AU Fic 20: United, We Stand, Part 1
Aug. 23rd, 2009 03:01 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
labyrinth2015Happy birthday, ![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-userinfo.gif)
motherendurance! You sensed I was craving to write creatively before I even knew it myself, and helped unleash this torrent of fic unto the world. Thank you so much for your friendship, and for showing me how strong women can really be. I am wishing you much strength and fortitude for the coming year – as well as safe journeying, through this life, for you and yours.
I hope you enjoy this bizarro cross-over, because you have no-one to blame but yourself!
Title: United, We Stand, Part 1
Pairing: X-Men/Cookleta cross-over (I know!)
Words: 8,000+ words (nobody more surprised than me!)
Rating: PG-13
Dedication: For Renata – with my thanks, for everything. ILU, bb! I know which X-ship you sail on – hope you enjoy ;)
A/N: Unbetaed, so this gets to R in time for her birthday! Please let me know if there are errors. Posting to LJ first.
X-continuity is so screwed I haven’t attempted to adhere to any real timeline – this fic is loosely modeled on the 'verse of X1/ X-MEN UNITED (as indicated in the title). The Morlocks, whom I use in this fic, were one-time X-foes who lived in tunnels under New York, who named themselves after subterranean creatures found in H. G. Wells's book, The Time Machine; here, they're vaguely their John Romita JR/pre-Mutant Massacre era selves. More about the Morlocks here and here.
Disclaimer: Not-for-profit work of fiction. X-Men characters copyright Marvel Comics and their creators. Idol characters belong to themselves. No proprietary interest nor veracity asserted. Will remove without prejudice upon valid request.
United, We Stand
Logan knows he shouldn't be in love with the kid.
He's too old for her, for one. He's too good at many things, for another - and the things he's good at aren't nice at all.
And she's pure and entirely innocent, in body as well as soul. She kissed someone once, for all of five seconds. Her kiss put the boy in a coma: it was the defining moment of her life. After that, she never let anyone touch her, never touched anyone, except to hurt them. She’d never touched anyone, in love.
Never touched anyone in love, except him, though - fingers encased in satin: fleeting contact on his arm, the side of his face. More intimate than bare skin.
With his enhanced senses, he could feel the raised ridges of her fingerprints against him - the unique pattern of the self she showed no one.
That he never let himself dream she'd show him.
Logan's been alive for a long time, has known the scent and touch of many a woman. He’s a hard man, but it'd be unusual to live this long without having been in love, as well, and that he had been, despite everything: blazing, fiery loves which he'd fought with, he’d fought for.
When they left, when some of them died, it was years before he stopped blaming himself.
Of course, after he'd taken care of those responsible, in ways that left no doubt that he was in fact the best at what he did.
He wasn't going to let that happen to her.
He wasn't going to let himself love her, although there were nights he lay awake in his bed, the smell of her (in the girls' dorm, two floors up) surrounding him as intimately as breathing.
He didn't touch himself, when he thought of her. He wasn't that man.
But he wanted her, loved her, in the same way the berserker rage was always underneath his skin.
Her green eyes, though, he’d drown in: their courage, their playfulness. She’d ask things of him, that he couldn't deny.
Can I ride with you, on Scott’s bike?
I guess so.
You’re taking a class on stakeout downtown? I want to come.
Fine. Don’t get in my way.
I want to come with you, on your next raid to Genosha?
Kid, it’s not – all right. Just follow my lead.
So, um, there’s this concert on in Long Island next week. I’d like to go?
Logan’s sitting in the kitchen, in the school at Graymalkin Lane, a beer in hand. It’s late, the mansion’s quiet.
He knows where everyone is: he can hear Ororo, in her old place in the attic murmuring to her plants, can hear Kitty carrying two mugs of tea up the stairs to her. He can’t smell Hank through the thick guarded walls of the lab, but he knows he’s there, the same way he knows Pete is running a Danger Room session underground by the way the floors move imperceptibly, to everyone except him.
Can place the students; mostly asleep. Except for this one, this girl, whom he knows so well he could reproduce her out of thin air if need be, had he the ability to go with the enhanced senses.
He squints up at the kid from the latest issue of Hustler.
“Who’s playin?”
The green eyes flutter away from his, a little uncomfortably. “I don’t think you know? You never watch TV.”
Logan sighs. “Marie. Who.”
“Um, the guys on American Idol. Aw, don’t laugh at me, Logan!”
“Kiddo, seriously, not laughin.” Logan shakes his head, putting the mag down. “Look. Sure there must be some’a the others who’ll wanna go with you.”
She toes the linoleum floor. The fluorescent light turns the white stripe in her hair to silver. “Kinda want t’go with you,” she says, and looks up at him.
Green eyes, that he’d drown in. Kid was making him soft.
“Fine. All right. Jus don’t make me buy the tour T-shirt.”
