Chapter Text
Sunset Rider (Laura Kinney - III)
It clearly was hormones.
And angst.
But mostly hormones.
Laura Kinney had the most captivating eyes he had ever seen. They were wide as if in perpetual wonder—until her face contorted into a feral snarl, in which case X-23's was the prettiest face one could ever fear. Hers were eyes that seemed to bore into you. When those orbs locked into you, it was as if there were only you and her in the world—and you had her undivided attention.
Judging by its subtle shade of ruby, Scott Summers imagined that their color was just like Jean's. He noticed this, of course. The young man would be lying if he said that Laura's eyes never reminded him of his ex.
A month.
It had been a month since Scott and his team were able to cement their place in this segment of time. It had also been in that month when Jean revealed that she was now going out with Hank—though not in the most verbal way ever.
When Jean threw herself between Hank's arms in relief and his friend had planted a deep one against her lips, only one startling thought made it through his hollow mind before the daggers finally sank: he never did get to finish that conversation with Jean.
Since he arrived in this time, his life had only spiraled further into cold, icy and unforgiving depths, and he really hadn't a clue why. One moment he was just trying to be the good leader and keep both his team and Xavier's dream intact, and in the next moment everything was gone.
It was getting progressively harder to bottle in all his frustrations.
And yet, painful as the reminder of his happy days snatched was, he couldn't look away whenever he met Laura's glassy gaze.
Because, amidst the pain he felt, he could see Laura's own.
It may have been why they gravitated towards each other.
That, and hormones.
Damn hormones.
-0-0-0-
Young Scott Summers smells like failure.
Of course, failure does not have an actual smell, but Laura had long-since correlated this particular blend of odorants with failure.
There is a high probability that young Scott Summers was depressed. Therefore, it was likely that he was not thinking properly.
Then again, neither was she.
From what she had gathered, Dr. Henry McCoy brought the first five X-Men to the future in an attempt to tell the present Scott Summers that he was wrong. The premise of Dr. Henry McCoy's plan was, frankly put, insane, but Laura had already stopped looking for logic in Dr. Henry McCoy's actions when the X-Men were based in Greymalkin.
It had become apparent to her that, for all his genius intellect, Dr. Henry McCoy was driven more by emotion and personal ego than any form of rational thought. Dr. Henry McCoy was someone that ate his cake and expected to have it, too.
Given the world she had grown up in, Laura found such an inclination fictitious and harmful to those that surrounded the furry mutant. Life, no matter how seemingly beautiful, was never that kind.
If she were allowed to draw an analogy, the concept of life was an angler fish. It dangled the light of happiness before one's eyes before suddenly baring its sharp teeth and swallows one whole.
Whatever was the case, the younger counter parts of Scott Summers, Jean Grey, Robert Drake, Warren Worthington the Third, and Henry McCoy had been through a lot of dangerous situations over the course of their stay, including repelling an attack from the future Brotherhood of Mutants, and Laura, having just been retrieved from the hell that was Murderworld and discharged from the hospital, was tasked with seeing to the continued safety of these time-displaced X-Men.
Mind moving without thought after the ordeal she had just went through—after losing as many friends as she had—Laura accepted the job. It was supposed to be a simple mission, too.
Unfortunately for her, Scott Summers had other plans.
It seemed to her that he was making it a point to take Logan's motorcycle and disappear into the city. Naturally, Laura was forced to chase after Scott Summers. She had not thought much of it at first—Laura herself wanted to get away from the institute that held so many bitter memories—but the frequency of Scott Summers' trips had begun to become irritating.
Particularly when she was forced to chase after him on foot. Megan Gwyn would, on occasion, offer her a lift, but Laura did not want to rely on the well-meaning Pixie's charity. For reasons currently unexplainable, an unsettling feeling always crept across her skin whenever she met her former classmates.
Whatever the case, she had her hands full keeping track of the flighty mutant. At the very least, it gave her something to focus on beyond the torment of the sins she had committed in Murderworld.
It was fortunate that the scent of failure was easy to track.
She just had to locate the stench that was as potent as her own.
-0-0-0-
A firm grip clasped around his wrist.
"What the?" Scott Summers turned around and was met with those glimmering doll-like eyes.
"It is time to return, Scott." Laura informed him curtly before tugging his arm as she made her way to Logan's stolen bike.
"No." The time-displaced mutant firmly replied.
Laura's eyes hardened. "We will return to the school. You are not authorized to venture this far unsupervised."
"They hired you to look after us, right?" Scott reminded. "Well, you're now here to supervise me."
A small frown marred the raven's lips, but that slight sign somehow carried much more weight that it should.
"I was not hired."
She was not hired, Laura reassured herself. She was not an expendable tool.
In fact, Kitty Pryde and her students had retrieved her from that Purifiers' assault! That meant she was not expendable!
She was asked a favor from people that should have looked for her when-!
A warm grip enveloped her hand.
"Sorry." Scott said, suddenly sounding more apologetic than confrontational. He smelled truly remorseful, and Laura realized that her grip had depleted his hand of nearly all blood supply. Still, Scott persisted as if not feeling it, "I just need to be away. Just for a bit. I need to think."
