Protection
Thank you, Nathan. Thank you, Rossi. Thank you, Scott.
Thank you, God.
12/19/2005
Logfile from Leah of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Old Brownstone Apartments #300 - Leah
Plentiful light and air combine to make this tall and narrow apartment seem larger than its floor plan suggests. Directly opposite the entry's little foyer, a trio of high, leaded-glass windows dominates the main area: the central living room, the kitchen next to the entry, and the eating nook in the corner between kitchen and window. On the other side of the apartment lies private space: a tiny office next to the entry, the bedroom on the other side of a short hallway, and the bathroom between.
The decor is simple but pleasant with many touches of nature, from the polished woods of floor and furniture to the scattered arrangements of seashells, dried flowers, and framed landscapes that complete the essence of a peaceful haven.
--
Leah sits on the end of her bed, cross-legged in sweats and T-shirt, and holds her cordless phone loosely in her lap. The curtains are drawn on the high, thin windows off to one side; the room sits, like her, in pensive, pearly winter gloom. She closes her eyes for a tight-lipped second. Then she dials a number from memory and puts the phone to her ear.
Scott is dusting the dresser with some distraction. The dustcloth is abandoned and the phone picked up with the same distraction. "Hello?"
"Scott," Leah breathes out. It might be relief. "Hi. It's me."
"Oh." Scott's nostrils flares slightly and he scuffs a hand through his hair. Awake, now. "Hi, Leah."
Pause. Then she just rushes into it: "You're right, I was wrong, I need help, and can you?"
Scott blinks and scuffs his hair again. Not awake enough. "Yes?"
"Yes," Leah returns firmly. Her shoulders twitch with suppressed tension that leaks into her voice. "About the Friends. I'm doing the wrong thing. I want to stop. I want to -- you know." A short laugh. "Do the right thing, obviously. You said, in the bookstore and whenever else, that you could help me . . . ?"
"Yeah -- yeah, sure." Scott clears his throat. "Just tell me who you need protected. We'll take you all in. It's not a problem -- we, ah, just need to do it quickly."
Leah questions uncertainly, "Do you? I'm planning on lying low for the holidays -- no one's expecting me to write or do TV at this time of year, and I can get by -- so they wouldn't /know/ I'm defecting. Is that the right word? Oh, God. I'm being melodramatic. I'm sorry, Scott." She puts her head in a propped hand. "I feel like I'm going to explode at any second."
"I understand -- listen, Leah, we're going to have to decide how to do this. Covert or evacuation. You can't do both without causing troubles for the other," Scott says, all terse business.
"Right." Leah definitely sounds uncertain. "I don't know. I don't know about tactics and warfare and all that. Never even read Sun Tzu. Can you explain it to me? Might be better in person," she adds, glancing around the room with a frown. Her eyes tip to the ceiling. "I had someone who'd know check out the phone lines and all that for taps. Bugs. Whatever. I'm pretty sure my apartment's safe, and no one's watching it. I asked about that, too."
"I'll explain it best I can." Scott purses his lips. "I'll come over."
Leah says with certain relief, "I'll make coffee. Thanks. Thanks so much. See you in a bit."
Scott arrives at the door quick as possible with distance and traffic. He casts an uncertain glance over his shoulder before knocking.
Leah answers the door almost immediately, and steps back quickly to let him in and lock up behind him. She pauses, twitches a movement as if she were going to hug him, but then angles towards the kitchen, whence the rich, heavy scent of brewing coffee wafts. "Do you want something to eat? It's nearly lunchtime, I guess, but . . ."
Scott's movements are hyperalert, nearly paranoid, as he crosses toward the kitchen himself, eyes scanning restlessly behind the visor. Hmn. "No thank you."
"'Kay." She pours two mugs of coffee, putters over them at the counter, glances up and over at him. "How do you take yours? --Isn't this nice and homey of us? I swear it's safe, Scott. If they were going to do something . . ." Leah hesitates; her hand moves unconsciously towards her stomach with a wince. "They would've already. To both of us."
Scott smiles tightly. "They would've tried. I'm far more worried about you, after I leave. I take it dark." He settles stiffly by the counter, still on obvious alert.
