Title: To Catch a Twinkie Thief

Rating: PG

Author: Connecticut Junkie

Summary: Logan and Jubilee meet up in the kitchen, and sparks fly. But only because that's her mutant power. Like, duh.

Spoilers/Setting: Movie-Verse, Post X2

I'm posting this under the general X-Men section, and not the Movie section, because Jubilee was barely in both of the movies. But for those of you unfamiliar with who she is, let's put it this way. Take MovieVerse Rogue, make her Asian, move her from the South to SoCal, sprinkle on some fireworks, and you've got the Jubilee/Logan dynamic from the comics. And if you STILL don't know who she is, she was that Asian girl in the movie who didn't have the claws. And if that doesn't help, ask Bryan Singer.

Disclaimer: Yes, I'm Stan Lee and I own them all. Except I don't really own them, and I'm not Stan Lee, I'm just a pathological liar who writes fanfic. Marvel and Fox also have a claim, but if it's okay by them I'll adopt Jubilee since they obviously don't want her.

*~*~*

Okay, so ever since Ms. Grey went all martyr, the school's been different. Kids frequenting the places she used to hang out a lot- the med lab, the little reflecting pool she liked to have lunch by. But the big thing that's changed is all the people wandering halls late at night... a lot of the younger kids are still afraid to sleep because of the soldiers, which is understandable. But they tend to hang out in little groups, safety in numbers and all that. It's mostly us older kids and the adults- it's like we can't sleep, and we miss her so much, but we still want to be alone with our pain. Which is like totally impossible in a place this big- I'm talking Spice Girls Reunion Impossible. So I'm not mondo surprised when I wander into the kitchen at two a.m. looking for Twinkies and find that Wolverine dude there, drinking a beer.

"Do you even own a shirt?" I ask when he looks up at me. Okay, so I am kinda afraid of him, but the whole thing about being Jubilation Lee is that nothing scares ya.

He lifts an eyebrow and sets the beer down. "Ain't you supposed to be in bed, kid?"

Oh, he so did not emphasize that last word. "Just so you know, buddy, I'm eighteen. Older than Marie, by the way." So there. The guys in this school can trip over little Miss Southern Fried Chicken all they want, but I don't care. 'Cause who wants a bunch of boys fawning over them? Like I'm impressed by what level they got to on Final Fantasy or by how many fricking comic books they own. Whoop-di-do and la-di-da to that. Give me a real man, like Orlando Bloom any day.

Not that tall, dark and hairy ain't bad looking himself. It's just the personality that gets in the way. Which is too bad, 'cause he's got one fine set of muscles on him, as he likes to constantly remind us by forgetting his shirts. Wow. They even flex when he just brings the beer up to his mouth...

Oh yeah. He was calling me a kid who should be in bed. Ugly bastard.

"Can't sleep. Got the munchies," I explain, and rifle through the fridge for Twinkies- which are mysteriously absent. Then I notice something that looks suspiciously like little crumbs on the counter in front of him. A familiar box is poking out of the trash, too. "Dude, if you ate the last of my Twinkies, you are in for a world o' pain."

He gets this look on his face that is a cross between disbelief, annoyance, and a smidgen of respect. I'm familiar with it because I get it a lot, from a lot of different people, only usually without the respect bit. It's kind of nice, gives it a little something extra, but it still does not make up for lost Twinkies.

"Jesus, you always this mouthy, girl?"

Girl? First 'kid', and now 'girl'? Hello, my bra isn't even padded like some people I know- Marie- and he's calling me girl?

I close the fridge door with a bit of a slam. "I gotta name, you know."

"Do you now?" he says dubiously, then smirks at me and I kind of get the feeling that he just likes screwing with people's minds and pissing them off. Which is what I do, and I'm the best I am at what I do, so I can see it coming from a mile and a half away when other people do it. 

But instead of getting annoyed and walking away, which is what he wants, I stick my hand out. I kind of have this feeling like I'm at the zoo and I'm sticking my hand in the lion's cage. Which isn't totally accurate, because they call him Wolverine, but I have no frickin' clue what a wolverine even looks like so I'm sticking with lion for my little simile. "Jubilation Lee," I introduce myself, "a.k.a. the Mouth That Won't Quit."