* * * * *
Cook knows he shouldn't be in love with the kid.
He's too old for him, for one. He's too good at many things, for another - and some of the things he's good at aren't particularly nice.
And the kid's pure and entirely innocent, in body as well as soul. Not sure if he's been kissed ever in his life. Whenever anyone tries to touch him, even in a friendly way, he almost jumps out of his skin. He doesn’t really let anyone touch him. Doesn't look like he ever touches anyone, either.
Well, doesn’t ever touch anyone, except him – fingers, which caress the ivory of piano keys: fleeting contact on his arm, once, the side of his face. Somehow, more intimate than any lover’s more purposeful caresses, on other more intimate parts of his anatomy.
When the kid plays piano, Cook’s musician’s senses can almost feel the kid’s fingering against his skin - the chord structure, the long, shimmering runs, the unique pattern of the self he shows no one.
That he never lets himself dream the kid would ever show him.
Cook had been around the block a time or two; he'd known the love of many a woman, and that of several men. He’d been in love, as well, once: a blazing, fiery lover whom he'd fought with, whom he’d fought for, and when she left, despite everything, it was several years before he stopped blaming himself.
He wasn't going to let that happen, with the kid.
He wasn't going to let himself love him, although there were nights he lay awake, when he fancied he could hear the kid breathe, in the next room, and later, in the next bunk.
He tries not to touch himself, when he thinks of him. He doesn’t want to be that man. He's proud he succeeds, for the most part.
The huge brown eyes, though, he’d drown in: their courage, their playfulness. The kid would ask things of him, that he couldn't deny.
Can I ride with you in the car, to the Larry King press thing?
Sure thing, Arch.
Are you stuck on that song? Because, you know, I think I can help.
Really? Okay, come on in.
Um, next time you and Johns go to a club, can I come? I just want to see what it’s like.
It’s not – all right. Just don’t do as I do, okay, or your dad’ll have my ass, or something. It’s not like I need to sing any higher, y’know?
So, um, about the concert on in Long Island tomorrow night…
Cook’s sitting at the small, cramped table, a beer in hand. It’s late; the boys’ bus is quiet.
He knows where everyone is, at this hour. Mike is falling asleep in front of the TV, Chikeze’s on the phone, Castro is in his bunk euphemistically listening to music.
The kid squeezes onto the bench at the opposite side of the table, and looks at him with his bright eyes. This kid, whom he knows so well he can picture him in his mind’s eye when he’s not there, could practically sing him into existence, if had he the super-powered means to do so.
He puts down the New York Times crossword.
“Tomorrow? What about it?”
The brown eyes flutter away from his, a little uncomfortably. “I was thinking maybe we could do something different on stage. You know, to maybe keep things interesting.”
Cook grins. “Arch, you never cease to surprise me. What’s on your mind?”
Archie seems to find the edge of the table fascinating. “Well,” he says finally, “You know, the little dances you do with Michael seem to really get the fans excited. So, um, I was thinking maybe we could do something together, as well? You know, during the last part, when we sing our group song?”
Cook tries hard to keep his expression thoughtful, although Archie isn’t looking at him. “Hmmm. I guess we could try that. What, you want to do the thing with the pompoms that Mike and I do?”
Archie casts a sideways, suspicious look at him. “Are you laughing at me, Cook?”
“Seriously, not laughing.” Cook puts the newspaper down. “Tell me.”
“Okay, so, actually what I thought was, maybe you could stop doing the bowing thing, because it’s kinda embarrassing? And maybe we could sing together on my line in Please Don't Stop the Music.”
Cook puts his head on one side and surveys his friend. “It’s a cool idea, sure. But sure there must be some of the others who’d be good to sing with you – Brooke, maybe.”
Archie looks away. The fluorescent light turns his tousled hair to a sheen of silk. “I kind of wanted to do it with you,” he says, and then looks up at Cook, again.
Brown eyes, that he’d drown in. Kid was making him soft.
“Fine, okay. It’ll be awesome! Let's make a practice run.”
* * * * *
Marie knows she's in love with him when she finds herself thinking about him, even when she's supposed to be talking to the boy she knows who likes her, the boy whom she knows the other guys think is her boyfriend. They don't know.
She thinks about him all the time, can't get him out of her mind, like all the songs say. He's a man of few words - prefers to communicate in frowns, in grunts which are kinda infuriating. His dark eyes give nothing away. She wonders what he's thinking.
A small part of her says: kiss him, like you wanna, and you'll know.
Of course, if she kissed him like she wanted, her powers drawing his thoughts and memories into her skin, he would never talk to her again, if he didn't kill her first. Sometimes she thinks that might be better - adamantium sliding under the leather of her uniform, putting an end to the fire in her heart.
Despite this, she kinda thinks he might think of her that way, too. She's eighteen, not eight, she knows some things.
