fic: X-Men, Any bouy in the ocean, 13
SPOILERS FOR CABLE AND DEADPOOL #29.
Disclaimer: Not mine. Rating: 13.
Set: post Cable and Deadpool #29
Characters: Nate, Irene.
Length: 1,000
Any buoy in the ocean
by ALC Punk!
"She doesn't believe in me."
Irene looked up from the article she was editing--anything to get back into the swing of things and away from Mr. I Want To Bring Peace to the world. "What?"
"Domino." He fiddled with the handle of his coffee mug, which had large red letters proclaiming him "World's #1 Messiah".
"Should she?" Really, Irene sometimes wondered how the man functioned on his own. If she had access to time tech, she'd go back in time and bitch-slap the entire Askani sisterhood for turning out this rather pathetic excuse of a man.
Nate thumped his hand on the desk and grabbed for the stack of folders that chose that moment to pretend they were stacked precariously (well, they were) and slide towards the floor.
Rolling her eyes at him, Irene went back to her editing.
"No, she shouldn't."
And maybe that was the problem with Nate. He needed people to believe in him--sure, he had his own innate arrogance, and the ability (generally) back it up. But once in a while, he was still that scared little boy whose parents had disappeared to parts unknown, reaching out for someone to love him.
Really, it was kind of pathetic.
"Nate?"
"Hrm?"
"Take Wade's advice and go get laid, or something."
He raised an eyebrow at her. "You're agreeing with Wilson?"
"Not exactly."
Ok, so she was hedging. Irene ignored the amused expression on Nathan's face and went back to her editing.
It really wasn't Irene's job to explain to the time-lost messiah-complex that, sometimes, people had to have faith in themselves. Relying on others only got you burned. Especially if your parents were in any way related to the Summers--even if it was only by a casual, in-passing, my-mother-once-dated-Scott-Summers way.
Not that it was hard to think of Scott Summers as anything but an idiot right now. Irene figured Nathan was trying to live up to the memory of his 'mother', Jean Grey. Ms. Grey was currently dead, and her husband--Nathan's father--was dating a hooker.
"Send her flowers." Really, it was also irritating that she had to think of these things.
"What?"
"And an Uzi." Irene studiously red-lined a mis-placed word.
Nathan choked, then began to chuckle. "That just might work. I wonder if she has the latest iPod..."
Good. "Make sure you don't put Sinatra on it."
"I have very good taste in music."
"You come from the future."
"As if that has anything to do with it."
"It does," Irene replied sweetly.
-=
Irene didn't think anything of the conversation as she went about the normal business of keeping the city running. People to reassure, provisions to order, piles of paperwork to sort through. Some of it was background checks the boys had pulled off the internet that she then had to collate with the people applying for sanctuary.
Not that Nathan was turning anyone away, but it was better to be prepared than sorry.
Taking a break, Irene wandered down by the gym and found Nathan flopped on his back, staring at the ceiling.
"Whoa. Hallo, Emo-boy."
"Irene." He gave a half-hearted wave and continued staring at the ceiling.
Five seconds to decide whether she walked on, and then she gave in. Providence would echo with the lamenting of sympathetic emo-ness if she didn't. "Nate."
He continued staring at the ceiling.
"Nate, talk to me."
Really, he apparently found the rather boring grey paint on the ceiling fascinating. Perhaps he was counting flecks, paint chips and levels of light gradation.
Irene crossed her arms, "You can talk to me, or I tell Wilson where you hid the Fruit Loops."
"He already knows."
Damn.
"I tell Proctor John where you hid the whiskey."
"Wilson told him."
Fine.
"I kick your ass."
That made him laugh, sort of. Then he sighed and slumped into the floor. And when a man with a large frame slumps into something as solid as the floor, there's something seriously wrong.
Like women troubles.
"She didn't like the flowers."
His sigh was her only answer.
"Did you send the Uzi, too?"
"Yeah."
Irene considered things, considered the stupidest thing Nathan could have done and narrowed her eyes. "Did you hire her to run an op?"
He looked at her. "Do I look that stupid?"
"Yes."
Something that might have been a blush colored his cheeks then was gone and he continued holding her gaze. "Really, Irene, your opinion of me is so low, one might wonder why you're still here."
"Psycho-analysis bullshit, Nate. Don't distract me or I'll put a pen through your eye."
"You've been hanging around Wilson too long."
"Maybe."
"I didn't hire her. I thought about it, but I didn't."
"Good." Irene briskly walked over to the wall of fighting sticks and grabbed two. "Now kick my ass like a good little messiah so I can go whine at some cute young man who'll gaze longingly at my eyes and write poetry about my lips."
With a grumbling sound, he pulled himself upright. He made a face when he took the staff from her and half-heartedly went into a fighting stance.
"Am I gonna be too boring for you, Nate?"
"No, no," He sighed and straightened a little.
"Good." Lashing out, Irene almost caught him on the side of the head with the end of her staff.
He ducked, blocked and danced backwards.
Irene followed, intent on one thing: hitting him with a stick. He ducked and wove, blocked and dodged out of the way.
Ten minutes of this left her panting and covered in sweat, while Nate just looked mildly bored still.
"Give." Irene planted the end of the staff and leaned against it, gasping for breath. "I need to do more step aerobics to keep up with you."
Nate shrugged, "You at least don't fall over."
"You flatter me." said Irene dryly. She finally got the energy and racked her staff.
"At least I got something right."
Irene patted his arm and headed back to her office. "I'm sure you'll think of something."
He did. This time, the package was delivered to Irene. Scrawly handwriting asked her to please stop him from being an idiot.
Irene merely rolled her eyes.
