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Laura picked the restaurant, but she's not the first one there. Daken knows the place—he knows the owner—and he hardly wants to show up with them. But the least he can do is get them a good table.
So when Logan pulls up outside the restaurant, Laura perched on the rear seat of his motorcyle with her arms around his chest, Daken's already there, slouched in a shadowed booth in the corner, playing with a glass of wine. He looks up when they come in the door, nostrils flaring as he catches their scent, and Laura waves to him. Logan just shrugs guiltily and lets the maitre d'hotel know who they're with.
Once they're seated, menus in hand, Daken says, pleasantly, “Hi, Dad.”
Logan winces. “Hey there, Daken.”
“And how's the birthday girl?” When Daken looks at Laura, he almost smiles. “Feeling your age?”
“Be nice.” Her almost-smile is a mirror of his as she slides into the booth next to Logan. “But thank you.”
“Why? I haven't done anything yet.”
“You got us the table.” She stares at the menu. “I don't know what I want to eat.”
“Well, lucky for you, I already ordered appetizers for us. I didn't feel like waiting.”
“Oh! What did you order?”
“Calamari.”
Her brow wrinkles. “Meaning...?”
“Octopi. You'll like them.”
“Oh. That does sound good. ...there's so much food.”
“Order whatever you want, Laura.” Logan pats her heavily on the shoulder. “Honestly my eyes are crossin' a little too.”
The waiter drifts over, glances at Daken out of the corner of his eye, and starts to blush faintly. “May I get you all something to drink?”
Daken gestured to his already-full wine glass, raising an eyebrow. The waiter blushes harder. Logan suppresses a snort. “What's on tap?”
“Our beers on tap vary from night to night, sir; what sort of thing are you in the mood for?”
“Ah, just bring me whatever's darkest.”
“One Herzwesten dark coming right up, sir. And for you, ma'am?”
Laura pauses. “I, uh...what do you recommend?”
“The Chateau Sanssouci '77 is excellent, ma'am.”
“I'll have a glass of that, then.”
“Very good, ma'am. And your appetizers will be out in a moment.”
As soon as he's gone, Logan gives Daken a look that's not quite a glare. “You have to do that to the poor kid?”
“Has it ever occurred to you that I can't turn it off?” Daken smiles lazily. “Drowning doesn't exactly do wonders for the body.”
Logan winces again and looks away.
For a couple of minutes they stare at their menus and the silence is desperately awkward. Daken seems pleased, Logan won't look at him, and Laura's clearly trying to ignore them both.
“Goose,” she says after a moment. “What's goose like?”
Daken pokes her in the shoulder, semi-playful. “It's heavy. It'll make you fat.”
“I've never been fat before. It could be nice.”
“If you like.” He doesn't look convinced, although his eyes gleam a little bit, like he's amused.
“Logan, what are you going to get?”
“They've got steak, I get steak.” He honestly looks baffled by the menu. “This's all a little too frou-frou for me.”
The waiter brings plates and appetizers, and takes their orders—pan-seared goose with local vegetables and mushroom risotto for Laura, steak for Logan, and something complicated involving wagyu beef and truffle oil and a thousand little modifications for Daken, who spends the entire time getting the waiter so flustered that by the time he leaves the table he's walking awkwardly and looks like he's gotten a bad sunburn on his face.
“So. Uh.” Logan coughs. “What've you been up to lately, Daken?”
“Oh, nothing much. Living the quiet life. I've been thinking of starting a band.” At the looks they give him, he rolls his eyes. “No, not really. But I haven't been doing much. Have either of you done anything interesting lately?”
Laura pops a piece of calamari into her mouth and chews thoughtfully, and her eyes light up. “This is delicious. Thank you for ordering it, Daken, it's very nice.”
“Well.” His eyes flick to the side. “It is one of my favorites. But it's not as if I can eat an entire plate of it by myself.”
“Because you'd get fat.”
“Exactly.”
“So really I'm helping you by eating this.”
“Yes.” Daken sniffs irritably. “Obviously.”
Laura glances at Logan out of the corner of her eye and—he almost looks like he wants to cry. But he's smiling, just a little. And then he notices she's looking and takes a piece of calamari himself. “Chewy. Breading's a little softer than I'd go for. I like the spice, though.”
They continue to make awkward conversation until the main courses arrive, and then Daken pulls a box from his pocket and shoves it across the table. “Here. Before I forget.”
“Daken, you never forget anything.”
“Just...open it, all right?”
The box is tiny, barely the size of her hand, and it's wrapped in sharply creased gold paper. She slits the tape with a fingernail, lips pursing curiously, and undoes the paper slowly so as not to rip it.
It's...
...a gift card in a tin. A Hot Topic gift card. She almost laughs, but when she opens the tin itself she finds that the card's been wrapped in layers of silk. A scarf, striped black and white, a discreet label sewn to one end naming a designer she only knows because Emma Frost once or twice mentioned liking his runway pieces.
She wraps the scarf around her neck, and it's perfect. The gift card goes back into its tin and into her pocket, and before Daken can stop her she leans across the table and kisses him on the cheek. It's a weird gesture for both of them. He's uncomfortable, and she's usually not this affectionate with anyone.
She sits back down. “Thank you, Daken.”
He shifts and picks at his plate. “Well. It was lying around.”
“Looks good on you, Laura.” Logan kisses her on the forehead, which is only a little less weird. “Here.” And he presses a key into her hand.
She stares at it. “What's this?”
“Motorcycle. No more hitchhiking. You go where you want to.”
“I...I don't know how to drive one.”
“I'll teach you.”
Daken sips his wine. “I hope you're not expecting us to sing.”
She actually laughs. “Of course not. Everyone else would hear.” She can't help but add, “It'd be bad for your image.”