Of course, she knows how old he is, more or less (she doesn’t think he even knows). She knows how some people might feel about it. She could care less. The way things are with them, the way they live - the world could change tomorrow, everybody could die; there were more important things in this life than the number of years you'd lived. And he’d saved her life, he’d been there for her, he gets her, in a way nobody else does.
She kinda gets him too, she thinks. She knows the beast inside; that rides him. She knows she’s the one who calms it.
Anyway. She doesn't really wanna think about it tonight, 'cause she'd managed to persuade him to take her to the most awesome, amazing concert in America!
She'd loved this season of American Idol, she doesn't care what anyone says, it’s really the best season (Hank had preferred Season 6, Kitty was a Reuben fan). She'd been an early fan of Michael Johns, but after he'd been eliminated (she still blames Emma, for putting an end to her power voting, she wasn't tying up the phone lines at the mansion no matter what she'd been accused of!), she'd rooted equally for both finalists, both the Davids.
She loves Cook – he’s the type of guy she goes for: big enough that it makes her kid herself he could protect her, smart and funny, plays guitar, sings like honey and sandpaper. She bets he’d ride a bike.
But, oh, she also loves Archie, whose voice is straight from Heaven, who is drop dead gorgeous, who seems adorably awkward and hates to be touched, and, who woulda thought, she just knows how that feels.
She’s happy when Cook wins, happier that Archie seems thrilled for him. And she’s really excited that the Idol tour comes to Long Island this year, ‘cause she really really wants to see them. Before she can stop herself, she gets online and blows entirely too much cash on two front row tickets.
She thinks Scott and Hank will disapprove of her plan, but when they realize she’d convinced Logan to chaperone (and once they manage to fight the urge to burst into uncontrollable laughter), they’re all, Okay, fine. Scott even presses the bike keys into Logan’s hand, without having to be asked, and he doesn't even snicker.
The other kids, of course, wanna come, until she uses her death glare on all of them. Anyway, there aren’t any more front row tickets left.
So, it’s just her and Logan, jostling with all kinds of people in the Long Island open air stadium: biker dudes, moms with kids, flailing teenagers, everyone excited to see America’s idols in the gentle summer heat. The music’s pounding, the strobe lights are flashing; she hasn’t been to a concert like this ever in her life – they sure didn’t make them like this in the sleepy Southern town where she’d grown up.
She’s covered from head to toe, of course; she can’t risk anyone touching her bare skin. Long-sleeved jacket, the collar turned up to protect folks from her face, the usual gloves, jeans that fit her like, yeah.
Logan’s at her side. He’s wearing the leather jacket she loves and the grim expression she’s used to - grimmer than usual today, amongst this crowd. She knows he’s put protective ear-buds in his ears, and it’s not just because the rock concert is gonna max out his enhanced hearing.
She realizes she has no idea what kinda music he likes.
“Are you havin fun?”
Logan rolls his eyes at her. Boy, does he look cranky – this is a no-smoking space. She bets he wants a beer.
“Seriously, Logan, try to enjoy yourself. Look, it’s Ramiele!”
Logan mumbles something that sounds like, “I will if you stop screamin in my ear, kiddo”, but Marie is too busy giving it up for the Idols, same as everyone else around them.
When Michael takes to the stage, she thinks she might pass out from excitement. Logan holds her up, muttering something out of the side of his mouth.
“What?”
“I said, like this song!”
"We Will Rock You? Awesome, isn't it?” she shouts back.
“ ’S what I said.”
Marie pauses, mid-squee, to look up at him. “Hey,” she says. “Never figured you for a Queen fan.”
His dark eyes give nothing away. “Gotta like them old songs,” he says, calmly.
She’s not sure what he means by that, but she totally knows what she means when she responds, “Some old songs, I love.”
“You’re too young to remember,” he says, shrugging. It's casual, but, for some reason, he keeps looking at her.
And so she says, “Not too young to know love when I hear it,” and onstage, Michael launches into Dolly Parton’s It's All Wrong But It's All Right.
* * * * *
Archie knows he's in love with Cook when he finds himself thinking about him even when he's talking to other people, or supposed to be rehearsing or signing autographs for fans, or taking photos with cute girls and other singers like Natasha Bedingfield, whom everyone thinks he has a crush on ever since she hung out with him after that one episode of Idol. They don't know.
He thinks about Cook all the time, can't get him out of his mind, like all the songs say. Cook likes to talk a lot – he talks to Archie, and about Archie, using words like so impressive and so much respect and incredibly mature, all of which makes Archie flush to the roots of his hair.
He doesn't even mind that Cook likes to touch him, to grab him around the neck and pull him close, feeling the solid bulk of his body against his slighter one, which kind of does things to him deep inside in places which should be private, oh my heck.
Cook’s hazel eyes are so transparent you can almost see what he’s thinking.
He wishes he really knew, though, what Cook thinks about him.
A small part of him says: maybe if you kiss him, like you want to, he’ll tell you.