He needed to think.
Alone.
Scott hoped that she would understand. He couldn't think when he was at the school.
Next to him, Laura could see the older Cyclops—the leader that she knew. In her mind's eye, she saw him sitting there behind his desk, chin resting on his hands in deep thought. She could see all the people he knew walking away from him—running away from their own responsibilities and leaving Cyclops to carry their burdens. She could hear them whispering about inevitabilities and straying from the path but, to her ears, it sounded as if they were trying to justify their inaction.
Laura did not like what she saw.
"That is not acceptable." Laura countered Scott in a soft tone that nevertheless left no room for compromise. "If you insist on remaining here, then I will accompany you."
Maybe, if Cyclops was not left alone in that corner, things would have been different.
Inevitability? Her mind could not comprehend a concept so abstract.
However, if one were to throw everything they had at a task, then no matter how insurmountable an obstacle was, it would budge. If one were to get up until they could not no longer stand, and then stand again and again, then something had to happen.
Her mother had taught her that.
"…suit yourself." Scott finally answered. This girl was a stubborn one; there was no way he could rebuff her. Still, a small part of him was grateful for the company.
No one truly wanted to be alone, after all.
-0-0-0-
Scott blinked curiously behind his ruby frames.
"What is it?" Laura, with eyes reflecting her curiosity, asked him when she sensed his stupor.
"I expected you to eat more." Scott admitted before suddenly feeling sheepish about his statement. "Never mind." He quickly tried to brush it off.
"This amount is sufficient to support my needs based on my height, energy consumption, and ideal muscle and fat composition." Laura explained.
Scott blinked once more behind his shades. He had heard that women were particular about their size and, indeed, Jean was, but he never thought they took the matter this seriously.
"Is that so…" Scott nodded his head. Glancing at the sandwich on his plate, he couldn't help but wonder, "Do you think I'm eating enough?"
Call him thrifty, but it had only been a few weeks, contextually speaking of course, since the Professor found him during that heist with… Jack. His time both at the orphanage and under Jack's roof had been very unpleasant, to put it mildly, and Scott had learned to ration all his resources, and had already learned to ignore the incessant growling of even the worst of hunger pains.
However, after becoming an X-Man, Scott had suddenly been introduce to a more normal life than the one he had lived so far. At the very least, he actually had food.
Still, old habits die hard, and Scott didn't want to remain a twig forever. Granted, he had met his future self, and the man definitely fit the description of tall and intimidating and—
–and all these thoughts made his head hurt.
Laura was not oblivious to her companion's inner turmoil. While she may not have known exactly what it was he had been contemplating, Laura had read the micro-expressions on the inexperienced Scott's features, and she was smart enough to draw logical conclusions and an action plan.
And the action she had chosen, naturally, was of redirection.
"You do not consume enough calories." Laura pointed out. "Current analysis of your ability postulates that, while you can modulate the magnitude and intensity of your optic blasts, your eyes are merely gateways to the dimension from which your blasts originate, and your body consumes tremendous quantities of energy to keep the aforementioned gates open."
Laura knew she was the last person one should talk to regarding their feelings, especially because she, herself, was currently in a quandary regarding her own.
Scott was stunned by the very detailed response he garnered from his innocent question. He wondered if this woman—Laura Kinney—was always so thorough.
"I never knew my powers worked like that." Scott confessed and gave Laura as grateful a smile as his face could contort. "Thanks. Has there really been a lot of research into my powers?"
Laura was inwardly glad that Scott no longer appeared troubled but, instead, was focused on what she knew. "Yes. There are many who have studied the mechanisms by which mutant powers manifest."
The implication of Laura's neutrally-spoken words brought a frown to Scott's face. "Let me guess: anti-mutant government agencies?"
"Partially." Laura answered. "Majority comes from mutants themselves, and many of them you know, or will know in the future. Professor Charles Xavier and his human accomplice, Dr. Moira MacTaggert," Scott nodded his head at the familiar name, "Dr. Henry McCoy, Dr. James Bradley and even Dr. Kavita Rao. Even Max Eisenhardt has studied mutant physiology to an extent."
"Max Eisenhardt?" Scott parroted questioningly.
"The name Erik Lehnsherr was born with."
"Ah."
"Magneto."
"I know who he is." Scott remarked with a sigh. It wasn't like Scott would forget who Magneto was any time soon. "Who else, Laura?"
"Nathaniel Essex." Laura blurted without thinking. It was at this point when Laura paused as her companion suddenly shivered. Narrowing her eyes at the reaction, the young mutant could not help but wonder if she had stepped on a landmine. "Do you know who he is?"
"No." Scott shook his head. "It's just—I don't know, there was something about the name."
"Just to make sure," Laura's stare remained intense and analyzing, "You have not met Nathaniel Essex before?"
"I—I don't think so."
"Your heart rate is erratic." Laura pointed out. "This is important, Scott, and I will appreciate your honesty. Have you or have you not met Nathaniel Essex?"
