Fanfic time: Misfits part 33

Continued from yesterday:

  The moon glowed, half-behind the passing cloud, and the fireflies danced in the air around them. Her scales felt smooth, like textured glass, yet were warm and alive under his fingers. And against his cheek. 

  {POP!} 

  They both shrieked. 

  “Oh. That darned cork…” Sara panted, gesturing at the bottle that was now curling vapours out of its neck. “I loosened it before we -ah- found something to discuss." 

  ”…‘kinell,“ Todd squeaked. "Yo, do teenagers get heart attacks?" 

  "Unlikely, unless you have a history of heart conditions in your family.” She grew concerned. “You don’t, do you?" 

  "Naw. Us Tolenskys are born tough. But *damn*, that scared the crap outta me." 

  "I’m fairly certain I’d have jumped out of my skin - if it wasn’t awaiting prying eyes in my second drawer." 

  Todd cracked up, followed shortly by Sara as she poured the carbonated apple beverage into two plastic champagne glasses. Their mutual giggles were only *slightly* tinged with hysteria, but soon warmed over. 

  "Face up?” Todd asked. 

  “Of course face up,” she handed him a glass. “I briefly considered some other side, but rejected it, owing to the fact that shed skin is more than a little tricky to fold." 

  More giggles, which turned into guffaws as someone upstairs screamed. 

  "Yo, to bustin’ th’ nosy!" 

  "To breaking bad habits,” said Sara, clinking her glass with his. 

  They drank. 

  Jean Grey appeared in a balcony above them. “Sara Louise Adrien, that was *NOT* funny!" 

  "Yes it was,” Todd shouted back. “Make yo’ think twice, won’t it?" 

  "I was *looking* for a *comb*.” Jean snarled as she stormed back inside. 

  The laughter was infectious and circular. Just as it began to die down, one or the other would remember the scream, or picture Jean’s reaction, and would start all over again. They both wound down eventually, teary-eyed, ribs and faces aching. 

  “Oh dear,” Sara sighed. “Pity I can only do that here." 

  "It’d be *more* than freakin’ cool if you could rig it up in yo'r locker, babe. I’d *pay* to see some idjit wit’ a rat get all hell scared outta him." 

  "Of course! My spring-troll!" 

  "Yo'r whut?" 

  "There’s this springy foam that compacts into a very small space,” Sara illustrated wadding something huge into a tiny area. “I calculated that I could create something roughly three cubic metres in volume, and designed a troll. It never got off paper because Mom kept cancelling my orders, but now…” an evil glint shone in her eyes. “One way or another, the rats will stop." 

  Todd pondered this, a firm desire to see the rat-saboteur get their comeuppance. "I think I saw some… art supplies in one o’ the basements,” he suggested. “Prof prob'ly won’t mind…" 

  Sara had a very *good* evil laugh. 

+

  Every hair on Jean’s arms stood on end. 

  "Trouble?” said the Professor. 

  “I sensed a disturbance in the force,” she said. 

  “Oh yes. Todd and Sara plotting some harmless prank." 

  "It better not be on *me*,” Jean remembered the skin. Something like that was hard to forget. 

  “Not unless you’re in the habit of leaving rats lying around." 

  "Oh, *that*…” Jean relaxed. “I might just help.” And while she was thinking about that, the Professor got past her shields and delivered a mental sting. “Ow…" 

  "Focus, Jean,” said Xavier. “You have to be able to multi-task." 

  Jean smirked, and thought of that silly sun song from Sara. Even if it didn’t help her, it would certainly give *Xavier* a heck of a time getting rid of it. 

+

  Across town, in her room, a girl shuddered in a sudden and inexplicable cold. 

  ”'Sup with you, spaz?“ said her older brother. 

  "Thomeone walked on my grave,” lisped Janine. “And the latht I checked? Thith wath *my* room." 

  "Thure thing, thpaz,” lisped the brother. “Jutht lookin’ for my book." 

  "Thut up." 

+

  "To locker-trolls!" 

  "To delayed revenge!" 

  "To gettin’ yo'r own back!" 

  "To having some *fun* at school!" 

  "To fun!" 

  "To mischief!" 

  "To love!" 

  "Ah, l'amour…” Sara sighed. They clinked glasses and drank. “To the stars above and below?" 

  "To a beautiful night an’ a beautiful girl!" 

  "To looking forward!" 

  "Too late ta be out,” said Logan. 

  Sara, in a playful mood, pouted. “Aaaawww…. Ten more minutes?" 

  "Inside." 

  "Five more minutes?" 

  "Both o’ ya." 

  "Three more minutes?" 

  "Dinner’s ready, you two. C'mon." 

  "One more minute?" 

  "Tallwater… don’t me drag ya." 

  Sara giggled. She’d been packing anyway, just verbally sparring with the surly mutant. "Did anyone see where that cork went?" 

  "Yo, I think it’s in orbit by now." 

  Sara snorted and giggled. "Hccchk… Houston - who ordered champagne?" 

  They laughed all the way to the dinner table.

~~

  _Ah, they had a good date,_ Kurt smiled as the two entered and found their seats. Even if he didn’t have the ability to see their lights, he’d have known. They were both grinning like maniacs and had a definite case of the Sillies, in which 'funny’ could be found in everything and zany ideas fissioned. 

  Kurt approved. Sara was exactly the sort of person who needed a good laugh and having the Sillies would certainly see to that. 