Of course, if he kissed Cook like he wanted to, to taste the mouth that sings so amazingly, to breathe its secrets into his skin, it was possible Cook might never talk to him again. Or kill him. Or he might kill himself, it’s kind of complicated.
Despite this, for some reason, he kind of thinks Cook might think of him that way, too. Archie's almost eighteen, not eight, he knows some things.
Of course, he knows how old Cook is, knows how some people might feel about it. He could care less. The way things are with them, the way they live - their world had changed forever after they’d stood together on that wide stage; they were part of each other, of the same crazy experience. There were more important things in this life than the number of years you'd lived. And he’d been there for Archie, he gets Archie, in a way nobody else does.
Archie kind of gets him too, he thinks. He knows there’s a darkness inside Cook, that plagues him sometimes.
He knows he’s the one that can calm it, if Cook will let him.
And, finally, they’re on the Idol tour stage in Long Island, under a sky full of stars and hot performance lights.
The audience is screaming; Archie kind of still can’t believe they’re making this noise just for him, although he’s gotten used to it, has learned to ride it, even. It’s so cool the way the crowd amplifies what he’s doing onstage, and how he just loses himself in doing what he loves.
Archie starts his set off slow, behind the piano, with Angels, then takes things more up-tempo with Apologize and Stand by Me/Beautiful Girls.
Halfway through his last song, Josh Groban’s When You Say You Love Me, he realizes, from the way the screaming has suddenly intensified, that Cook has come up in his little platform-y thing and come onstage early, for some reason.
He looks quickly over his shoulder, and almost trips over the words of the song.
Cook is looking gorgeous, haloed in the half light, leather jacket, laced-up trousers, black-and-white kerchief in his pocket, silver necklaces around his neck. He’s looking at Archie, very intently; it’s this unusual look that throws Archie off. He’s not sure why Cook is looking at him like this; it’s not as if Cook hasn’t heard Archie sing this song, like, all the nights of the concert.
Archie doesn’t think it’s what he’s wearing, either: long-sleeved jacket, collar turned up, jeans, his usual T-shirt. He’s added a handkerchief, too, to match Cook’s, because tonight they’re going to sing a little, together, and hopefully the fans will think this is cuter than the Mavid dances, because Archie likes Michael, he really does, but if the fans know how he feels (and how he thinks Cook might feel), they should totally be shipping Cook and him.
Cook is walking toward Archie’s piano, holding his guitar. This isn’t part of the Please Don’t Stop the Music plan.
Archie wrinkles up his nose at his friend as he finishes up his song, then takes the earpiece out of his ear, and speaks to Cook under cover of the screaming applause.
“What's up?”
‘Nothing. Just, I like it when you sing this song.”
“I like yours better,” says Arch, softly, and, then says, into the mic, “You guys, please give it up for your American Idol, David Cook!”
Cook’s spot comes on, and his hand picks out the opening chords of Hello. "What, this old song?” he murmurs to Archie, away from the mic.
“This old song, I love,” Archie tells him, except he’s not really talking about Lionel, and Cook sings, totally looking at him, “Is it me you're looking for?”
-> To Be Concluded
motherendurance! You sensed I was craving to write creatively before I even knew it myself, and helped unleash this torrent of fic unto the world. Thank you so much for your friendship, and for showing me how strong women can really be. I am wishing you much strength and fortitude for the coming year – as well as safe journeying, through this life, for you and yours. I hope you enjoy this bizarro cross-over, because you have no-one to blame but yourself!
Title: United, We Stand, Part 1
Pairing: X-Men/Cookleta cross-over (I know!)
Words: 8,000+ words (nobody more surprised than me!)
Rating: PG-13
Dedication: For Renata – with my thanks, for everything. ILU, bb! I know which X-ship you sail on – hope you enjoy ;)
A/N: Unbetaed, so this gets to R in time for her birthday! Please let me know if there are errors. Posting to LJ first.
X-continuity is so screwed I haven’t attempted to adhere to any real timeline – this fic is loosely modeled on the 'verse of X1/ X-MEN UNITED (as indicated in the title). The Morlocks, whom I use in this fic, were one-time X-foes who lived in tunnels under New York, who named themselves after subterranean creatures found in H. G. Wells's book, The Time Machine; here, they're vaguely their John Romita JR/pre-Mutant Massacre era selves. More about the Morlocks here and here.
Disclaimer: Not-for-profit work of fiction. X-Men characters copyright Marvel Comics and their creators. Idol characters belong to themselves. No proprietary interest nor veracity asserted. Will remove without prejudice upon valid request.
United, We Stand
Logan knows he shouldn't be in love with the kid.
He's too old for her, for one. He's too good at many things, for another - and the things he's good at aren't nice at all.
