(no subject)

[trollverine]

He bought a 1998 Ford F150 outside Yonkers, paid in cash. It had a GOD BLESS AMERICA decal in the back window and it smelled like smoke, but now wasn't the time for Jaguars and Porsches. He smiled through the sale: no, he hadn't brought his own license plate, but he was going straight to the DMV in town.

As soon as the house was out of sight he threw the title in the glovebox and turned around. Upstate, then west: back roads only.

It took him days to reach the plains like that. He subsisted on country store sandwiches and bottled water, flipping through a big atlas as he drove, listening to the news when he could get it. No police, no incidences. It almost made him feel lucky.

When he got close to the Saskatchewan border he took his money--stuffed in a duffel bag--and left the car by the side of the road. They'd find it and tow it and impound it, and it wouldn't be his problem.

Five hours of walking later, he made it to the farmhouse. It was there for a reason, at the end of a dirt road not far from the border: no neighbors, no towns close by. There were ATVs and two motorcycles in the barn. The key was hidden under a stepping stone in the garden, now obscured by weeds and overgrown hydrangeas. No one had been here to keep up appearances for at least a year. The only other people who had known about the house were dead.

He tossed his duffel bag on the kitchen table and headed out to see if either of the bikes were usable.

The nearest town was small, but he had what he needed when he got back. He slept a full night for the first time in a long time, suspecting nothing. Even when he woke up, there was no reason to think he wasn't completely safe. He was alive, and no one knew it.

The radio in the kitchen was old, with knobs that turned right or left: left was country and religion; right was sports and oldies. That was it.

He left it on Tina Turner and fired up the stove, feeling pretty good about everything.

Comments

[excision]

Laura lay on her belly in the woods, 25 meters across from the kitchen window echoing with a song that she did not recognize. The singer she knew, but could not name; the last time she had heard her had been at a truck stop slash diner in Nevada.

It had been 10 hours since she had first arrived to the farmhouse. She had been careful to keep out of sight, careful to tail him in such a way that he would not know he had been tailed. It had been obvious that he felt safe, shielded by the news of his death; still more now, cooking as he was with the radio up and the windows bare. He was foolish. That had not changed.

But he was alive. It mattered. She lay still for a moment, watching the house, and then stood, slow and silent. Ants skittered down her legs, biting the flesh beneath her jeans, but she barely registered them.

It was impossible to predict his response to approach; it was most probable that he would attack, and that the night would end in blood. But she did not want to leave. Not yet.

She began to move out of the trees and toward the back door.

[trollverine]

Tina Turner became Aretha Franklin. Daken stared at the radio for a second and put down his spatula. Time to see if there was anything on AM--

outside.

He froze in front of the radio. In the silence between Aretha and static there had been a sound, a footstep, and no car or bike had pulled onto the lawn; he would have heard that.

He went to the back door and threw open the screen. Maybe somehow it was Victor, or--

His eyes narrowed. Just walking up, like he was stupid. Her.

"What are you, the distraction?" he grinned out of habit, glancing at the sky. No helicarrier; nothing but clouds. The woods behind her looked empty. Whoever Logan had sent, or the Avengers had sent, they had done very well, and fuck them, he thought, for doing it. From clean getaway to last stand, just like that.

[excision]

"No." She had stopped 5 meters from the back porch, waiting quiet in the grass, staring at him with an unreadable expression. Laura looked small, more teenager than weapon, covered in dirt and filth from the woods, wearing a t-shirt and jeans instead of the old black leather and latex. Her hands hung easy at her sides, claws pricking behind the skin of her knuckles.

There were still ants running down her legs, nipping at her ankles. A twig in her hair poking at her ear. She pulled it out, dropping it to the ground, and did not smooth her hair. "I came alone." It was flat, honest.

"I wanted to see you." It was statement of fact, not confession, and she hadn't paused to say it. It was different with Daken; she was not hesitant, as she might have been with others. It did not matter if he believed her or not.