"I'm not lying!" Scott hissed, and Laura could see betrayal coat his features. "I've never met the man before!"
"I believe you." Laura told him as convincingly, inwardly arriving to the conclusion that pursuing the matter will only aggravate the time-displaced mutant more. Though it was difficult to tell if Scott truly was telling the truth—his reaction told her he was lying, but her instinct told her the matter was more complex than that—Laura decided that she would need to keep Scott away from Nathaniel Essex at all cost.
"Who is he." Scott demanded when he finally calmed down.
"He, like the many I have named, has studied mutation and the abilities it manifests on a genetic level."
"Who is he, Laura."
"I have already answered-"
"Laura." Two strong hands grabbed her arms. "You know what I mean. Who is Nathaniel Essex, and what is my relation to him?"
Laura briefly considered tossing Scott onto the floor and storming out until he cooled down. It would be easy—but it would only hurt him, literally and figuratively. Laura had known ever since she took her first step in the Jean Grey School after she was retrieved by Kitty Pryde's squad of time-displaced X-Men, that Scott was alone in that institute.
There was no one the young Scott could turn to for help. No one would support him or even give him information. Scott had to keep his ears to the ground and decipher all the rumors and slander against him in an attempt to make sense of what was happening to him.
Laura had gone through that, as well. It was a maddening experience, which was why Laura truly could not blame Scott for running away. The school staff were doing nobody any favors by taking out all their grudges on the present-day Cyclops on his younger counterpart.
"Laura, please," Scott pleaded, releasing his grip on her. "I need to know who this man is and why I feel ill just hearing his name."
"…Know that my answer might have more adverse effects on you than you anticipate." Laura warned. "Do you still wish to know despite this?"
"Yes, Laura."
"Nathaniel Essex… or Mr. Sinister, as the X-Men have come to know him, is a narcissistic but nonetheless intellectually brilliant telepath. Among all those that I have mentioned, Mr. Sinister is the one that has studied mutations the most extensively."
"So he knows the most about our powerset." Scott realized. "That is indeed troublesome."
Laura could not stop the smile from forming on her lips. Trust Scott Summers, no matter what age, to immediately identify tactical applications to the information he was given, rather than contemplate at a more personal level.
"Mr. Sinister is the one that ran your orphanage, Scott."
"Wh-what?" Scott spluttered.
"He is obsessed with you. Although he has studied many mutants, his main focus was always on you. From the reports I have read, it seems he conducted numerous experiments on you."
Scott wanted to call her a liar. Surely, he'd know if he was being tampered with, right? It was such a knee-jerk reaction, but Scott realized that Laura had no reason to lie.
This, the words coming out of her mouth, was the truth.
It was the truth that he wanted to know, bitter as it may be.
"Scott, are you alright?" Laura asked him with worry shimmering in her eyes.
"I'm… processing." Scott managed to grit out. Though he had never met the man, and though he could not remember what was done to him, his body knew. It felt like bile was going to spill from his mouth at any moment, and it took all his willpower to fight it back down into his gut. "For how long, Laura? And what did he do to me? Why me?"
"I am lead to assume your entire life in the orphanage." Laura answered him, sequentially. "I do not know the specifics, but it might be wise to conclude that every event that has caused you pain was orchestrated by Mr. Sinister. As for his obsession with you, I have no answer for that."
"Great." Scott would had laughed hollowly if he had been the laughing sort. Instead, his jaw squared as he wrestled for control over his emotions.
Laura was right.
This was a bomb.
"Scott, it is imperative that you do not come into contact with Mr. Sinister at all costs." Laura warned.
"I'm sure."
"Do not take the threat he poses lightly, Scott."
"I'm not."
"Then stop strategizing in your head regarding the actions you will take should a confrontation occur."
"… are you sure you are not a telepath? Never mind." Scott shook his head before smiling reassuringly when his companion scowled. "Listen, Laura, if this man is as obsessed with me as you've made him out to be, then my confrontation with him is inevitable—doubly so now that we've spoken about him. It's—it's like the principle of Chekhov's gun."
"That principle only applies to dramatic literature."
"Yeah, well, my life feels straight out of dramatic literature." Scott bitterly remarked.
When Laura remained unhappy, Scott sighed and formulated a compromise, "Look, it's not like I'm actively looking for a way to find him, alright? I mean, what he did to me—it angers me, but I'm not giving in. I've got more pressing problems at the moment."
"Very well."
"I'm—thanks, Laura."
Laura nodded her head. Glancing at the setting sun, Laura stood up. "It is late now, Scott. We must return to the school."
Scott wanted to tell her to go on ahead. Really, he didn't want to go back to the school and its frigid atmosphere despite looking so much like the home he had been tricked into leaving—the home he had finally found for himself.
That place wasn't home—not when he finally had a taste of what a home truly was. Home wasn't a place where the head of the house wanted to kill him while everyone else simply watched.
Still…
Scott glanced up at Laura who, for once, was not manhandling him. Instead, she remained standing before him and waited there patiently.
