Jake & Cammie | and the Massively Backdated Log

[x-courier.livejournal.com]

Jake runs into Cammie at the mansion. Cammie's fist runs into Jake's nose. They both make a beer run to the City. (Perhaps out of spite,) Jake suggests Cammie talk to Remy about joining X-Force. Way backdated to sometime the week after Jake returns to NYC and Cammie gets back from India.


Jake wandered his way out of the kitchen, the peanut butter sandwich mildly fulfilling, the conversation not so much. The trek back into the city still seemed a bit daunting, so he put it off for a bit, wandering around the mansion instead. The familiar hallways were somewhat comforting after so many months in unknown countries. He eventually made his way down to the gym, the weight room not being one of his usual haunts but nostalgic enough for the moment. The sound of someone inside, though, drew him into the room to investigate further.

After recognizing the familiar form, he made his way across the room to the machine--"Fancy meeting you here."

Cammie looked up. The work was hard and she was focused on that, until the familiar voice snapped her out of it. A blank stare was his reward for about half a second until she was on her feet. While most people would’ve expected girls her ages to still give hugs, Cammie had a different gift in mind. He ate right hook – right because she was feeling slightly generous.

“You asshole!”

Jake staggered back, hand cupping his nose. "What the fuck..." he yelped, staggering backwards and instinctively setting cells to work repairing what he knew to be displaced cartilage. "Do you have to break my nose every time you see me?" he asked, pulling his hand back and looking at the blood covering it. "This was a good shirt," he sighed, wiping his hand along its hem. "I mean, what the hell was that for?"

“What the hell was that for?” Cammie returned grabbing her towel off the back of the machine, “What the hell was that for, he asks. Should we start at the part where you just fucking vanished?”

"And that means you can break my nose?" Jake asked, making his way over to a stack of clean towels and absconding one. "Where'd you learn your sense of...appropriation? That's like...a scolding. Maybe a bruised arm," he said from behind the towel and pinched nose. Not like...You gave me a fuckin bloody nose. I can barely talk."

“You’ll heal,” Cammie said, “And I didn’t even try to make you puke. When the fuck did you get back, anyway?”

"That's completely not the point," Jake said, pulling the towel away and dabbing at his nose a few more times. Finally satisfied, he tossed it in a bin of used towels, and turned to look at Cammie. Warily. "Couple days ago. You were away," he added in his defense, leaning back on his heals, ready to dodge any other attacks.

“Yeah, in India. You know, attempting to not be a total drain on society. I failed by the way. Thanks for asking,” she said. Winning the fight was great, and she supposed she should have some jolly feel goods for attempting to do the right thing. But in reality it was the fight that got to her. She was working on that part at least.

"Yeah, well, my nose was just about healed from last time, thanks for asking," Jake muttered, settling down onto one of the benches. He sat a moment, taking in the settling and her exercise, finally settling on a way to phrase the question. "So when'd you go all gimp on me?"

“When a bunch of crazies decided to break my leg into three pieces. You missed the cast,” Cammie said.

"With you laid up for weeks while it healed, I don't think I missed much at all," Jake shrugged. He idly slipped a leg behind the bar, pushing against it a moment. Then he dropped the other left, and strained a bit more to get the machine to move properly. Something he wasn't familiar with, to say the least. "You give 'em something to remember you by, at least?"

“Yeah, a dead friend,” Cammie said, “Among other things. Chicago fucking sucks.”

"Never liked it much myself," Jake said, one simple nod of his approval. "Cold as fuck in the winter, hot as hell in the winter. Why anyone'd build a city there is beyond me." He finally gave up on the machine, shifting himself around just to lounge on it. "Sorry, by the way," he said, the nonchalant tone a bit at odds with the rarity of the the words. "Guess I just was...occupied."

“That’s some fucking occupation that you can’t even shoot an email,” Cammie pointed out.
"You're telling me," Jake said, not appearing like he would offer further elaboration. Then he finally added, "'Net cafes really aren't all that difficult to track if you know what you're looking for. And let's just say certain acquaintances seem a little more eager to strike up old friendships than I am."

“So much so you couldn’t spend five seconds writing saying ‘oh, by the way, I haven’t been eaten by wild animals yet’?”

"The closest I got to wild animals was a pigeon pooping on me in London," Jake said. "But I can see I'm not going to win this argument, so...what's it going to take to make it up. A beer? Three? Letting you break my nose one more time?"

“Anti-freeze, like the high grade stuff that they use race cars. A couple of crates of it,” Cammie said, one arm akimbo.

Jake chuckled. "See, this is why we get along so well--that unshakable belief that food will always cover a multitude of sins. So the Blackbird's supply isn't to your liking?" he asked, starting to run through a list of potential suppliers.

“Funny story, apparently I’m not supposed to be drinking that. Even though I can,” Cammie said, “And it’s so much better than the crap you get for normal cars.”

"No, you're not supposed to get caught drinking that," Jake pointed out. "Everyone siphons a bit off the top around here. Most people just not so literally. But yeah, I think I can get my hands on some."