[trollverine]

Daken came out of the house, headed with purpose toward the woods. He brushed right by her, half expecting her to seize the opportunity, and paused. Nothing moved but the tall grass. Nothing was on the air but dirt and Laura and the omelet he was burning. He looked up again, went around the corner of the house.

An absurd thought occurred to him: she was trying to gain his trust.

That was his game of chess, but didn't that also make it hers? She was like him in ways his father never would be; she was smart. She'd never beat him, but that didn't mean she wouldn't try.

He headed back toward the door and held it open, gesturing inside. "After you."

[excision]

Laura didn't react when he brushed past her, just turned to watch as Daken examined the perimeter, looking for backup, performing checks he should have done hours before. He was fortunate that she had come alone.

She didn't move until he opened the door, and then walked forward without word or hesitation, ignoring his gesture. There was no pause either to brush herself off or wipe her muddy boots.

An attempt to attack or immobilize her was possible, but she would be ready.

[trollverine]

The pan on the stove was hissing insistently, but Daken ignored it for a second and snapped off the radio. He moved the wrecked omelet into the sink and searched the cupboards: yes, there was one more pan. He set everything up again, pausing to shoot Laura a friendly little smile. "Want one?"

[excision]

Laura was standing somewhat awkwardly at the kitchen entrance, not remembering that this was the point when a socialized individual would make themselves comfortable: sit down, lean against a wall, engage in tinkering with the items in the kitchen. She was not interested in any of those things, and so she lingered, watching Daken quietly as he searched the cupboards and disposed of the burnt food.

Her nostrils twitched. It had been 27.6 hours since she had last eaten: twinkies and a granola bar at a truck stop in the plains.

"Yes." She didn't return the smile, and without pausing to introduce a new topic of conversation: "Why are you here?"

[trollverine]

This time his smile was born of real amusement, at her and her way of talking, robotic and blunt and devoid of social graces. "What, no small talk?" He cracked an egg into a bowl. "No how've you been, how's your father?" He turned to her again. "What's he doing, anyway?"

[excision]

"Why? You are alive, and your father does not know." She stopped, resting against the edge of the table and watching him with an impatience that surfaced just slightly behind her typical lack of expression. "Logan is the same." She had not seen him in weeks. He had only called her to ask for a favor, and she had done it for him. She had not yet decided what she would tell him.

[trollverine]

He was beginning to believe that. Logan wouldn't have sent her alone--not out of concern for her safety, but because it wouldn't be enough to take him, alive or dead, and he had no doubt that Logan would want him in the Raft alive.

If he knew.

Even when Daken brought it up himself, talking about Logan irritated him.

"So what do you want?" he asked, without hostility.

[excision]

She stared at him, unimpressed.

"I already told you," she said. "I wanted to see you . . . that you were alive," she finished, as if in explanation. She didn't go on to say why she wanted to know. It wasn't clear to her; she only knew that it mattered that Daken was. She had not needed to come this far to know who had taken the money, and she had not needed to come out of the woods, and she did not need to talk to him.

She had wanted to. She also wanted an omelet. Laura sniffed, a tiny motion that was barely perceptible.

[trollverine]

He was quiet for a second, busy cooking and busy thinking.

She had come to see, unprompted, that he was alive, even after what he'd done in Madripoor. There was a reason for that.

"You asked why I'm here." He got two plates out of the cupboard, cut the omelet in half. There was no dining room; just a small table and chairs in the corner of the kitchen. He set out the two halves of the omelet and got himself a glass of water, which reminded him that there was wine in the cellar, unless someone had found it. It was good wine; he had bought it himself. He wondered if Laura liked wine. Maybe she'd never had it; he had no idea how she was treated among the X-Men, whether like a child or an adult, or whether the X-Men even had such luxuries. He didn't know where she'd been. He knew almost nothing about her.

Ordinarily he might not have cared, but he had no plans.

"Why do you think?"