Sliding his mug over, Leah scoops up hers for a sip. Her eyes are wide and pale over the rim, but her face is set. Determined. "I want to apologize," she says then, low, not looking away from him. "Again. To you. To -- mutants. I don't know. I'm sorry."
"Your circumstances were extreme. I don't blame you." Scott lifts the mug and blows carefully over it.
"You should," Leah says, but bites it off. Shakes her head. "I can flog myself till the cows come home, but you're right. And that doesn't change the past. Have to think about the future. Should I explain what's going on now, and then you can tell me what to do?" The look she gives him is hopeful. Trusting.
"Yes," Scott clips and finally takes a sip of the coffee. He raises his eyebrows, blandly encouraging.
Leah nods and starts, one hand going behind her on the counter for a brace against the small of her back. "They kidnapped me, threatened my family and everyone I care about, and set me loose to do their work. I . . . do believe in some of what they say, but not how they're going about it. Not exactly." A headshake moves her past that sticky, tricky ground, back to safer factual recitation. "They assigned someone to watch me. Nathan. He's not really sure about what's going on, either. He's the one who checked this place out for taps and told me he's the only one watching. He knows about you -- generally, that you're my friend, a schoolteacher, no threat." She smiles a little. "He thinks we might be dating."
"It's not a bad cover. But I'm not sure that all of the Friends will consider me no threat." Scott sets down the mug gently. "I'd like to get you and everyone under surveillance, but that may prove impossible just yet. That's a lot of people. What might be better is to continue playing covert, but catch the Friends in a trap. While, of course, keeping a careful eye on everyone we can."
"Just like in the movies," says Leah, half to herself. She nods again and has a longer sip of coffee. "I have the list of everyone I think they might be watching. And names and descriptions of all the Friends I've met or seen or heard of, along with locations they've taken me to. And the leader, Tom." Her lips peel back from a feral smile. "I /am/ a reporter. I can do this part of my job, and let the bastard hang for it. I'll give a copy to you before you leave."
"Thank you. With that kind of information," Scott smiles, "we can make sure that if they try to act, we know about it, and we won't be the only ones. They can believe what they like, but murder doesn't fall under free speech and they know it."
Leah puffs out a breath. "Yeah. Neither does beating the crap out of someone just because you don't like -- no, never mind that, too." She shifts her shoulders back, leans into the counter behind her, straightens a bit. "You know Magneto visited me. It was in the news. He broke /in/, Scott. What can I do about that? Anything?"
"No one will touch you," Scott promises. Quietly. And frowns. "Magneto's . . . difficult. It's difficult for us to directly interfere without making it obvious that we're watching you. I doubt he'll hurt you at this point unless --" Scott fishes into his pocket and draws out a small black device. "This is a panic button. You should have one of these anyway."
Leah looks at the device, then back to his face. Hers grows long and solemn. "Unless?"
"Unless he gets unpredictable and crazy," Scott sighs. "Take the button. He shows up, press it. If the Friends get violent, press it. If you /think/ they might, press it."
"Yes, sir." Leah tries to make that light. It kinda fails. She does take the button, though, and stuffs it in her sweats' pocket. "Thanks," she adds lamely. "I guess it's what you do, huh? When you aren't teaching shop."
"I don't do much teaching shop," Scott says. Subdued.
Leah lowers her head in acknowledgement. "I don't do much reporting, either." Bitter. "Maybe once this is over, and they're all in jail . . ."
"We'll see."
"Yeah. Well, so that's my end, I guess." Leah draws in a breath. "Like I said, I'm not planning to publish anything until the new year, at least. Got something coming out in Newsweek then; too late to stop it, though I wish I could." Self-loathing twists her mouth and tone. "Glowing interview piece with that Tom. Yay."
"Don't worry about it. Think of your reputation after this is done with -- it'll be explained." Scott tries a smile. "We'll be ready to strike."
Leah nods slowly. "I sent out letters," she volunteers after a minute and a caffeinated swallow. "To friends I could trust. In the media. 'Don't open this unless something happens to me,' that kind of thing. I wanted to cover my tracks. If something did happen to me--" her expression turns to stone "--I was going to take the Friends down with me."