And she's pure and entirely innocent, in body as well as soul. She kissed someone once, for all of five seconds. Her kiss put the boy in a coma: it was the defining moment of her life. After that, she never let anyone touch her, never touched anyone, except to hurt them. She’d never touched anyone, in love.
Never touched anyone in love, except him, though - fingers encased in satin: fleeting contact on his arm, the side of his face. More intimate than bare skin.
With his enhanced senses, he could feel the raised ridges of her fingerprints against him - the unique pattern of the self she showed no one.
That he never let himself dream she'd show him.
Logan's been alive for a long time, has known the scent and touch of many a woman. He’s a hard man, but it'd be unusual to live this long without having been in love, as well, and that he had been, despite everything: blazing, fiery loves which he'd fought with, he’d fought for.
When they left, when some of them died, it was years before he stopped blaming himself.
Of course, after he'd taken care of those responsible, in ways that left no doubt that he was in fact the best at what he did.
He wasn't going to let that happen to her.
He wasn't going to let himself love her, although there were nights he lay awake in his bed, the smell of her (in the girls' dorm, two floors up) surrounding him as intimately as breathing.
He didn't touch himself, when he thought of her. He wasn't that man.
But he wanted her, loved her, in the same way the berserker rage was always underneath his skin.
Her green eyes, though, he’d drown in: their courage, their playfulness. She’d ask things of him, that he couldn't deny.
Can I ride with you, on Scott’s bike?
I guess so.
You’re taking a class on stakeout downtown? I want to come.
Fine. Don’t get in my way.
I want to come with you, on your next raid to Genosha?
Kid, it’s not – all right. Just follow my lead.
So, um, there’s this concert on in Long Island next week. I’d like to go?
Logan’s sitting in the kitchen, in the school at Graymalkin Lane, a beer in hand. It’s late, the mansion’s quiet.
He knows where everyone is: he can hear Ororo, in her old place in the attic murmuring to her plants, can hear Kitty carrying two mugs of tea up the stairs to her. He can’t smell Hank through the thick guarded walls of the lab, but he knows he’s there, the same way he knows Pete is running a Danger Room session underground by the way the floors move imperceptibly, to everyone except him.
Can place the students; mostly asleep. Except for this one, this girl, whom he knows so well he could reproduce her out of thin air if need be, had he the ability to go with the enhanced senses.
He squints up at the kid from the latest issue of Hustler.
“Who’s playin?”
The green eyes flutter away from his, a little uncomfortably. “I don’t think you know? You never watch TV.”
Logan sighs. “Marie. Who.”
“Um, the guys on American Idol. Aw, don’t laugh at me, Logan!”
“Kiddo, seriously, not laughin.” Logan shakes his head, putting the mag down. “Look. Sure there must be some’a the others who’ll wanna go with you.”
She toes the linoleum floor. The fluorescent light turns the white stripe in her hair to silver. “Kinda want t’go with you,” she says, and looks up at him.
Green eyes, that he’d drown in. Kid was making him soft.
“Fine. All right. Jus don’t make me buy the tour T-shirt.”
* * * * *
Cook knows he shouldn't be in love with the kid.
He's too old for him, for one. He's too good at many things, for another - and some of the things he's good at aren't particularly nice.
And the kid's pure and entirely innocent, in body as well as soul. Not sure if he's been kissed ever in his life. Whenever anyone tries to touch him, even in a friendly way, he almost jumps out of his skin. He doesn’t really let anyone touch him. Doesn't look like he ever touches anyone, either.
Well, doesn’t ever touch anyone, except him – fingers, which caress the ivory of piano keys: fleeting contact on his arm, once, the side of his face. Somehow, more intimate than any lover’s more purposeful caresses, on other more intimate parts of his anatomy.
When the kid plays piano, Cook’s musician’s senses can almost feel the kid’s fingering against his skin - the chord structure, the long, shimmering runs, the unique pattern of the self he shows no one.
That he never lets himself dream the kid would ever show him.
Cook had been around the block a time or two; he'd known the love of many a woman, and that of several men. He’d been in love, as well, once: a blazing, fiery lover whom he'd fought with, whom he’d fought for, and when she left, despite everything, it was several years before he stopped blaming himself.
He wasn't going to let that happen, with the kid.
He wasn't going to let himself love him, although there were nights he lay awake, when he fancied he could hear the kid breathe, in the next room, and later, in the next bunk.
He tries not to touch himself, when he thinks of him. He doesn’t want to be that man. He's proud he succeeds, for the most part.
The huge brown eyes, though, he’d drown in: their courage, their playfulness. The kid would ask things of him, that he couldn't deny.
Can I ride with you in the car, to the Larry King press thing?
Sure thing, Arch.
Are you stuck on that song? Because, you know, I think I can help.
Really? Okay, come on in.
Um, next time you and Johns go to a club, can I come? I just want to see what it’s like.
It’s not – all right. Just don’t do as I do, okay, or your dad’ll have my ass, or something. It’s not like I need to sing any higher, y’know?
