the store." He heads off down the hall, Pierson behind him, before the Professor can start talking at him again. He hears Cyclops start up again as soon as the man thinks they're out of earshot.
"I don't understand how --"
Logan blocks him out, turning to look at Pierson instead. The man is still pale, but he doesn't look as much like death warmed over as he did when he first woke up, and his eyes are clear and steady.
"History, huh?" he asks, for lack of anything better to say. "Which era?"
"All of them," Pierson drawls. "Your Professor is remarkably good at talking people into things. I've agreed to teach each grade a different time period."
"That should be fun," Logan says dryly. He himself has avoided teaching any classes at all. Kids are not really his thing.
Pierson shrugs. "It's been a long time since I've taught anything but college. It'll be a change." He makes no mention of what he's getting in exchange, beyond a salary, but Logan is willing to bet that he's getting something. Protection, if nothing else.
Pierson takes the stairs easily enough -- his residual aches and pains must vanish as completely as do Logan's -- and when Logan opens the door to his rooms, steps inside cautiously, looking around like a man expecting an attack at any moment.
"I'll go and find those clothes I mentioned," Logan says. "You need a shower before we go out in public."
"Tactful," Pierson murmurs.
"That's a waste of time." Logan shrugs. "I say what needs saying."
"Apparently." Those green-hazel eyes are watching him now, as carefully as they'd watched the Professor earlier. It makes Logan a little uncomfortable.
"Anyway," he says, shifting from one foot to the other, "I'll leave them outside your door. Come find me when you're dressed; I'm two doors down from you."
Pierson nods and closes the door without further comment. Logan waits until he hears the lock engage before heading off to find jeans and a t-shirt that will fit the man. He's willing to bet that Pierson's first move was towards that fern in the living room, to get the keys the Professor mentioned. In Pierson's place, he'd have done the same thing.
***
Methos slips the lock on the door and leans against it for a long moment before crossing to the aforementioned fern and removing the keys from underneath it. Xavier is certain to have copies somewhere, but for now Methos has security and privacy and the illusion of inviolability, and that will certainly do.
The rooms are simply and elegantly appointed, the furniture heavy oak and handmade. Methos takes a few minutes to open drawers and cabinets, and to note the lack of a kitchen -- meals, then, will be communal -- before going into the bathroom, stripping off his scrubs as he goes.
For a moment he balks in front of the shower as the memory of drowning seizes his lungs. Shaking it off, he forces himself to turn on the water and step beneath the spray, and in moments is luxuriating in the warmth; in rinsing off the silt and blood of one of the most disastrous episodes of his life.
It had started innocently enough, with a civilian job at the Department of Defense for his newest identity. That job had led to a meeting with William Stryker over a piece of bureaucratic trivia that Methos can no longer recall; they'd done lunch, and Methos had broken his water glass. He remembers reaching for the broken pieces, remembers the sharp sting of injured skin, and wrapping his hand as quickly as he could after Stryker noticed the blood, hoping that the colonel's sharp eyes hadn't noticed the lack of wound beneath it. He hadn't known for sure that he'd been found out until that evening, when a different sort of sting had heralded the precipitate arrival of a tranquilizer dart in his left arm. When he'd woken up, he'd been ready to do what he was told.
Shuddering, he pushes his face into the water, washing away what he can of those memories, letting them fade into colourless shades of themselves. It's an old trick, and a vital one; it helps keep him from collecting phobia after phobia along with his memories of particularly nasty deaths. He takes his time in the shower, letting the hot water banish the phantom aches that are his only reminders of the injuries he'd taken on his way to freedom before he bothers to reach for the shampoo and conditioner that have been so thoughtfully provided. Xavier's idea of hospitality is very close to the hospitality that he himself has given and received for most of his life. That thought summons another set of memories, most of them pleasant, and Methos lets his mind take him back to one particular evening in Rome while he rinses the soap out of his hair.
Afterwards, he towels himself off and goes to see if Logan managed to find him any clothing. Piled neatly outside his door are a pair of jeans that are only a little too loose and a black t-shirt that fits well enough. There are a pair of flip-flops as well, and Methos slips into them ruefully. Swordless -- at least for the moment -- and wearing flip-flops. Logan had better be as effective a bodyguard as Xavier had promised.
***
Notes: Thanks to lferion for being the second pair of eyes for this thing. Feedback is, as always, a welcome event.
**feels virtuous**
part three:
Cyclops apparently doesn't trust Pierson in the slightest, because he hovers outside the door the entire time that Pierson and the Professor are talking. He's close enough that Logan can't linger nearby and eavesdrop, much to the latter's disappointment. Logan settles for leaning nonchalantly against the opposite wall and aggravating Cyclops with his mere presence. For his part, he doesn't distrust Pierson any more than he distrusts anyone else; he's just...curious. Pierson is an interesting puzzle; a normal with mutant abilities, an ostensible professor with the eyes of a killer, a clever old man with the face of a student. 'Interesting' is an understatement.
Almost half an hour passes before Pierson and the Professor emerge, the latter looking as if Christmas has come early, the former dressed in a pair of scrubs and regarding the Professor warily.
"Excellent news," the Professor says before anyone else can speak. "Dr. Pierson has agreed to stay and teach history."
"What?!" Cyclops demands, face reddening behind his glasses. "Professor, you know what he was."
"I also know that decent people do not condemn a man for actions he was forced into taking more surely than if he'd had a gun to his head. Or would you condemn me for what I nearly did to every last person on the planet?" The Professor's voice is quiet, but it cuts through Cyclops' anger like a knife, and he subsides visibly.