Steeling himself, Scott decided. "Alright. Let's go back."
Maybe this was it? Maybe… maybe he had finally found a friend…
Maybe the school wasn't so bad, if Laura chose to return there.
"Good." Laura smiled. "Now, give me the keys."
"Huh?" Scott's brow rose over his shades. What did she mean?
"Give me the keys to the motorcycle." Laura clarified. "I will take us home."
"Laura, if you're worried about me running away again, trust me; I won't."
"I know. However, I am clearly the better rider between the two of us, therefore I will get us back to the school faster."
"Is—is this some kind of thing in this time?" Scott asked. He knew gender equality was still an issue, but he never thought it would bother Laura.
"No. It is simply the truth."
And then, Laura smiled.
Scott was stunned for the nth time that afternoon.
It must have been hormones, really, because there was just no way that his heart could flutter this much from a simple smile from a girl he had barely known. It wasn't even a bright or wide smile, either; just a simple curling of her lips, and happiness in her gaze.
He wasn't sure if Laura herself noticed it.
Gone was the haunted loneliness in her eyes and, Scott resolved, if giving her the keys to the bike and, in doing so, not acting chivalrous at all was all it took to keep Laura that way, then he'd give her the keys forever.
"Fine." Awkwardly, Scott handed her the keys as they made their way to where he had stashed Wolverine's motorcycle. "I owe you, anyway." He added, lamely.
"Good."
Laura mounted the vehicle first, and then motioned to Scott to sit behind her. Resisting temptation, Scott made sure his hands settled on his seat.
"I advise you to wrap your arms around my waist."
"W-What?" Scott squeaked as his face erupted with color. He was glad Laura could not see him because that truly would be embarrassing. The shame might even turn him into a supervillain. "Is this proper?"
"Yes. If you do not hold onto me, you will fall." Laura stated with absolute certainty.
Scott decided to heed Laura's warning and, although his heart continued to thunder in his chest, wrapped his arms securely around her.
Scott had a feeling that Laura was as socially awkward as he was, so she really couldn't know what it was she was saying, and the effect it had on him when a pretty young woman like her said it.
Really, what a crazy day this had been for Scott. It started with him wishing for some peace and quiet so he could contemplate the situation that he found himself in, and ended with him finding a friend in an unusual girl.
That was just life, he supposed.
"Are you ready?"
"Yes."
"You may tighten your grip."
"Huh?"
"You might fall."
"I think I'm fine like this." His grip was plenty tight enough. Any tighter, and he'd be molding his front against her back.
"…if you say so."
She gunned the engine and took off full throttle.
Scott didn't know why, but it felt like Laura was intentionally over-speeding and cutting corners on their return trip to the school.
But that was just the hormones talking, right?
A/N2025:
And now, a series of omakes/vignettes!
Tyke-23 have crust issues...
The diner smelled like frying oil and instant coffee.
Scott was staring at the half-moon wedge of pie between them.
Cherry-filled.
One plate.
Two forks.
“We’re splitting this fifty-fifty,” Scott decided, lining his fork up like a surveyor plotting land rights.
Laura’s eyes dropped to the slice, then back to him. She didn’t touch her fork.
“That division is statistically improbable,” she replied flatly. “The crust density differs along the arc.”
Scott blinked behind his ruby lenses. “It’s a slice of pie, not a battlefield.”
“You are incorrect.” Her tone didn’t shift, though she reached for her fork now, “Nourishment must be allocated evenly. You are attempting to claim more surface area.”
He sputtered a laugh, shaking his head. “I’m not claiming anything. I’m splitting it right down the middle.”
Laura angled the fork toward the exact center. “The apex is not the center.”
“It’s a triangle.”
“It is a wedge,” she corrected, stabbing lightly at the crust line, “and the filling distribution is not symmetrical.”
Scott leaned back in the booth, arms folding. “You’re serious.”
“Yes.”
“You’re using math on pie.”
“Yes.”
The waitress passing by slowed just long enough to smirk at the pair of mutants— one blank-faced girl dissecting dessert with geometry, one boy with red shades looking like he’d lost a war.
Scott rubbed at his temple.
“Fine,” he muttered, “how would you do it?”
Laura didn’t hesitate.
She shifted the plate, measured it with her eyes, then drew the fork down at a precise, diagonal angle. One slice immediately collapsed forward, bleeding red filling.
Scott groaned. “That’s not even remotely half.”
“It is fifty-six to forty-four,” she said, and calmly slid the larger portion onto her napkin.
He gawked at her. “You just wanted a larger slice!”
“I did not.” She bit into the crust, utterly unconcerned by the red streak that threatened to stain her wrist. “I allowed for a margin of error of plus-minus four percent.”
Scott dragged his hands down his face. “Unbelievable. You’re weaponizing statistics to get more pie.”
“Statistics are neutral, not weapons.”
“Not when you’re using them to steal dessert.”
Laura didn’t answer. She chewed in silence, fork tapping faintly against porcelain, and looking very proud of herself.