So, um, about the concert on in Long Island tomorrow night…
Cook’s sitting at the small, cramped table, a beer in hand. It’s late; the boys’ bus is quiet.
He knows where everyone is, at this hour. Mike is falling asleep in front of the TV, Chikeze’s on the phone, Castro is in his bunk euphemistically listening to music.
The kid squeezes onto the bench at the opposite side of the table, and looks at him with his bright eyes. This kid, whom he knows so well he can picture him in his mind’s eye when he’s not there, could practically sing him into existence, if had he the super-powered means to do so.
He puts down the New York Times crossword.
“Tomorrow? What about it?”
The brown eyes flutter away from his, a little uncomfortably. “I was thinking maybe we could do something different on stage. You know, to maybe keep things interesting.”
Cook grins. “Arch, you never cease to surprise me. What’s on your mind?”
Archie seems to find the edge of the table fascinating. “Well,” he says finally, “You know, the little dances you do with Michael seem to really get the fans excited. So, um, I was thinking maybe we could do something together, as well? You know, during the last part, when we sing our group song?”
Cook tries hard to keep his expression thoughtful, although Archie isn’t looking at him. “Hmmm. I guess we could try that. What, you want to do the thing with the pompoms that Mike and I do?”
Archie casts a sideways, suspicious look at him. “Are you laughing at me, Cook?”
“Seriously, not laughing.” Cook puts the newspaper down. “Tell me.”
“Okay, so, actually what I thought was, maybe you could stop doing the bowing thing, because it’s kinda embarrassing? And maybe we could sing together on my line in Please Don't Stop the Music.”
Cook puts his head on one side and surveys his friend. “It’s a cool idea, sure. But sure there must be some of the others who’d be good to sing with you – Brooke, maybe.”
Archie looks away. The fluorescent light turns his tousled hair to a sheen of silk. “I kind of wanted to do it with you,” he says, and then looks up at Cook, again.
Brown eyes, that he’d drown in. Kid was making him soft.
“Fine, okay. It’ll be awesome! Let's make a practice run.”
* * * * *
Marie knows she's in love with him when she finds herself thinking about him, even when she's supposed to be talking to the boy she knows who likes her, the boy whom she knows the other guys think is her boyfriend. They don't know.
She thinks about him all the time, can't get him out of her mind, like all the songs say. He's a man of few words - prefers to communicate in frowns, in grunts which are kinda infuriating. His dark eyes give nothing away. She wonders what he's thinking.
A small part of her says: kiss him, like you wanna, and you'll know.
Of course, if she kissed him like she wanted, her powers drawing his thoughts and memories into her skin, he would never talk to her again, if he didn't kill her first. Sometimes she thinks that might be better - adamantium sliding under the leather of her uniform, putting an end to the fire in her heart.
Despite this, she kinda thinks he might think of her that way, too. She's eighteen, not eight, she knows some things.
Of course, she knows how old he is, more or less (she doesn’t think he even knows). She knows how some people might feel about it. She could care less. The way things are with them, the way they live - the world could change tomorrow, everybody could die; there were more important things in this life than the number of years you'd lived. And he’d saved her life, he’d been there for her, he gets her, in a way nobody else does.
She kinda gets him too, she thinks. She knows the beast inside; that rides him. She knows she’s the one who calms it.
Anyway. She doesn't really wanna think about it tonight, 'cause she'd managed to persuade him to take her to the most awesome, amazing concert in America!
She'd loved this season of American Idol, she doesn't care what anyone says, it’s really the best season (Hank had preferred Season 6, Kitty was a Reuben fan). She'd been an early fan of Michael Johns, but after he'd been eliminated (she still blames Emma, for putting an end to her power voting, she wasn't tying up the phone lines at the mansion no matter what she'd been accused of!), she'd rooted equally for both finalists, both the Davids.
She loves Cook – he’s the type of guy she goes for: big enough that it makes her kid herself he could protect her, smart and funny, plays guitar, sings like honey and sandpaper. She bets he’d ride a bike.
But, oh, she also loves Archie, whose voice is straight from Heaven, who is drop dead gorgeous, who seems adorably awkward and hates to be touched, and, who woulda thought, she just knows how that feels.
She’s happy when Cook wins, happier that Archie seems thrilled for him. And she’s really excited that the Idol tour comes to Long Island this year, ‘cause she really really wants to see them. Before she can stop herself, she gets online and blows entirely too much cash on two front row tickets.
She thinks Scott and Hank will disapprove of her plan, but when they realize she’d convinced Logan to chaperone (and once they manage to fight the urge to burst into uncontrollable laughter), they’re all, Okay, fine. Scott even presses the bike keys into Logan’s hand, without having to be asked, and he doesn't even snicker.
The other kids, of course, wanna come, until she uses her death glare on all of them. Anyway, there aren’t any more front row tickets left.