"Good." The smile widens. "But that won't be necessary."
Leah smiles back. "Right. Not anymore. We're gonna get through this. --You won't be in any danger, will you? Please, Scott. Tell me."
"I won't. At least, not any more than usual." Scott dips his head.
A bit of silence, not entirely uncomfortable. "Not exactly what I'd planned to do with my life," Leah says. "You?"
The smile turns wry. "It's been my life a long time."
"And a long time to come?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry."
Scott affects a shrug. "Gives me purpose."
Leah eyes him dubiously. "Because of your mutation?"
"It's nice to have a use for it."
Leah considers. "Can I say something?"
Scott nods. "Always."
"Okay. Smack me if I go too far." Leah makes a small smile that quickly fades. "I think you're more than your mutation, and I don't think you need it to define you or give you purpose or whatever. You'd still be Scott, my friend, who's helping me and wants to save the world and teaches kids because he wants to help them. Your eyes don't change that."
"I know. But I'm also a good tactician. It's what I'm best at. My eyes wouldn't determine that, either." He quirks the smile. "Only determines where exactly I end up working."
Leah offers, "There's the government. --Oh, but you said you had ties to them."
Scott nods. "It's just an . . . added skill."
"Right!" Leah eases back from tension focused on him, on her words, on the exchange and the right way to make it-- "I just wanted to say that. Without being condescending about it." Her smile hooks wry.
"That's fine. It's also something of a . . . bother, these eyes of mine." Scott coughs and retrieves the mug. "It's nice to hear."
Leah says in a small voice, "Could I ask a favor, while I'm at it?"
"Sure."
"What do you look like without the glasses on?"
Scott snorts. "Oh. Expelling beams of uncontrollable-- eyes open or closed?"
Leah makes a face. "Closed. Please don't take my head off or put holes in my wall."
"All right." Scott pauses, then removes the visor, sets it on the counter next to the mug. His eyes are, naturally, closed.
In quiet-breathing silence, Leah looks at him, her face as open and vulnerable as his now, and her eyes quite open. Her hand lifts from her side, towards him, then drops again. "Okay," she says and puts on a smile. "Thanks."
"You're welcome." Scott lifts the visor and hooks it over his ears. He runs his hand once over the front before opening his eyes again.
Leah blinks a few times. Dust in the air. Terrible thing. "Is there anything else I can do? For you guys. I already talked with Rossi a bit about police protection. Maybe you can coordinate with him. I don't know."
"I'll talk with him. Don't worry about doing anything else. We need you intact." Scott raises his eyebrows.
"For what?" Leah asks a little blankly.
Scott half shakes his head. "We do."
"Oh. To trap the Friends. Right. Sorry, I forgot." She produces a brief, gamine smile. "I'm yours to command. And I really, really thank you. A lot. I'll make you cookies."
"If you want," Scott says with a slight sigh. "Just be careful."
Leah pretends hurt as she pushes away from the counter to lead him slowly back to the door. "You don't like cookies? I'm always careful when I bake, don't worry."
"If you say so." Scott quirks another smile.
"I do," says Leah and opens the door. She leans some of her weight into its prop and looks up at him. Flash of vulnerability. Of lost. "It'll be okay. I have faith."
"It will be okay." Scott dips his head again. "Send me the information when you can. Ah, God with," is added somewhat uncomfortably as he backs out.
Leah blurts out, "Wait!" and flings the door open wider on her jolt back into the living room. She scoops up a neat, fat manila folder, hurries back, and thrusts it at him, panting. Grinning. "Almost forgot. The info. Call me if you need more. I'll try to think of it."
"Right." Scott folds the folder into his arm. "I'll keep you informed. I'll call soon."
Still catching her breath, Leah nods. She darts forward again, hugs him. "Thank you," muffled into his shoulder. Then she backs away.
Scott manages to reciprocate an awkward one armed pat and a brighter smile. "You're welcome," he says, and steps into the hall.
The door closes softly behind him. On the other side, Leah leans into it, looks up at the ceiling . . . and smiles.