Scott stared at the mangled slice left on the plate. The filling leaked like his wounded pride.
With a defeated sigh, he dug in.
It wasn’t bad — diner cherries, too sweet and artificial, but it had a homely taste to it.
He glanced up once, caught Laura’s stare on him, green eyes unreadable, before she looked back down.
They ate in silence for a while. Forks clinked, neon signage buzzed, and someone in the back booth laughed too loud at nothing.
When their plates were nearly empty, Scott leaned forward again.
“…Want to settle this properly?”
Laura raised one brow.
“One more slice. We split that one fair.”
Her fork lowered. She considered. Then, “Again, it is statistically improbable, but I can now lower my margin of error.”
"Great."
He flagged down the waitress.
Minutes later, another wedge arrived, steaming slightly with its crust flaking.
Scott set his fork dead center. “No math this time. Just straight down.”
Laura watched him. Then, with practiced precision, she cut it neatly in half.
The two wedges slumped apart, uneven but now more respectable.
They each pulled a plate toward themselves.
Halfway through, a waitress passing by leaned in just enough to say, “Ah, to be young and in-love.”
Scott choked on his bite.
Laura froze, fork hovering.
The waitress winked and moved on.
Scott coughed, sputtered, grabbed for his water glass. Laura just blinked, once, and went back to eating.
After a beat, she slid her fork into his plate and stole the last bite.
Scott sat there, stunned, lips parted around protest.
Laura wiped her mouth with the napkin, perfectly calm.
“It was a two percent margin of error,” she said simply.
-0-0-0-
...and technically, Tyke ain't Cyke...
The motel parking lot smelled like cigarette smoke. A single flickering bulb buzzed overhead as Scott dangled the motorcycle keys with more confidence than he actually felt.
“I’ve had it with all your tyranny. This time, I’m driving.” he declared, like it was already decided.
Laura stopped mid-step. Her gaze dropped to the keys, then rose to his visor. “No.”
Scott bristled. “What do you mean, ‘no’?”
“I mean you are not driving.”
“Why not?”
"Because," She crossed her arms, crouched lightly like she was ready to intercept him if he got any closer to their bike. “You do not have a license.”
Scott blinked. “Neither do you!”
“I do.” And, as if to prove a point, she presented the card to him.
Scott gaped at her.
“W-well! I have a license, too!” he countered. "If you search the online database-"
“Correction. Your adult self has a license.” She cut him off, then nodded. “And therefore, I will drive.”
“You can’t just—”
“I ride better,” Laura interrupted again, completely calm.
Scott sputtered. “That’s not—! Look, I’ve flown the Blackbird. You know, an actual jet. I can drive a motorcycle.”
Laura’s expression didn’t change. “A jet is not a motorcycle.”
He jabbed a finger at the bike. “I’ve driven cars too!”
“You crashed Logan’s car.”
“That was one time.” Scott’s cheeks flushed. “And that was for a rescue.”
“One time is enough.”
Scott groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Why do you always have to win every argument?”
“I do not win,” Laura said simply. “You simply lose.”
His mouth dropped open. “That’s the same thing!”
The door to a nearby room opened, a trucker in a stained tank top peering out at the commotion. He took one look at Scott’s visor, Laura’s glare, and shut the door again.
Scott exhaled hard, then softened his tone. “Look… I just want to feel normal for five minutes. Riding a bike is—normal. Please?”
Laura studied him, face unreadable. She let the silence stretch until he started shifting on his feet. Then she stepped forward, took the keys from his hand, and pocketed them.
Scott stared, scandalized. “Did you just—”
“Yes.”
He gaped. “That’s theft!”
“Correction.” Laura swung her leg over the bike seat, casual as ever. “This is prevention.”
Scott opened and closed his mouth like a fish. Finally, with a defeated sigh, he swung onto the seat behind her. His hands hovered awkwardly in the air, not sure where to rest.
“Hold on,” Laura said.
“I’m fine,” he muttered, sourly.
“You will fall.”
“I won’t—”
The engine roared to life beneath them, and the bike jolted forward. Scott yelped, arms snapping around her waist on instinct.
Laura didn’t comment.
They sped out of the lot, neon bleeding into darkness. Scott’s helmet hid his burning ears, but not the way his chest pressed firmly against her back.
After a long stretch of silence, Laura spoke over the engine. “You hold on properly now.”
Scott groaned into her shoulder. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”
“Maybe.”
He let his forehead rest against the back of her shoulder, resigning himself.
The night air stung his cheeks, the bike purred under her control, and for the first time he admitted to himself: maybe she really was the better rider.
Still, when they finally slowed at a stop sign, he muttered, “For the record… I could still fly the Blackbird better than you.”
Laura didn’t look back. “The Blackbird does not require a license.”
Scott barked a laugh despite himself. “Unbelievable.”
“Acceptable,” she corrected, and gunned the throttle.
-0-0-0-
...so, Tyke should never, ever compete with Laura Kinney...
They found themselves in another roadside booth, this one sticky with syrup stains.