So, it’s just her and Logan, jostling with all kinds of people in the Long Island open air stadium: biker dudes, moms with kids, flailing teenagers, everyone excited to see America’s idols in the gentle summer heat. The music’s pounding, the strobe lights are flashing; she hasn’t been to a concert like this ever in her life – they sure didn’t make them like this in the sleepy Southern town where she’d grown up.
She’s covered from head to toe, of course; she can’t risk anyone touching her bare skin. Long-sleeved jacket, the collar turned up to protect folks from her face, the usual gloves, jeans that fit her like, yeah.
Logan’s at her side. He’s wearing the leather jacket she loves and the grim expression she’s used to - grimmer than usual today, amongst this crowd. She knows he’s put protective ear-buds in his ears, and it’s not just because the rock concert is gonna max out his enhanced hearing.
She realizes she has no idea what kinda music he likes.
“Are you havin fun?”
Logan rolls his eyes at her. Boy, does he look cranky – this is a no-smoking space. She bets he wants a beer.
“Seriously, Logan, try to enjoy yourself. Look, it’s Ramiele!”
Logan mumbles something that sounds like, “I will if you stop screamin in my ear, kiddo”, but Marie is too busy giving it up for the Idols, same as everyone else around them.
When Michael takes to the stage, she thinks she might pass out from excitement. Logan holds her up, muttering something out of the side of his mouth.
“What?”
“I said, like this song!”
"We Will Rock You? Awesome, isn't it?” she shouts back.
“ ’S what I said.”
Marie pauses, mid-squee, to look up at him. “Hey,” she says. “Never figured you for a Queen fan.”
His dark eyes give nothing away. “Gotta like them old songs,” he says, calmly.
She’s not sure what he means by that, but she totally knows what she means when she responds, “Some old songs, I love.”
“You’re too young to remember,” he says, shrugging. It's casual, but, for some reason, he keeps looking at her.
And so she says, “Not too young to know love when I hear it,” and onstage, Michael launches into Dolly Parton’s It's All Wrong But It's All Right.
* * * * *
Archie knows he's in love with Cook when he finds himself thinking about him even when he's talking to other people, or supposed to be rehearsing or signing autographs for fans, or taking photos with cute girls and other singers like Natasha Bedingfield, whom everyone thinks he has a crush on ever since she hung out with him after that one episode of Idol. They don't know.
He thinks about Cook all the time, can't get him out of his mind, like all the songs say. Cook likes to talk a lot – he talks to Archie, and about Archie, using words like so impressive and so much respect and incredibly mature, all of which makes Archie flush to the roots of his hair.
He doesn't even mind that Cook likes to touch him, to grab him around the neck and pull him close, feeling the solid bulk of his body against his slighter one, which kind of does things to him deep inside in places which should be private, oh my heck.
Cook’s hazel eyes are so transparent you can almost see what he’s thinking.
He wishes he really knew, though, what Cook thinks about him.
A small part of him says: maybe if you kiss him, like you want to, he’ll tell you.
Of course, if he kissed Cook like he wanted to, to taste the mouth that sings so amazingly, to breathe its secrets into his skin, it was possible Cook might never talk to him again. Or kill him. Or he might kill himself, it’s kind of complicated.
Despite this, for some reason, he kind of thinks Cook might think of him that way, too. Archie's almost eighteen, not eight, he knows some things.
Of course, he knows how old Cook is, knows how some people might feel about it. He could care less. The way things are with them, the way they live - their world had changed forever after they’d stood together on that wide stage; they were part of each other, of the same crazy experience. There were more important things in this life than the number of years you'd lived. And he’d been there for Archie, he gets Archie, in a way nobody else does.
Archie kind of gets him too, he thinks. He knows there’s a darkness inside Cook, that plagues him sometimes.
He knows he’s the one that can calm it, if Cook will let him.
And, finally, they’re on the Idol tour stage in Long Island, under a sky full of stars and hot performance lights.
The audience is screaming; Archie kind of still can’t believe they’re making this noise just for him, although he’s gotten used to it, has learned to ride it, even. It’s so cool the way the crowd amplifies what he’s doing onstage, and how he just loses himself in doing what he loves.
Archie starts his set off slow, behind the piano, with Angels, then takes things more up-tempo with Apologize and Stand by Me/Beautiful Girls.
Halfway through his last song, Josh Groban’s When You Say You Love Me, he realizes, from the way the screaming has suddenly intensified, that Cook has come up in his little platform-y thing and come onstage early, for some reason.
He looks quickly over his shoulder, and almost trips over the words of the song.
Cook is looking gorgeous, haloed in the half light, leather jacket, laced-up trousers, black-and-white kerchief in his pocket, silver necklaces around his neck. He’s looking at Archie, very intently; it’s this unusual look that throws Archie off. He’s not sure why Cook is looking at him like this; it’s not as if Cook hasn’t heard Archie sing this song, like, all the nights of the concert.