[Log ends.]
Thank you, God.
12/19/2005
Logfile from Leah of X-Men MUCK.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Old Brownstone Apartments #300 - Leah
Plentiful light and air combine to make this tall and narrow apartment seem larger than its floor plan suggests. Directly opposite the entry's little foyer, a trio of high, leaded-glass windows dominates the main area: the central living room, the kitchen next to the entry, and the eating nook in the corner between kitchen and window. On the other side of the apartment lies private space: a tiny office next to the entry, the bedroom on the other side of a short hallway, and the bathroom between.
The decor is simple but pleasant with many touches of nature, from the polished woods of floor and furniture to the scattered arrangements of seashells, dried flowers, and framed landscapes that complete the essence of a peaceful haven.
--
Leah sits on the end of her bed, cross-legged in sweats and T-shirt, and holds her cordless phone loosely in her lap. The curtains are drawn on the high, thin windows off to one side; the room sits, like her, in pensive, pearly winter gloom. She closes her eyes for a tight-lipped second. Then she dials a number from memory and puts the phone to her ear.
Scott is dusting the dresser with some distraction. The dustcloth is abandoned and the phone picked up with the same distraction. "Hello?"
"Scott," Leah breathes out. It might be relief. "Hi. It's me."
"Oh." Scott's nostrils flares slightly and he scuffs a hand through his hair. Awake, now. "Hi, Leah."
Pause. Then she just rushes into it: "You're right, I was wrong, I need help, and can you?"
Scott blinks and scuffs his hair again. Not awake enough. "Yes?"
"Yes," Leah returns firmly. Her shoulders twitch with suppressed tension that leaks into her voice. "About the Friends. I'm doing the wrong thing. I want to stop. I want to -- you know." A short laugh. "Do the right thing, obviously. You said, in the bookstore and whenever else, that you could help me . . . ?"
"Yeah -- yeah, sure." Scott clears his throat. "Just tell me who you need protected. We'll take you all in. It's not a problem -- we, ah, just need to do it quickly."
Leah questions uncertainly, "Do you? I'm planning on lying low for the holidays -- no one's expecting me to write or do TV at this time of year, and I can get by -- so they wouldn't /know/ I'm defecting. Is that the right word? Oh, God. I'm being melodramatic. I'm sorry, Scott." She puts her head in a propped hand. "I feel like I'm going to explode at any second."
"I understand -- listen, Leah, we're going to have to decide how to do this. Covert or evacuation. You can't do both without causing troubles for the other," Scott says, all terse business.
"Right." Leah definitely sounds uncertain. "I don't know. I don't know about tactics and warfare and all that. Never even read Sun Tzu. Can you explain it to me? Might be better in person," she adds, glancing around the room with a frown. Her eyes tip to the ceiling. "I had someone who'd know check out the phone lines and all that for taps. Bugs. Whatever. I'm pretty sure my apartment's safe, and no one's watching it. I asked about that, too."
"I'll explain it best I can." Scott purses his lips. "I'll come over."
Leah says with certain relief, "I'll make coffee. Thanks. Thanks so much. See you in a bit."
Scott arrives at the door quick as possible with distance and traffic. He casts an uncertain glance over his shoulder before knocking.
Leah answers the door almost immediately, and steps back quickly to let him in and lock up behind him. She pauses, twitches a movement as if she were going to hug him, but then angles towards the kitchen, whence the rich, heavy scent of brewing coffee wafts. "Do you want something to eat? It's nearly lunchtime, I guess, but . . ."
Scott's movements are hyperalert, nearly paranoid, as he crosses toward the kitchen himself, eyes scanning restlessly behind the visor. Hmn. "No thank you."
"'Kay." She pours two mugs of coffee, putters over them at the counter, glances up and over at him. "How do you take yours? --Isn't this nice and homey of us? I swear it's safe, Scott. If they were going to do something . . ." Leah hesitates; her hand moves unconsciously towards her stomach with a wince. "They would've already. To both of us."
Scott smiles tightly. "They would've tried. I'm far more worried about you, after I leave. I take it dark." He settles stiffly by the counter, still on obvious alert.