Laura sat across from Scott, straw stood straight, the chocolate milkshake before her already half-empty.
She didn’t sip. She inhaled. One steady pull, and the shake drained almost halfway down in seconds.
Scott stared. “Did you just—”
She set the cup down with perfect composure. If this were a cartoon, she might’ve even given a small burp.
Instead, Laura looked pleased.
“Yes.”
“That was… that was, like—” He tried to measure it in words, gave up, and waved his hands. “Unhuman.”
Laura blinked. “I am human.”
“You know what I mean.” Scott leaned back, shaking his head. “That wasn’t drinking. That was straight into the gullet.”
“I am very efficient.”
“Yeah, sure. Efficient.” He jabbed his straw into his own glass—a strawberry shake—and pulled at it with determination, feeling more than a little competitive.
If Laura could down hers like that, so could he.
He drained everything.
The cold hit him instantly. His eyes widened behind his visor, his spine stiffened, and then he clutched his forehead with a strangled groan.
“Ooooooh…” He groaned pitifully.
Laura tilted her head, utterly calm. “You have a brain freeze.”
“Y-you think?” His words came muffled through his grimace. “Feels like—ice pick—behind my eyes—”
She rose halfway out of the booth, leaning over the table. Without further ceremony, she pressed two fingers against his temple.
Scott froze, startled by the warm weight of her touch.
“I am applying counterpressure,” Laura pointed out as if it were an actual explanation.
“…Is this real science or are you messing with me again?”
“Yes.” Her expression didn’t flicker.
He snorted despite himself, which only made the pain throb harder.
Still, after a few seconds, the headache dulled. He blinked, cautiously lowering his hand.
“Huh. That… actually worked.”
“Of course.” She straightened, resuming her seat.
Scott watched her calmly return to her milkshake, sipping it in slower pulls now.
His heart was still beating faster than it should have. He tried to cover it by stabbing at the basket of fries between them.
“Y’know,” he muttered, feigning casualness, “I think I just found your weakness.”
Laura’s eyes flicked up. “Improbable. I have none.”
“The first half, you went too fast with the milkshake. You had to slow down on the second half.” He smirked, leaning forward like he’d uncovered a tactical flaw. “I outlasted you.”
She studied him, face perfectly neutral. “You are claiming victory because I chose not to induce pain while sipping my beverage?”
“Yep.” Scott grabbed another fry. “That’s exactly what I’m claiming. I finished mine before you.”
For a long moment, they held each other’s gaze across the sticky booth.
Scott half-expected her to skewer him with some blunt remark that would cut his argument to pieces. Instead, she lowered her straw, the tiniest crease forming at the corner of her mouth.
It wasn’t a smile.
But it was close enough.
Scott blinked, thrown off-balance by the faint warmth in her eyes. He stuffed the fry in his mouth before he could say something dumb.
Laura returned to her shake, deliberately slow now. She didn’t comment further, but she let him sit there with his “victory.”
The jukebox in the corner clicked on by itself, a twangy ballad bleeding into the air. Scott groaned under his breath.
Laura didn’t look up. “I like this one.”
Scott’s groan turned into reluctant laughter.
For once, he felt like he hadn’t completely lost.
-0-0-0-
...and if he does, Tyke better look, out!
They pulled off the highway when the sign promised a “breathtaking view of the canyon.”
Scott killed the engine and slid off the bike, stretching stiff legs. It took a trip to a black market dealer of Laura’s choosing, but he finally got his license.
The air smelled of dry earth and pine, cooler here than down on the road.
A wooden railing marked the edge, likely worn smooth by countless hands over the years. Beyond it, the land fell away into a wide sweep of stone and shadow.
Laura walked to the railing without hesitation, boots scuffing gravel. She stood still, eyes fixed on the horizon as if cataloging the layers of red and gold rock.
Scott joined her, hands in his jacket pockets.
“Woah,” he said, a little lamely.
“It’s a simple topographical erosion,” she murmured, scanning the cliffs. “Look. The sedimentary layers are visible.”
Scott tilted his head at her. “I was going for more of a… ‘it's a pretty sunset’ angle.”
Laura didn’t answer right away. The glow of the setting sun caught in her dark hair, lit the sharp line of her profile. Finally, she said, “It is… acceptable.”
He huffed a laugh. “That’s glowing praise coming from you.”
Laura’s gaze shifted, just for a moment, toward the reflection of the sun on his visor. Then she looked away again.
“Do you not see only red?” She tried, feigning distraction.
“Oh, wow,” Scott deadpanned, though his lips curled into a smirk, “Way to reduce me to a bull.”
“Mhm.” Laura hummed, giving him an amused side-eye. “If you were large as a bull…”
She let the thought hang.
A breeze flew past them, sweeping in the low chuckle that rumbled through their chest. A hawk cried somewhere above, circling the canyon. The shadows deepened, the horizon burning orange.
Scott leaned against the railing, letting the quiet stretch.
He hadn’t realized until this moment how much he’d needed it.
No missions, no angry ‘friends’ and ‘teammates’, no heavy expectations—just the wind and the open space and Laura Kinney standing next to him, steady as ever.