  And was Jean smirking proudly over there? She’d done something… arranged the date? That had to be it. But she wasn’t smirking in that proud, look-at-the-good-thing-I-did way, but the secretive, my-kharma’s-been-restored way. 

  _Bless your good works, Jean,_ he thought. 

  _Are you *sure* you’re not a telepath?_ she 'said’. 

  _Why do I get this question so often? I’ve been tested. You were there._ 

  Rogue was glaring jealously at the two of them, and merging into wistfulness when she thought nobody was looking. Apart from her, there was a general air of good feeling across the table. 

  Something was going *right*. 

  Kurt decided to enjoy the atmosphere while it lasted. 

+

  Lance arrived to pick the toad up, and was ushered in by a quasi-belligerant Scott. 

  "They’re in basement five. I’ll show you the way." 

  _And fuck you, too,_ thought Lance. "I’m only here to drag his sorry ass home. Me an’ Kitty are on the outs, so I’m not interested in any conversation with her or anything else. The end." 

  "Fine,” growled Scott. 

  “Fine,” said Lance. 

  “Fine." 

  ”*Fine*.“ 

  They 'fine’d their way to the elevator and all the way down to basement five, where Sara - nobody *else* at the institute was nearly 6’ tall and covered with scales - and Todd were doing something weird with metal rods, clamps, and clay. 

  Lance forgot entirely about getting the last word against Summers and gawped at the two of them. _I’ll fucked three ways from Sunday… they actually clean up *good*._ As to *why* they were playing with clay, rods and clamps in a basement while still duded up for a date… he’d learned from long experience to never ask. 

  Scott, still behind on things, did it for him. "What the hell are you two doing?” he asked. 

  “Locker troll,” said Sara. 

  _Don’t ask,_ Lance begged. He knew this was going to cause a migrane. _Please don’t ask. Please, please, please don’t ask. Please, please, please, please, please pl–_ 

  “A what?” said Scott. 

  “Great,” snapped Lance. “Now they’re going to *explain* it." 

  "It’s an anti-rat device, yo,” said Todd. 

  “Locker. Troll,” said Sara. “A troll for a locker. Which particular word did you not understand?" 

  "Don’t do it,” said Lance. “Do not engage them in any further conversation. You do *not* want to–" 

  "What the hell is a locker troll for?" 

  "Goddamnit, Summers!" 

  Todd glared at them both. "It’s for putting in lockers, foo’. *Duh*." 

  "Allow me to demonstrate,” said Sara. She bought out a tiny metal lunchbox of the type that construction workers used to use in cartoons. “With my lunchbox troll. I made it a few years ago to demonstrate the concept.” She handed it across. “Go ahead. Raid my lunch." 

  "You’re gonna regreeeet iiiiiit….” Lance sang, sotto voice. 

  Scooter ignored him as usual, opening the box. He yelped as a surprisingly large demon-thing sprung out at his face. 

  “Oh *God*,” moaned Lance. The dropped lunchbox, he couldn’t help noticing, had plastic food in it, to demonstrate that one could still enjoy lunch and have a lunchbox troll at the same time. “Okay,” he announced. “I’ve had e-fucking-nough. Todd. We’re going *home*.” He scragged the younger mutant by the collar and physically dragged him away. 

  “But we were gonna pitch a whole buncha ideas,” Todd objected. “Adrien-Tolensky Novelties, Inc. A whole range o’ stuff to get back at fools that get into yo’ shit, yo." 

  "I *don’t* want to know,” said Lance, even though he knew Todd was going to tell him *anyway*. He dragged Todd towards the elevator. 

  “Bye, honey,” Sara chirped. “I won’t forget the invoice." 

  _Invoice? No. Don’t ask. They just might tell you._ 

  "Yo, we drafted up a whole buncha shit,” said Todd, true to Lance’s prediction. “We got closet trolls, fridge trolls, suitcase trolls, diary trolls, pantry trolls, tinned trolls…” He continued chattering until they were well on the way back to the boarding house. 

  “Shut. Up,” said Lance. 

  “Yo, we were even thinkin’ o’ makeup trolls. Y'know, fo’ people that steal yo'r lip balm? But Sara said th’ logistics was tricky an’–" 

  He pulled up outside their domicile. "WILL YOU SHUT THE FUCK UP ABOUT TROLLS? I DON’T WANT TO KNOW! I NEVER WANTED TO KNOW!" 

  {Zwip} "What'sthisabouttrolls?” said Pietro. 

  Todd took a deep breath and latched onto Pietro’s arm. “Wait’ll yo’ hear about this, yo…" 

  Lance stomped into the house and crunched down a handful of Advil. He didn’t *need* this shit. 

  "Off to work,” said Fred. “See ya sometime tonight.” He was dressed up and put on some shades. “Do I look bouncer-y?" 

  "Intimidatingly,” said Lance. “Anyone wants me, I’m in a coma.” He slouched off to his room. 

  “G'Night,” said Fred. 

  Tabby was waiting for him. She’d spread cheap glue on her face and allowed it to flake so that she looked like she was shedding. “Do *I* get some attention, now?” she said. 

  “Go fuck a Senior,” he sighed. “Someone *far* away from here.” He’d had *enough* of this shit for one night. He slammed the door in her face. 

  “But *you’re* a Senior,” she said. “And you’re cheap and always availlable." 

  _Way to romance a guy, Tabby._ "Fuck off and die!” he hollered. 

  Tabby wandered away, crying out, “O, I’m shedding! O, the pain! Someone comfort meeee…" 

  Why did he keep fucking doing this to himself?

~