“I could probably convince our waiter to sing you something.”
“Oh, don't.” She takes a first bite of goose to hide her laughter and freezes.
Logan frowns. “Laura? You all right?”
She swallows hard. “This is delicious.”
“It's adequate.” Daken's barely touching his food; he eats it in tiny bites, as if he doesn't want to be seen chewing anything—or, maybe, as if he wants to make it last. “I don't think the chef's at his best tonight.”
“It's nice.”
They make it through the main course without incident, talking innocuously about food and music and places they've all traveled to, and Daken and Logan even manage to discuss one or two places in Japan they've both been to and the state of Madripori politics without coming to blows.
And then, of course, when the plates are being cleared and they're almost ready to get coffee and dessert, and when the conversation is turning towards topics that are definitely going to cause a shouting match, the front wall of the restaurant gets knocked down.
They're all on their feet in moments, backs tense, feet going to ready stances, because clearly it's an attack on them, right? Why else would—
It's the Scorpion.
Logan looks around the restaurant and swears. “Of course they are.”
He's on the other side of the dining room in seconds, scowling. “Kid, put that peashooter down and get your ass under cover.”
John Jameson doesn't sit down. “With all due respect, sir, you should be the one getting under cover. This is no fight for a civilian.” Next to him, his father and grandfather—J. Jonah Jamesons junior and senior—have ducked under the table, eyes wide.
Logan snorts. “Do I look like a civilian, kid?”
“Quite frankly, yes.”
Snikt.
John Jameson blinks. “Oh. Um.”
“Get under cover or I'll call Spider-man, have him save the day, make you listen to your dad bitch for the rest of the night. Scorpion's mostly bulletproof anyway, your gun wouldn't help.”
“Yes, sir.” He ducks under the table.
Meanwhile, Laura's been taking charge of evacuating the other patrons, because she doesn't trust Daken to do it. She shepherds them out through the restaurant kitchen, vaguely thankful that it isn't a busy night, and then turns when the last waiter has hurried out to see how everything's getting on.
Daken's jumped up onto a table—the Scorpion isn't huge, but the suit does add some height, and it's not like any of them are tall people.
The Scorpion starts to shout something, looks him over, and freezes. “Holy shit,” says Mac Gargan's scratchy voice from inside the suit. “Daken? I heard you were dead.”
Snikt. “I was. Briefly.”
“You wanna gimme a hand, here?”
The corner of Daken's mouth twitches. “Normally I'd say yes, but honestly...”
Mac shifts from foot to foot. “Honestly what?”
“Well, you did interrupt us.”
“...wait. Us?”
Daken turns and holds out his hand to Laura, who takes it and steps up onto the table next to him. “I was trying to have a quiet dinner with my sister.”
Mac gapes. “Your sister?”
“And our father.”
“Your...oh, shit.”
Logan rolls his neck and kicks a chair over very loudly, making enough noise to cover the sound of the Jamesons making a hasty escape. “You picked a bad night, bub.”
“Look, I didn't mean anything by it, I just—wait. Where'd Jameson go?” Mac shudders, hunching his shoulders. “Lemme at him!”
Daken and Logan both look at Laura, and Daken shrugs and says, “Well? You're the birthday girl.”
She unwinds her new scarf from around her neck and tucks it into her pocket, next to the motorcycle key and the gift card tin.
“Yes,” she says, feeling...cheerful. “Happy birthday to me.”
Snikt.
“That's my girl.”
Daken makes a little huffing noise, and he looks surprisingly cheerful too. “Save some for us.”
It's nice having a family.
She dives, and her brother and father dive after her.
When they're done, Logan says, irritably, “I need a cigar.”
Laura cracks her knuckles. “I could use a glass of water.”
Daken looks around. “I think I'd like dessert.”
--
One of the cooks is calm enough to get them some chocolate mousse, and they eat it sitting in a row on top of the Scorpion, whose armor is badly damaged and who spends the entire time muttering angrily at them. Chocolate mousse is the second-best thing Laura thinks she's ever tasted, after goose, and when some other Avengers show up to take Mac away she gets her new scarf out again and puts it back on. It's soft around her neck, and the night air is cool, and she pulls the motorcycle key out of her pocket and gazes at it, shining silver in the palm of your hand.
Daken's playing with his phone in the shadows, staying out of view of the heroes just arrived, and he doesn't emerge until they're all gone. Once Mac's been carted off, though, he steps back into the light, and says, “That was fun. Maybe we should have a supervillain attack your birthday every year.”
She smiles a little. “Every year? Does that mean I get another free dinner?”
“We should do this again.”
“I'll have to tell my boyfriend I'm meeting up with you, or else he'll get jealous of me sneaking off all the time.”
“You have a boyfriend?”
“It's...it's the word he likes.” She looks away, and then back, and says, more mischievously than she's really intending, “Have you got one?”
He smirks. “Tell Remy to call me.”
“I'll take care'a that.” Logan's got that weird half-smile again. “Don't know what he'll call you, but I'll let 'im know.”
Daken holds up his phone, suddenly serious. “Hold still for a moment.”
The flash goes off.
Laura and Logan both blink, and when the dots are done swimming in front of their eyes, Daken's gone.
Logan snorts. “Didn't even say good bye.”
Laura's about to say something, but then her phone buzzes, and she pulls it out of her pocket. A picture message, from an unknown number.
It's the photo Daken took, the three of them standing in a row on the sidewalk.
Logan leans down and kisses her on the top of the head, smelling a bit like cigars and blood, and unconsciously echoes the caption on the photo. “Happy birthday, Laura.”
“Thank you, Logan.” She smiles at him, and her thumbs move on her phone, sending a message back to the unknown number. [You big softy.]
[I don't know *what* you're talking about.]