"Should've bought her a tie, Nate."
-f
Disclaimer: Not mine. Rating: 13.
Set: post Cable and Deadpool #29
Characters: Nate, Irene.
Length: 1,000
Any buoy in the ocean
by ALC Punk!
"She doesn't believe in me."
Irene looked up from the article she was editing--anything to get back into the swing of things and away from Mr. I Want To Bring Peace to the world. "What?"
"Domino." He fiddled with the handle of his coffee mug, which had large red letters proclaiming him "World's #1 Messiah".
"Should she?" Really, Irene sometimes wondered how the man functioned on his own. If she had access to time tech, she'd go back in time and bitch-slap the entire Askani sisterhood for turning out this rather pathetic excuse of a man.
Nate thumped his hand on the desk and grabbed for the stack of folders that chose that moment to pretend they were stacked precariously (well, they were) and slide towards the floor.
Rolling her eyes at him, Irene went back to her editing.
"No, she shouldn't."
And maybe that was the problem with Nate. He needed people to believe in him--sure, he had his own innate arrogance, and the ability (generally) back it up. But once in a while, he was still that scared little boy whose parents had disappeared to parts unknown, reaching out for someone to love him.
Really, it was kind of pathetic.
"Nate?"
"Hrm?"
"Take Wade's advice and go get laid, or something."
He raised an eyebrow at her. "You're agreeing with Wilson?"
"Not exactly."
Ok, so she was hedging. Irene ignored the amused expression on Nathan's face and went back to her editing.
It really wasn't Irene's job to explain to the time-lost messiah-complex that, sometimes, people had to have faith in themselves. Relying on others only got you burned. Especially if your parents were in any way related to the Summers--even if it was only by a casual, in-passing, my-mother-once-dated-Scott-Summers way.
Not that it was hard to think of Scott Summers as anything but an idiot right now. Irene figured Nathan was trying to live up to the memory of his 'mother', Jean Grey. Ms. Grey was currently dead, and her husband--Nathan's father--was dating a hooker.
"Send her flowers." Really, it was also irritating that she had to think of these things.
"What?"
"And an Uzi." Irene studiously red-lined a mis-placed word.
Nathan choked, then began to chuckle. "That just might work. I wonder if she has the latest iPod..."
Good. "Make sure you don't put Sinatra on it."
"I have very good taste in music."
"You come from the future."
"As if that has anything to do with it."
"It does," Irene replied sweetly.
-=
Irene didn't think anything of the conversation as she went about the normal business of keeping the city running. People to reassure, provisions to order, piles of paperwork to sort through. Some of it was background checks the boys had pulled off the internet that she then had to collate with the people applying for sanctuary.
Not that Nathan was turning anyone away, but it was better to be prepared than sorry.
Taking a break, Irene wandered down by the gym and found Nathan flopped on his back, staring at the ceiling.
"Whoa. Hallo, Emo-boy."
"Irene." He gave a half-hearted wave and continued staring at the ceiling.
Five seconds to decide whether she walked on, and then she gave in. Providence would echo with the lamenting of sympathetic emo-ness if she didn't. "Nate."
He continued staring at the ceiling.
"Nate, talk to me."
Really, he apparently found the rather boring grey paint on the ceiling fascinating. Perhaps he was counting flecks, paint chips and levels of light gradation.
Irene crossed her arms, "You can talk to me, or I tell Wilson where you hid the Fruit Loops."
"He already knows."
Damn.
"I tell Proctor John where you hid the whiskey."
"Wilson told him."
Fine.
"I kick your ass."
That made him laugh, sort of. Then he sighed and slumped into the floor. And when a man with a large frame slumps into something as solid as the floor, there's something seriously wrong.
Like women troubles.
"She didn't like the flowers."
His sigh was her only answer.
"Did you send the Uzi, too?"
"Yeah."
Irene considered things, considered the stupidest thing Nathan could have done and narrowed her eyes. "Did you hire her to run an op?"
He looked at her. "Do I look that stupid?"
"Yes."
Something that might have been a blush colored his cheeks then was gone and he continued holding her gaze. "Really, Irene, your opinion of me is so low, one might wonder why you're still here."
"Psycho-analysis bullshit, Nate. Don't distract me or I'll put a pen through your eye."
"You've been hanging around Wilson too long."
"Maybe."
"I didn't hire her. I thought about it, but I didn't."
"Good." Irene briskly walked over to the wall of fighting sticks and grabbed two. "Now kick my ass like a good little messiah so I can go whine at some cute young man who'll gaze longingly at my eyes and write poetry about my lips."
With a grumbling sound, he pulled himself upright. He made a face when he took the staff from her and half-heartedly went into a fighting stance.
"Am I gonna be too boring for you, Nate?"
"No, no," He sighed and straightened a little.
"Good." Lashing out, Irene almost caught him on the side of the head with the end of her staff.
He ducked, blocked and danced backwards.
Irene followed, intent on one thing: hitting him with a stick. He ducked and wove, blocked and dodged out of the way.
Ten minutes of this left her panting and covered in sweat, while Nate just looked mildly bored still.
"Give." Irene planted the end of the staff and leaned against it, gasping for breath. "I need to do more step aerobics to keep up with you."
Nate shrugged, "You at least don't fall over."
"You flatter me." said Irene dryly. She finally got the energy and racked her staff.
"At least I got something right."
Irene patted his arm and headed back to her office. "I'm sure you'll think of something."
He did. This time, the package was delivered to Irene. Scrawly handwriting asked her to please stop him from being an idiot.
Irene merely rolled her eyes.
"Should've bought her a tie, Nate."
-f