Remember that look he gave me before? Well it's there again, only now the annoyance is all gone and it's mostly respect and amusement. Which I guess would make it totally different from the look he gave me before, except his eyebrows and mouth and stuff are in the same facial gestures, but the look in his eyes has totally changed. God, he's hot. But then again, if Orlando showed up in my kitchen without a shirt I'd probably ditch this geezer for some British Boy Lovin'.

He gives my hand a quick, firm shake- sans claws, thankfully. "Logan."

I know he ain't much for chit-chat, and that he'd been hanging around here for more than a month and still hasn't officially joined the team or even said one word to most of the students. So I kind of get this feeling like he's being a lot more social tonight than normal. Which I'm so gonna take advantage of.

"You're down here 'cause of Jean, right?" By the way, I'm the only one of the students who actually called her Jean because she was twenty-three when I met her and went out and bought five jars of Oil of Olay the first time I called her "Miss Grey." So I never called her that again, but she ended up keeping the Oil of Olay anyhow.

I expect him to spear me to the fridge with his claws, but instead he just sits there. And I can tell I'm right- big surprise, I'm always right. It's like a talent thing I have. At least, that's how I like to think of it. Some of the other kids think it's less charming than I do, especially when I'm right in class. They think just because you come from Beverly Hills and can alphabetically list every store on Rodeo worth listing from memory you're stupid or an airhead or something. Which a) is wrong, and b) proves they've never seen Legally Blonde.

And I doubt Logan here's seen it either. And now he's staring at his beer bottle like it's gonna mutate and grow a mouth and answer for him. Poor guy. I think even though he's got those adamantawhatsit bones, he's still a softie deep inside, and most people would totally miss that. But not me, because I can tell, and like I said, I'm always right. So he doesn't want to talk about Jean, but maybe he'd like to hear about her. "S'okay. You don't have to answer. I miss her too. I've been here for over five years now, and she was always around for me."

He doesn't say anything, but his shoulders release some of their tension and I swear to frickin' god that his ears a perked up a little like a dog listening. So I go on. "It's really weird, y'know? I mean, I used to be able to go four doors down the hall and talk to her. When all the other kids were away for holidays, Jeannie and I would hang out. She was like a really cool, older sister to me- albeit one who musta been fathered by the non-asian milkman."

He actually cracks a smile at that. Score! I totally made the Wolv- Logan smile. He finally looks up from his beer bottle too, and I'm starting to wish he wore glasses all the time like Cyke because those eyes give new definition to the word 'smoldering'. I've got half a mind to write Mr. Webster a letter and enclose a picture of the aforementioned eyes.

"How come you didn't go home?" he asks, and I suddenly feel stupid, because he's just managed to turn the whole interrogation thing I had going onto me, without realizing I'd given him the opportunity.

But y'know, like Bette Midler sang in that Beaches movie Jean and Ororo used to watch like every single month- you've gotta give a little, take a little. So I guess it's my turn to give, which sucks 'cause I'm so much better at taking.

So I shrug. "Because this is my home. This is all the family I got." I don't like telling people about my parents, not because it hurts me too much, but because I don't like their pity. I can't stand that look they get on their face like they just met Little Orphan Annie and they wanna be Daddy Starbucks. Or is it Warbucks? Whatever, I hate that movie anyhow. I just let people fill in the blanks however they wanna fill them.

"You ain't a runaway," he says- no, he states- and for a second I can't think of anything to say 'cause how the hell can he know that and be so sure of himself?

Okay. I'm guessing I look like I'd been smacked in the face with a wet fish because he elaborates. "No one else wants to talk about Jeannie around me. Except you. So I'm thinking you're used to losing people you've been close to."

Who the hell woulda believed that this hairy, snarly, bike-stealing claw-wielding guy would turn out to be Dr. Phil? Which reminds me...I hate Dr. Phil. I didn't even realize how much I didn't mind Oprah until Dr. Phil showed up. So I think it's time to end this little interview segment. "Sorry. I won't talk about her."

