A Date with the Big 'O'
by
Elektra
DISCLAIMER: Logan belongs to Marvel, Fox, etc. I'm pretty sure Hugh Jackman and everyone else in this story belong to themselves.
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Blame this on watching Paperback Hero too many times in one week.
AUTHOR'S NOTE2: We'll call this the beta-light version of this story. Hopefully there aren't too many errors.
Logan snarled in irritation as he let his eyes track slowly over the pseudo yuppie bar scene he found himself thrown into. The pool table was nice but there were too many shee-shee drinks with fruit perched on the rim of the glasses for his taste. Where was the beer and the blood and the-
"PrEEEeetty Womuuuun, walkin' down the strEEEt"
Logan cringed as the next ham-handed movie star wannabe took their place on stage to make their shot at stardom. Why the hell had he ever said yes to this job? God damn fucking enhanced senses. Where the hell was Rogue when he needed her? She could short 'em out or at least dull 'em a little. 'Course that would leave her in the same boat. Hell, misery loves company, right?
The woman on the three wooden planks that passed for a stage bounced around frantically, smiling a bit too brightly at the audience, coming off like a crazed wallaby on speed.
*That ain't gonna get you to Hollywood, sweetie. Why don't you go out back and find that prick producer's casting couch.*
Logan motioned to the bartender for another bottle of whiskey. Maybe if he could get drunk enough it would all fade away. Shit. What a pansy. How the hell had he gotten himself into this? It was Chuck's fault. Chuck and those goddamned women who made it so he couldn't think straight. Goddamn do-gooders. Why the hell couldn't they leave him alone.
He smiled as he sensed the night picking up across the room. Some dame in a red dress was asking for trouble. She'd been flaunting her ass all over the room and now she was getting a little unwanted attention. Hell, at least they were keeping it hands off. What else did she expect? So, the boys got a little randy, so what? No harm, no foul as far as he was concerned. Look, but don't touch, that's what his own code of chivalry demanded.
As soon as the bartended returned with the new bottle of whiskey, Logan unscrewed the top and took a long, slow drink, enjoying the burn as it made its way down to his belly. He kept his eyes on the woman across the room. He figured his time would be coming soon enough. It always did. She'd get a little mouthy and then he'd have to fill in for lover boy.
"Uh, sir."
He felt a tug on his shirt sleeve. The damn weasels just couldn't leave him alone. He took another slow draw from the bottle before turning his head to look at the person who'd interrupted his perfectly pitched internal ranting session.
The pasty-faced boy smiled a tenuous smile at him and brushed his sandy brown hair away from his glasses. As Logan quirked his left eyebrow, the smile rapidly disappeared.
"Calm down kid, I ain't gonna kill ya."
The boy's smile returned, but the rustling of the sheets of paper in his hands gave away his nervousness.
"Uhh," the boy said, looking at his carefully typed notes, "your call is up next. You know what you're supposed to do right?"
Logan nodded.
"We'll have the teleprompter setup in the back-"
"Don't need it, kid. I know what I'm doin' "
The boy swallowed, clearly trying to determine whether this job was worth losing his life.
"Just spit it out, Bub. I don't have all day."
"Ya- You know that you can't use your, your, well those things in your hands, right?"
Logan shook his head, rolling his eyes in irritation.
"Kid, how long do you think I've been doin' this? If I can get through a cage match without puttin' 'em through some moron's face, I think I can handle a few extras."
"Well, they're supposed to heckle you at first. You know that, right?"
"Kid, walk back over there and sit down beside the director before I show you what I can do without those things in the back of my hands. All right?"
The boy needed no further encouragement and took off toward the director, task complete.
Logan eyed the whiskey bottle. Goddamn fucking Xavier. Cyke would probably have a field day over this one. His only consolation was the fact that they had promised the film would never be released in the States.
"Hey mate," a familiar voice said over his left shoulder.
Logan nodded and indicated the stool to his left. As the other man settled down at the bar, Logan turned to look at his near mirror image. He never expected that old saying about everyone having a double to be true. But, here he was lookin' at him. He'd probably be a good looking man if he'd just grow some hair on his face.
"Finally made you shave it off then?" Logan's duplicate asked.
*What is he, a fucking telepath?*
"Yeah," Logan said, running his hand across his cheek, "it'll be back in a coupla hours. All for the cause, right?"
"Man, I just want to thank you for doing this. Until we find the guy --"
Logan nodded. He'd agreed to help protect the guy after some nut job had attacked him, putting him into a headlock and then running away before he could be apprehended.
"I'd do it myself, y'know, but it wouldn't look good if I started beating up on my fans."
Logan nodded. Hell, he knew how the business worked. In the months since he'd started working with the guy, they'd been chased by photographers on a weekly basis. Logan felt his anger at his current situation begin to abate.
"Not yer fault," Logan said. "You've got a family to protect. I respect that. Just never expected to have to sing in front of people. That's all."
"Why don't I get you another bottle."
Logan smiled.
"Yer all right," he said with a grin. "Yeah, you're all right."
* * * * *
Logan glared at the woman who was applying a thin layer of colored powder to his face.
"Hey, don't you glare at me buddy. It's not my fault your skin tone isn't quite the same as his. Besides, I've worked with Streisand. If I can live through that, I can take your best shot."
Slowly counting backward from ten to one, Logan tried to calm down before he did something naughty, like eviscerate the makeup and hair people.
*Goddamn fucking locusts*
"Mr. Logan," the cultured tones of his boss, the actor's publicist, caught him off-guard. She smiled up at him as she brushed a length of harvest red hair off her shoulder.
He nodded at her, swallowing his irritation.
"I have something for you. You'll need to leave right after we're done shooting this scene," she said, placing a sheaf of plane tickets in his hand.
Logan pulled out his itinerary and read it carefully. You couldn't be too careful in his business.
"What's in London?"
"We're doing Oklahoma! next," she said brightly, smiling up at him.
*Oh fuck. London means Emma, Emma means the rest of the team. Oklahoma! means singing. And dancing.*
"Mr. Logan, are you okay? You're looking a little sick. Do I need to ask for a fifteen minute break? Mr. Logan?"
Somewhere Cyclops was fucking laughing, he just knew it.
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