“You ever think about it?” he asked suddenly.
Laura turned her head. “About what.”
“Running away. Just… keeping on down the road.” He glanced at their bike wistfully. “You know… not going back.”
Her expression didn’t change, but she didn’t answer right away either. When she did, her voice was low. “Sometimes.”
Scott nodded. His fingers drummed against the railing, restless. “I mean, I probably shouldn’t even say it. The whole ‘responsibility’ thing. But sometimes I think it would be nice to just… disappear.”
“Disappearing is easy.”. Laura’s gaze returned to the canyon. “Remaining gone is not.”
Scott chewed on that, jaw tight. “…Yeah. Guess I’d be lousy at it.”
“You would.”
“Thanks,” he said dryly.
“You are welcome.”
The tiniest curl tugged at her lips then, almost hidden. Scott caught it and grinned despite himself.
The sky shifted, a final streak of crimson before the sun sank.
Laura leaned her elbows against the railing, unguarded in the moment. Scott glanced at her and felt the thought hit him before he could push it away:
She looked… peaceful.
And for once, he felt the same.
The silence was comfortable until Laura’s voice broke it, “You are leaning too far over.”
Scott blinked, looking down at the railing. “I’m fine.”
“You will fall.”
“I’m not going to fall.”
Laura straightened and hooked two fingers into the back of his jacket, pulling him an inch back from the railing.
Scott laughed under his breath. “Paranoid much?”
“It’s a preventive measure,” she corrected.
He fingers never left his jacket.
He shook his head, smiling. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I am acceptable,” she said, deadpan.
The last rim of sun slid away, leaving the canyon in shadow. Scott exhaled and pushed himself upright. “Guess we should get moving before it gets too dark.”
Laura nodded once, but her heart lingered on the horizon for just a beat longer before she turned back toward the bike.
Scott followed, the air still cool on his face, his chest a little lighter than it had been all day.
-0-0-0-
Gah, I'm out of puns so have a storm run instead...
For something that came out of nowhere, the storm hit like a wall.
One moment the road stretched clean and endless, the next it was a deluge of water and lightning. Scott leaned the bike off the highway and under the nearest overpass, gravel crunching beneath wet tires.
They stopped in the shadow of concrete, rain slamming the asphalt beyond. Water streamed off the edges like a river.
Scott dismounted and pulled off his helmet, raking a wet hand through his hair. “I suppose we’re waiting it out.”
Laura followed, wordless, shaking droplets from her jacket. She crouched low, boots sinking slightly into mud, while her eyes remained on the storm.
“You look like you’re casing the weather for weak points,” Scott said, leaning against a pillar.
Her gaze didn’t shift. “Everything has weak points.”
“Not this.” He tipped his head toward the pounding rain. “You don’t beat a storm. You just ride it out.”
For a while, they let the storm fill the silence. The air was sharp with ozone, the smell of wet concrete heavy around them.
Scott eased down until he was sitting against the pillar, legs stretched out, arms resting casually across his knees. Laura joined him, close but not quite touching, eyes forward.
“Kind of peaceful, though,” Scott said after a moment. His voice carried calm certainty, not small talk.
Laura turned slightly. “Peaceful is not the word I would use.”
“What would you call it?”
She thought, rain flickering in her eyes like glass. “Loud.”
Scott chuckled low in his chest. “That too.”
He supposed heightened senses were a terrible thing to have in a storm.
A crack of thunder broke overhead, sharp enough to rattle the ground. Laura’s fingers twitched where they rested on her thigh, almost imperceptible.
Scott noticed. He didn’t point it out. Instead, he let one hand drop to the ground between them, palm open towards her.
An invitation.
Laura’s eyes flicked down, then back to the storm.
She didn’t take it.
But she didn’t move away either.
“You ever think storms put things in perspective?” Scott asked, tone steady.
Her brow furrowed. “Explain.”
He gestured at the sheets of water falling past the overpass.
“All this power, all this noise, and we’re just two people sitting in the middle of it. Makes the other stuff—arguments, missions, drama—feel… small.”
Laura studied him, lips pressed thin. “Small is not the same as unimportant.”
Not unimportant meant…
…he was needed.
That no matter how far Scott ran or how much he tried to disappear – he would always be recalled.
“No, you’re right.” Scott agreed. His jaw tightened. “But it helps to remember we don’t have to carry everything at once. Sometimes you just… let it go. At least until the rain stops.”
Laura was quiet, her posture relaxing by degrees.
Another flash lit the sky, followed by thunder. She glanced toward the horizon, then back at him. “You are not afraid?”
Scott held her gaze through the visor’s crimson sheen. “I’ve been through worse.”
The answer wasn’t boastful.
It was simply matter-of-fact.
Laura’s eyes lingered. Then, for once, she gave a short nod.
The thunder cracked again, louder this time, echoing under the overpass.
Scott remained unmoving but, to his surprise, Laura winced.
“You alright?” he asked.