But I haven't even taken three steps when he says, "No. I like it. Seeing her with someone else's eyes- it lets me know her a little better." He goes back to staring at the now empty beer bottle, which is a relief to me because if I had to look at those eyes of his one more second with their lost-puppy softness I probably would have done something really stupid like try to hug him. And then I really would have ended up speared to the fridge.

Okay, so after I write that letter to Mr. Webster I'm also gonna write one to Coors and let them know they should make their bottles a little more interesting to look at. Maybe put some Magic-Eye pictures on them that make their logo 3-D after you stare at it drunkenly for ten minutes, because his eyes are looking at me again and they still have that tinge of lost-puppy to them.

"It's the ones who haven't lost someone important before who can't talk about her."

You know what's funny? That prior to my 2 a.m. Twinkie-urge, I thought this guy knew maybe ten words total and just snarled a lot when he had something to say. But he's way deeper than he looks.

Or, he's drunk and that could be like his one hundredth beer or something.

Either way, I kind of feel sorry for him. I actually sit on the stool next to him and I have this funny feeling like I'm picking him up at a bar- not that I know anything about bars because I'm only eighteen and I'm not legal and I don't have a fake I.D. at all. Well, Jubilation Lee doesn't have one. Pinky Kim- yeah, that's my 'porn name', you know First Pet and Mother's Maiden Name- she kinda has one that just might have a picture on it that looks remarkably like myself. But whatever, you'll have to talk to Pinky about that one.

"I lost my parents," I confess.

Not only does he know more than ten words, he can also do math. "Thirteen and alone?"

"Yep. Totally sucked."

There's a brief interlude of silence before he asks his next question. "Howdja find this place?"

"Same as you...they found me. The good ole Prof sprung me from having to go to Juvie."

He gives me a toothy grin and damn if it isn't more than a little sexy. If Orlando magically showed up in the kitchen, I'm not sure if I'd have such an easy time deciding anymore. "A fellow bad seed," he says. "And here I thought I was the only bad apple they ever brought back to the bunch."

I snort, which isn't very attractive or ladylike, but hell, I don't think I'm all that attractive anyhow and I know for damn sure I've never been ladylike. "Tell me about it. Buncha goodie-goodies living in this place. Do you know that no one will go with me to any of the dumps this podunk town calls 'clubs'?"

"Yer kidding," he says.

"Cross my heart, hope to die, stick a needle in Cyke's eye."

He laughs, and I kind of like it. It's low and grumbly, so I guess it's more like a chuckle, but saying he 'chuckles' doesn't sound right. It doesn't fit him. But whatever, the important thing is that instead of moping like he was when I came in here, he's laughing.

"Cyke's not really that bad of a guy. A dick, but a good guy," he says, kind of wistfully. Then he stops being wistful and gives me a look that I can only call the Glare O' Death. "But if you tell anyone I said that I'll kill ya."

I roll my eyes. "You and what army?" And he laughs again, and I'm happy that I made him laugh so I laugh, and I know he's probably drunk or something and that's the only reason he's laughing, but it's still nice. It's nice to laugh again.

Then he stands up and tosses his beer bottle across the room, where it lands with a clinking noise in the recycling bin. And I have this little memory flashback of something that seemed so pointless at the time I'd forgotten about it, but now it's suddenly poignant. It was the first time I'd actually seen Logan from closer than fifty feet, when I came into the kitchen to get a soda and Jean had been telling him something about the Professor helping him. And he'd thrown his bottle- guess the guy really likes his beer- in the trash can and she'd used her telekinesis to lift the bottle outta the trash and drop it in the recycling bin and given him what I guess could also be called the Glare O' Death.

Interesting.

So as I'm contemplating the whole recycling thing, he's almost out of the kitchen. "C'mon, Jubilation Lee," he calls over his shoulder as he heads to the garage.