Archie doesn’t think it’s what he’s wearing, either: long-sleeved jacket, collar turned up, jeans, his usual T-shirt. He’s added a handkerchief, too, to match Cook’s, because tonight they’re going to sing a little, together, and hopefully the fans will think this is cuter than the Mavid dances, because Archie likes Michael, he really does, but if the fans know how he feels (and how he thinks Cook might feel), they should totally be shipping Cook and him.
Cook is walking toward Archie’s piano, holding his guitar. This isn’t part of the Please Don’t Stop the Music plan.
Archie wrinkles up his nose at his friend as he finishes up his song, then takes the earpiece out of his ear, and speaks to Cook under cover of the screaming applause.
“What's up?”
‘Nothing. Just, I like it when you sing this song.”
“I like yours better,” says Arch, softly, and, then says, into the mic, “You guys, please give it up for your American Idol, David Cook!”
Cook’s spot comes on, and his hand picks out the opening chords of Hello. "What, this old song?” he murmurs to Archie, away from the mic.
“This old song, I love,” Archie tells him, except he’s not really talking about Lionel, and Cook sings, totally looking at him, “Is it me you're looking for?”
-> To Be Concluded
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
no subject
Date: 2009-08-22 07:09 pm (UTC)THIS IS SO APPROPRIATE FOR A SATURDAY AFTERNOON.
BBL AFTER I FINISH SOME SCHOOL STUFF, ORDER SOME LUNCH AT PANERA, AND SIT MY ASS BACK DOWN IN THIS BOOTH AND READ THIS AND ENJOY THE HELL OUT OF IT.
...I'm sorry. I promise I write in lowercase too.
no subject
Date: 2009-08-22 07:37 pm (UTC)AUGH. *COVERS FACE* HOPE YOU DON'T THINK IT'S CRAPPY, BB (AND KIND OF GET WHAT'S GOING ON, LOL)!!!
no subject
Date: 2009-08-22 08:13 pm (UTC)-flails about like mad-
I want to read this SO bad, but I have to go. >> CRUD! But yeah, I needed to inform you of your brilliance and amazingness before I went! The second I get back, this thing will be oggled by my eyes! You can be guaranteed that! <33333
-dies-
no subject
Date: 2009-08-24 07:34 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-23 05:47 am (UTC)AND <333 *GOES TO NEXT PART*
no subject
Date: 2009-08-24 07:38 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-24 04:05 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-24 07:36 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-08-24 07:12 am (UTC)I'M NOT ALONE!!!
I KNEW IT, I KNEW IT!!!
THERE'S ONE HELL OF A SIMILARITY BETWEEN LOGAN AND ROGUE AND COOK AND ARCHIE, ISN'T THERE???!!!
I'VE ALWAYS FELT IT!!!
AND I'M SOOO GLAD YOU AGREE WITH ME, TOO!!!!
I AM SOOO GONNA WATCH X-MEN 1 AFTER I'M DONE GOING BERSERK OVER THIS FIC... EEEEEEEEK!!!!
*rushes off*
no subject
Date: 2009-08-24 07:38 am (UTC)I AM SOOOO GLAD SOMEONE OTHER THAN ME SEES THIS!
**JUMPS UP AND DOWN FLAILING**
I WROTE THIS FOR RENATA, WHO IS A BIG LOGAN/MARIE SHIPPER. I AM MORE A WOLVIE/STORM GAL MYSELF, BUT I LOVE ROGUE SO MUCH, AND I KNEW I HAD TO MAKE THE PARALLEL WITH COOK/ARCHIE.
SO GLAD YOU LIKED IT!
no subject
Date: 2009-08-24 02:12 pm (UTC)YOU LIKE ROGAN TOO?!?!?!?!
-AND- YOU WROTE A XMEN/COOKLETA FIC THAT HAD ROGAN IN IT?!?!?!
*dies of happiness*
I LOVE YOU!!!
*goes to finish reading the fic*
no subject
Date: 2009-08-24 02:19 pm (UTC)*can't hold it in*
THIS WAS SO AWESOME AND OMG THERES MORE!
THE PARALLELS WERE SO AWESOME OMG I CAN'T BELEIVE THAT I NEVER THOUGHT OF IT!
(actually, i think i did once. but that was as while ago.)
AND OMG!!!!!!!!! I LOVE HOW YOU COMBINED MY OTP WITH ME OLD OTP!
YOU ARE SO AWESOME!!!
*runs off to next part*
no subject
Date: 2009-08-24 03:54 pm (UTC)And, I must say I squeed happily to myself when I realised the parallels with the Davids. I mean, the age thing, the discomfort with touching, the matching Logan and Cook leather jackets: twinz right? ;) Yeah.
no subject
Date: 2009-08-24 03:50 pm (UTC)no subject
Date: 2009-09-03 07:01 am (UTC)