“Excellent,” Cammie said, in what came close to her Mister Burns impression.

"So...was it worth it?" Jake asked, without any real hint as to what "it" was.

“Was what worth it?” Cammie asked, “Hitting you? Because that’s always worth it.”

"India. Presumably hitting someone that actually deserves it."

“You deserved that,” Cammie said and shrugged, “I didn’t do as much as some of the other people here. So I don’t know. Little face, big crowd, not nearly enough people to punch.”

"Well, since we differ on that deservingness, how about you keep your hands to yourself until we find something we both agree I should be punched for?" Jake said, dabbing beneath his nose then checking for blood. "But I wouldn't worry about 'not doing as much.' I never compare what I do to any of those guys. Not even mentioning how their hours of toil couldn't ever compare to just a few minutes of my amazing feats..." he paused. Not mentioning it. "...we've all got our own shoes to fill. And some of us just need less limelight to feel good about ourselves," he added, philosophical Jake giving way to his usual self.

"That won't take long," Cammie half-muttered to the first bit. After all, it was Jake. How long would it take for him to do something worth a fist to the mouth? On the other hand, punching people was a bad habit, to put it mildly. And one she liked to think she was getting over doing at random.

"You think that because you're mostly useless," Cammie quipped.

"Well, you're just full of cheery 'Welcome home, Jake!'s today, aren't you?" Jake shrugged. "I know my strengths. And having my name or face all over the news--any of my faces, actually, is kinda counter productive. Then again, maybe I just don't enjoy punching things as much as you do. Who knows?"

“You left without saying anything; I’m allowed to be pissed off,” Cammie said.
"I don't do goodbyes. Besides, that was months ago. Can't believe you're still upset about it," Jake grinned, his tone teasing. "But how'd you turn this back about me? I thought we were talking about how you liked using your Punching Powers for Good."

"Occasionally I like to take a bite out of the revenge market," Cammie returned, "Let's go get some drinks or something, I have some stories to tell."

"Drinks sound amazing. Want to stick around here, or feel like a night on the City?"
"Let's hit the town. I'm sick of this place right now." Cammie said, tossing the towel she had aside.

---

An hour or so later, Jake made his way back to the table, drinks in hand. He slid one across the table toward Cammie as he settled into the seat across from her. "So...stories?"

"What do you want to hear first?" Cammie asked, taking the booze. It'd be like flavored water, dull but better than a lot of other things she could name.

"How about what you were doing in Chicago?" Jake suggested, shifting the stool so he could lean against the wall. He swirled the straw around the drink, mixing it well before tossing it aside and taking a sip.

"A friend of mine got shanked, I got to do my second favorite thing ever, identify a body," Cammie said dryly.

"Damn, I'm sorry," Jake shook his head. "Probably second on my list too. You know, right after 'committing.' You find the guys that did it? They the ones that gave you that?" he added, nodding toward the leg.

"Nah, but hey, I lived. And it's allllll good, and such," Cammie said.

"So tell me more about India," Jake suggests. "You get your official X-man badge of honor to hang proudly on your wall?"

"Pfft," Cammie said, "As if. I don't qualify for any special clubs or awards."

"Not even an 'I saved India and all I got was this lousy T-shirt'?" Jake teased. "You know, I never really pictured you in their leathers. Always thought you'd end up heading over our-" he broke the word off, nearly flawlessly sliding it into "As a trenchcoat." And with that, neatly extracted himself from the equation. Or not so neatly, depending on how good one's hearing was.

"Well, I do like leather. But I'm not going to wear a body suit for anyone or anything," Cammie said. "So, what, you think I'd make a better super spy?"

"Absolutely," was Jake's evaluation. "I mean, otherwise, you'd have to smile for photo shoots and be nice to people all the time. Seriously, though...it's so much better being behind the scenes. Easier to get the real work done when you're not on display in a fishbowl."

Cammie snorted, "Well, if you think so I guess I'll get a resume together," she said snarkily, "Think they want my skills as a thief and a runaway?"

"Part of being a good spy is knowing when to run away," Jake said, quoting...somebody. "For me, that's usually when bodily harm looks likely. But yes, I think it's more up your alley. I'd talk to Remy. Just don't tell him I'm in town," he added as a quick afterthought.

"Which we should note is not the same as being a runaway," Cammie returned, "And that's because you're a wuss," she said, playing with an empty drink cup, "Quite possibly the biggest wuss I have EVER met."

"Who's the one still nursing a broken leg?" Jake volleyed back, before tossing back the last of his drink. He grimaced at the melted ice diluting most of it. "Nothing wrong with looking out for yourself. And not sticking your neck out any farther than you absolutely have to."

"And that, ladies and gentlemen, is the creed of a true asshole," Cammie said, raising her glass.

"You say pot-ay-to, I say po-tah-to," Jake shrugged, raising his empty glass to meet hers. "You ready for another?"

"Always," Cammie said with a chuckle. "Always ready for more."