 I have nothing better to do, but I was watching the View one time because I liked to make fun of that blonde chick who was on there, and they were yammering on about something called the Rules and one of them apparently was like, 'Never let a guy know you didn't have plans before he asked you out.' I guess because it made you look like a loser. Whatever. That show was stupid. But for some reason, I feel compelled to not look like a loser in front of Logan.

"Where are you going?" I ask, and stand my ground, even though I'm really dying to follow him right through that door and he could be going to Chuck E. Frickin' Cheese for all I care, because he seems like a guy who knows how to make any place more exciting just by being there.

"We," he says, and I totally dig that emphasis, "are going out." He stops in the hallway and opens one of the seven thousand closets this place has and pulls out a black wife-beater tank and his leather jacket. I mourn the loss of his chest as he puts the shirt on.

"Where?"

"To get more beer," he firmly states.

The Professor totally thinks I'm gonna end up being a lawyer, but I think he's seen Legally Blonde more times than is probably healthy. But I know why he thinks that. Because I raise my eyebrow and fix Logan with my own Glare O' Death, which may be more accurately called the 'Gaze O' Slight Uncomfortableness' but hey, I should still get props for doing my best. "And Twinkies," I inform him.

He almost looks guilty for a second. I knew that bastard had eaten my Twinkies!

"And Twinkies," he confirms, and despite the fact that he put his shirt on I suddenly love this man and will have all his babies as it is patently obvious Orlando will not be magically showing up in the kitchen anytime soon. Okay, so I'm not totally head over heels in love with him and writing stuff like "Logan N Jubes 4 Eva!" on my notebook like Marie does with her own name when she thinks Bobby's not looking, but he's definitely a nice piece of eye candy to have around the school. And eye candy is like pairs of shoes or ex-husbands...you can never have too many.

I follow him to the garage and I have to agree with what I heard the Jeanster and Ro-Ro discussing while they watched Beaches during the month he was gone- damn, that is one fine ass.

"So what are we stealing?" I ask as we reach the ridiculously overstocked garage. Seriously, there are enough cars for each of us driving-age students. But do we get one? Nooooo. Big fat no.

"The bike," he says, and his grin really is feral this time. Oh yeah. I'd heard Logan had some kind of thing for stealing Cyke's stuff. And ooh- the way he stalks over to the bike like it's some kind of prey and straddles it is totally hot. My legs are more than a little shaky as I follow him. If there was enough floor space, I could have done a triple flip round-off back handspring vault onto the bike's seat. But get me close to this testosterone oozing bit of man-flesh and I suddenly have trouble even standing on one leg just to get the other one over the seat.

He tosses me a helmet. "I uh, kind of don't know how to ride," I admit, feeling squarer than square.

"Then you better hold on tight."

Again with that grin. If this guy pulls out a sword, I'm totally ruined for all other men. Except Orlando, because he still has the accent.

Logan starts the bike with a powerful leg-thrusty thingy and revs the engine until I'm practically deaf, even with the helmet over my ears. The bike growls and grumbles beneath us and it totally reminds me of the guy on top of it whose six-pack I'm desperately clinging too.

 As the garage door rolls up, I lean forward and shout in his ear, "Hey! Can you do a British accent?"

"Nope," he says, and squeals out of the garage. My stomach is somewhere in my throat getting acquainted with my tonsils and that little hanging thing, what the hell's it called? Uvula! When I'd first come here Jean had still been in med school. If Cyke and the Professor were busy I'd sometimes help her with her studying. And she'd been so amazed that I'd remembered a lot of stuff when I took her anatomy class last year. It had been my favorite class even though I couldn't care less about all the names the different muscles had or what my spleen was supposed to do. She made things better just by being round them. She really was the best teacher. The best at a lotta things. And instead of crying about her, I grin. The wind is totally cold on my teeth, and it makes them hurt like biting into ice cream, but I don't care, because inside, I feel good.

As we hit the road outside the school, Logan turns and sees me grinning like an idiot, and he grins back only sexy and ferally and not like an idiot. And then he says, "I can do an Australian one."

And he says it in an Australian accent, and I can't tell you what happens next because I like totally died.  

-end-

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