Sliding his mug over, Leah scoops up hers for a sip. Her eyes are wide and pale over the rim, but her face is set. Determined. "I want to apologize," she says then, low, not looking away from him. "Again. To you. To -- mutants. I don't know. I'm sorry."
"Your circumstances were extreme. I don't blame you." Scott lifts the mug and blows carefully over it.
"You should," Leah says, but bites it off. Shakes her head. "I can flog myself till the cows come home, but you're right. And that doesn't change the past. Have to think about the future. Should I explain what's going on now, and then you can tell me what to do?" The look she gives him is hopeful. Trusting.
"Yes," Scott clips and finally takes a sip of the coffee. He raises his eyebrows, blandly encouraging.
Leah nods and starts, one hand going behind her on the counter for a brace against the small of her back. "They kidnapped me, threatened my family and everyone I care about, and set me loose to do their work. I . . . do believe in some of what they say, but not how they're going about it. Not exactly." A headshake moves her past that sticky, tricky ground, back to safer factual recitation. "They assigned someone to watch me. Nathan. He's not really sure about what's going on, either. He's the one who checked this place out for taps and told me he's the only one watching. He knows about you -- generally, that you're my friend, a schoolteacher, no threat." She smiles a little. "He thinks we might be dating."
"It's not a bad cover. But I'm not sure that all of the Friends will consider me no threat." Scott sets down the mug gently. "I'd like to get you and everyone under surveillance, but that may prove impossible just yet. That's a lot of people. What might be better is to continue playing covert, but catch the Friends in a trap. While, of course, keeping a careful eye on everyone we can."
"Just like in the movies," says Leah, half to herself. She nods again and has a longer sip of coffee. "I have the list of everyone I think they might be watching. And names and descriptions of all the Friends I've met or seen or heard of, along with locations they've taken me to. And the leader, Tom." Her lips peel back from a feral smile. "I /am/ a reporter. I can do this part of my job, and let the bastard hang for it. I'll give a copy to you before you leave."
"Thank you. With that kind of information," Scott smiles, "we can make sure that if they try to act, we know about it, and we won't be the only ones. They can believe what they like, but murder doesn't fall under free speech and they know it."
Leah puffs out a breath. "Yeah. Neither does beating the crap out of someone just because you don't like -- no, never mind that, too." She shifts her shoulders back, leans into the counter behind her, straightens a bit. "You know Magneto visited me. It was in the news. He broke /in/, Scott. What can I do about that? Anything?"
"No one will touch you," Scott promises. Quietly. And frowns. "Magneto's . . . difficult. It's difficult for us to directly interfere without making it obvious that we're watching you. I doubt he'll hurt you at this point unless --" Scott fishes into his pocket and draws out a small black device. "This is a panic button. You should have one of these anyway."
Leah looks at the device, then back to his face. Hers grows long and solemn. "Unless?"
"Unless he gets unpredictable and crazy," Scott sighs. "Take the button. He shows up, press it. If the Friends get violent, press it. If you /think/ they might, press it."
"Yes, sir." Leah tries to make that light. It kinda fails. She does take the button, though, and stuffs it in her sweats' pocket. "Thanks," she adds lamely. "I guess it's what you do, huh? When you aren't teaching shop."
"I don't do much teaching shop," Scott says. Subdued.
Leah lowers her head in acknowledgement. "I don't do much reporting, either." Bitter. "Maybe once this is over, and they're all in jail . . ."
"We'll see."
"Yeah. Well, so that's my end, I guess." Leah draws in a breath. "Like I said, I'm not planning to publish anything until the new year, at least. Got something coming out in Newsweek then; too late to stop it, though I wish I could." Self-loathing twists her mouth and tone. "Glowing interview piece with that Tom. Yay."
"Don't worry about it. Think of your reputation after this is done with -- it'll be explained." Scott tries a smile. "We'll be ready to strike."
Leah nods slowly. "I sent out letters," she volunteers after a minute and a caffeinated swallow. "To friends I could trust. In the media. 'Don't open this unless something happens to me,' that kind of thing. I wanted to cover my tracks. If something did happen to me--" her expression turns to stone "--I was going to take the Friends down with me."