"Of course not," he mutters. Apparently he knows better than to say 'that's a different story'. The Professor certainly won't see it that way. As far as Logan's concerned, if the Professor thinks someone's trustworthy after a half-hour's conversation, he probably is. There's no way that the Professor would offer a teaching position to a man whose mind he hadn't at least skimmed through.
"He'll be starting classes on Monday," the Professor continues, as if the interlude had never happened. "Logan, will you show him to a set of rooms please? I believe you'll find that the ones at the top of the stairs are empty. The keys will be under the fern in the living room." Pierson seems to relax slightly at that; at least, the tense line of his shoulders is starting to ease. Logan understands. The prospect of having a place of one's own is always a settling one, especially when you haven't had one in a while. The bit about the keys was a nice touch.
"Yeah, sure," Logan ignores Cyclops' suspicious look. The man clearly doesn't trust his sudden acquiescence. The Professor merely nods in satisfaction.
"Good. I've arranged to advance him a portion of his salary to satisfy any immediate requirements he might have; if you could be so kind as to accompany him to whatever stores he may need to visit?" That's a look that Logan knows well. Apparently the Professor is worried that whatever remnants of Stryker's organization still exist might try to grab Pierson again.
"No problem. Come on, Pierson." The man looks startled at being addressed. "I'll even try and find you some clothes, so that you don't have to wear scrubs to the store." He heads off down the hall, Pierson behind him, before the Professor can start talking at him again. He hears Cyclops start up again as soon as the man thinks they're out of earshot.
"I don't understand how --"
Logan blocks him out, turning to look at Pierson instead. The man is still pale, but he doesn't look as much like death warmed over as he did when he first woke up, and his eyes are clear and steady.
"History, huh?" he asks, for lack of anything better to say. "Which era?"
"All of them," Pierson drawls. "Your Professor is remarkably good at talking people into things. I've agreed to teach each grade a different time period."
"That should be fun," Logan says dryly. He himself has avoided teaching any classes at all. Kids are not really his thing.
Pierson shrugs. "It's been a long time since I've taught anything but college. It'll be a change." He makes no mention of what he's getting in exchange, beyond a salary, but Logan is willing to bet that he's getting something. Protection, if nothing else.
Pierson takes the stairs easily enough -- his residual aches and pains must vanish as completely as do Logan's -- and when Logan opens the door to his rooms, steps inside cautiously, looking around like a man expecting an attack at any moment.
"I'll go and find those clothes I mentioned," Logan says. "You need a shower before we go out in public."
"Tactful," Pierson murmurs.
"That's a waste of time." Logan shrugs. "I say what needs saying."
"Apparently." Those green-hazel eyes are watching him now, as carefully as they'd watched the Professor earlier. It makes Logan a little uncomfortable.
"Anyway," he says, shifting from one foot to the other, "I'll leave them outside your door. Come find me when you're dressed; I'm two doors down from you."
Pierson nods and closes the door without further comment. Logan waits until he hears the lock engage before heading off to find jeans and a t-shirt that will fit the man. He's willing to bet that Pierson's first move was towards that fern in the living room, to get the keys the Professor mentioned. In Pierson's place, he'd have done the same thing.
***
Methos slips the lock on the door and leans against it for a long moment before crossing to the aforementioned fern and removing the keys from underneath it. Xavier is certain to have copies somewhere, but for now Methos has security and privacy and the illusion of inviolability, and that will certainly do.
The rooms are simply and elegantly appointed, the furniture heavy oak and handmade. Methos takes a few minutes to open drawers and cabinets, and to note the lack of a kitchen -- meals, then, will be communal -- before going into the bathroom, stripping off his scrubs as he goes.
For a moment he balks in front of the shower as the memory of drowning seizes his lungs. Shaking it off, he forces himself to turn on the water and step beneath the spray, and in moments is luxuriating in the warmth; in rinsing off the silt and blood of one of the most disastrous episodes of his life.
It had started innocently enough, with a civilian job at the Department of Defense for his newest identity. That job had led to a meeting with William Stryker over a piece of bureaucratic trivia that Methos can no longer recall; they'd done lunch, and Methos had broken his water glass. He remembers reaching for the broken pieces, remembers the sharp sting of injured skin, and wrapping his hand as quickly as he could after Stryker noticed the blood, hoping that the colonel's sharp eyes hadn't noticed the lack of wound beneath it. He hadn't known for sure that he'd been found out until that evening, when a different sort of sting had heralded the precipitate arrival of a tranquilizer dart in his left arm. When he'd woken up, he'd been ready to do what he was told.
Shuddering, he pushes his face into the water, washing away what he can of those memories, letting them fade into colourless shades of themselves. It's an old trick, and a vital one; it helps keep him from collecting phobia after phobia along with his memories of particularly nasty deaths. He takes his time in the shower, letting the hot water banish the phantom aches that are his only reminders of the injuries he'd taken on his way to freedom before he bothers to reach for the shampoo and conditioner that have been so thoughtfully provided. Xavier's idea of hospitality is very close to the hospitality that he himself has given and received for most of his life. That thought summons another set of memories, most of them pleasant, and Methos lets his mind take him back to one particular evening in Rome while he rinses the soap out of his hair.
Afterwards, he towels himself off and goes to see if Logan managed to find him any clothing. Piled neatly outside his door are a pair of jeans that are only a little too loose and a black t-shirt that fits well enough. There are a pair of flip-flops as well, and Methos slips into them ruefully. Swordless -- at least for the moment -- and wearing flip-flops. Logan had better be as effective a bodyguard as Xavier had promised.
***
Notes: Thanks to lferion for being the second pair of eyes for this thing. Feedback is, as always, a welcome event.