Laura glanced at the dark skies. Her lips pressed together for a beat before, finally, she admitted, “I dislike lightning.”
Scott blinked, caught off guard. “Lightning?”
“It is…unpredictable. Faster than reaction time.” Her voice stayed matter-of-fact, but her eyes had narrowed slightly, fixed on the sky. Scott stared at her, and she begrudgingly relented, “…and it is attracted to the metal in my skin.”
“Ah,” Scott glanced at her hands softly. “That is inconvenient.”
Laura’s gaze slid back to him.
He expected her to add something sharp, but instead she studied him for a moment, the way she always did—like she was measuring, weighing.
Then she said, just as quietly, “But you hold steady.”
Scott felt his throat tighten. He looked away, out at the rain. “…Not always.”
Her eyes lingered on him another moment before she faced forward again.
The storm went on.
When the rain finally began to lighten – and the lightning seemed to stop, Scott pushed himself up, stretching stiff legs.
“Guess we should head out before it floods.”
Laura rose smoothly beside him, water dripping from her jacket. She adjusted her gloves, her expression as neutral as ever.
But as they walked back to the bike, her hand brushed against his—deliberate, this time.
And then, just as wordlessly, she took his open palm.
Scott glanced sideways, heart skipping. She didn’t look at him, didn’t say anything. Just swung a leg over the bike and waited.
For once, he didn’t feel the need to fill the silence.
-0-0-0-
...and finally, the midnight snackrifice.
Scott strode inside the gas station convenience store, helmet tucked under one arm, the other hand already reaching for a plastic basket.
He started sweeping food in immediately—chips, a couple candy bars, a bag of pretzels. His movements were clipped but hungry, like he hadn’t eaten in days and wasn’t planning to let the chance slip. When he got to the coolers, he pulled out two sodas, squeezed them gently to make sure no gas had escaped, then tossed them in too.
Behind him, Laura followed at a quieter pace, wordlessly cataloguing everything in sight.
She waited until he’d nearly finished filling the basket with junk, then reached in herself, dropping protein bars, a pack of jerky, bottled water, and a small pack of almonds over the pile.
Scott glanced down at the added weight. “What’re you doing?”
“You have too much sugar.” Laura pointed out simply. “You need protein.”
He huffed a laugh, shaking his head, but he didn’t take anything out. He let her keep the additions.
At the counter, the cashier barely looked up. His eyes flicked lazily from the pile of snacks to Scott’s visor, then to Laura’s expressionless stare.
He rang up the items without enthusiasm.
“You two…” The cashier finally spoke, voice flat, more curious than concerned. “Running away from home?”
Scott slid a few crumpled bills across the counter. “Something like that.”
Laura’s eyes didn’t move.
The cashier shrugged, handed the change back, and went back to scrolling his phone.
Without further ado, they left.
Outside, the night pressed in heavy and quiet.
The fluorescents above buzzed, bleaching the cracked pavement in pale white. Somewhere in the distance, a truck rumbled down the highway, its headlights carving a brief tunnel of light through the dark before it was swallowed again.
Scott set the bags down on the curb in front of the vending machines and sat. He cracked open one of the sodas, the hiss loud in the silence, and took a long pull. The cold fizz stung, but it felt good in his throat.
Laura settled beside him without a word. She pulled out the jerky and tore into it with neatly.
For a while, neither of them spoke. They just ate, the sound of crickets filling the space between bites.
Scott leaned back against the vending machine, legs stretched long across the pavement.
The hard surface was cold through his jacket, but he didn’t mind. Laura sat beside him, close enough that their shoulders brushed, her shadow leaning into his.
She chewed silently, gaze forward, but she hadn’t pulled away. She hadn’t once shifted to put space between them.
Scott let himself breathe.
No arguments.
No missions.
No judgmental glares waiting for him to fail.
No voices telling him who he was supposed to be.
Just the neon glow from the signage, the hum of its lights, and Laura Kinney's steady presence beside him, closer than she’d ever been.
For the first time in a while, he didn’t overthink.
He just ate.
He listened to the drone of cars on the highway, the occasional buzz of insects flinging themselves at the light, the low mechanical hum behind his back.
And then, softer, he caught the sound of Laura’s breathing slowing beside him.
Even, steady.
The weight on his shoulder became a little heavier.
A faint snore slipped out.
Scott froze, surprised.
He glanced sideways, careful not to wake her. Her head had tipped ever so slightly toward him, eyes closed against the hum of the world around them.
Her head fit neatly against his shoulder, her hair damp from the mist still hanging in the air. Scott adjusted—straightened enough so she wouldn’t slip, settled enough so she could lean in. His hand hovered for a moment before resting lightly against her arm, tucking her close.
An approving rumble left her throat, and she might have even smiled.
His visor reflected only the glow of the fluorescents, but in that glow he found himself thinking, quietly, with a calm certainty he hadn’t felt in months.
“Entirely acceptable,” he murmured.
And maybe, he thought, as her hair stuck damp against his jacket—maybe they weren’t running anymore.
Maybe this is home, after all.
Unbelievable.