"Good." The smile widens. "But that won't be necessary."
Leah smiles back. "Right. Not anymore. We're gonna get through this. --You won't be in any danger, will you? Please, Scott. Tell me."
"I won't. At least, not any more than usual." Scott dips his head.
A bit of silence, not entirely uncomfortable. "Not exactly what I'd planned to do with my life," Leah says. "You?"
The smile turns wry. "It's been my life a long time."
"And a long time to come?"
"Yes."
"I'm sorry."
Scott affects a shrug. "Gives me purpose."
Leah eyes him dubiously. "Because of your mutation?"
"It's nice to have a use for it."
Leah considers. "Can I say something?"
Scott nods. "Always."
"Okay. Smack me if I go too far." Leah makes a small smile that quickly fades. "I think you're more than your mutation, and I don't think you need it to define you or give you purpose or whatever. You'd still be Scott, my friend, who's helping me and wants to save the world and teaches kids because he wants to help them. Your eyes don't change that."
"I know. But I'm also a good tactician. It's what I'm best at. My eyes wouldn't determine that, either." He quirks the smile. "Only determines where exactly I end up working."
Leah offers, "There's the government. --Oh, but you said you had ties to them."
Scott nods. "It's just an . . . added skill."
"Right!" Leah eases back from tension focused on him, on her words, on the exchange and the right way to make it-- "I just wanted to say that. Without being condescending about it." Her smile hooks wry.
"That's fine. It's also something of a . . . bother, these eyes of mine." Scott coughs and retrieves the mug. "It's nice to hear."
Leah says in a small voice, "Could I ask a favor, while I'm at it?"
"Sure."
"What do you look like without the glasses on?"
Scott snorts. "Oh. Expelling beams of uncontrollable-- eyes open or closed?"
Leah makes a face. "Closed. Please don't take my head off or put holes in my wall."
"All right." Scott pauses, then removes the visor, sets it on the counter next to the mug. His eyes are, naturally, closed.
In quiet-breathing silence, Leah looks at him, her face as open and vulnerable as his now, and her eyes quite open. Her hand lifts from her side, towards him, then drops again. "Okay," she says and puts on a smile. "Thanks."
"You're welcome." Scott lifts the visor and hooks it over his ears. He runs his hand once over the front before opening his eyes again.
Leah blinks a few times. Dust in the air. Terrible thing. "Is there anything else I can do? For you guys. I already talked with Rossi a bit about police protection. Maybe you can coordinate with him. I don't know."
"I'll talk with him. Don't worry about doing anything else. We need you intact." Scott raises his eyebrows.
"For what?" Leah asks a little blankly.
Scott half shakes his head. "We do."
"Oh. To trap the Friends. Right. Sorry, I forgot." She produces a brief, gamine smile. "I'm yours to command. And I really, really thank you. A lot. I'll make you cookies."
"If you want," Scott says with a slight sigh. "Just be careful."
Leah pretends hurt as she pushes away from the counter to lead him slowly back to the door. "You don't like cookies? I'm always careful when I bake, don't worry."
"If you say so." Scott quirks another smile.
"I do," says Leah and opens the door. She leans some of her weight into its prop and looks up at him. Flash of vulnerability. Of lost. "It'll be okay. I have faith."
"It will be okay." Scott dips his head again. "Send me the information when you can. Ah, God with," is added somewhat uncomfortably as he backs out.
Leah blurts out, "Wait!" and flings the door open wider on her jolt back into the living room. She scoops up a neat, fat manila folder, hurries back, and thrusts it at him, panting. Grinning. "Almost forgot. The info. Call me if you need more. I'll try to think of it."
"Right." Scott folds the folder into his arm. "I'll keep you informed. I'll call soon."
Still catching her breath, Leah nods. She darts forward again, hugs him. "Thank you," muffled into his shoulder. Then she backs away.
Scott manages to reciprocate an awkward one armed pat and a brighter smile. "You're welcome," he says, and steps into the hall.
The door closes softly behind him. On the other side, Leah leans into it, looks up at the ceiling . . . and smiles.
[Log ends.]