21 March 2001
Alpha Flight
Northstar/Sasquatch

A broken bone.

Disclaimers: If they were ours, we'd tape our eyes open.

Authors' Note: Ah, Jane, she is a wicked seductress, taunting poor Te with Canadian mutants.
Jane smiles demurely. Says nothing.
 

Iris
by Janete

Walter bickers with Jean-Paul constantly, but in a fairly good-natured way. Enough that people make jokes that it's love.

It is. Incautious in words and cautious in actions. Watchful. For the day when Jean-Paul breaks one of those long, runner's bones and just goes to curl up, because, you know, he can't ask for anything, even medical help. And even coaxing his clothes off when Walter finds him is a long, quiet task. Ages with both big palms just laid against Jean-Paul's shoulder, radiating warmth, to get him to relax enough to strip down.

Oh, God... and maybe Walter is a little frightened by this, this closeness he's only gotten before in glimpses, half-teasing moments of Jean-Paul in the state that's as close as he comes to rest. But there's real pain in his friend's eyes now, and he has to help, has to make it better, needs to make Jean-Paul accept it, over and beyond his own everyday needs as a healer.

And the feel of him is so lush...

Even the bruises only feed it. Hot, rich purple on that too-fair skin. Somehow it doesn't matter that he knows what kind of damage those spreading dark splashes represent. Because Jean-Paul's just. Warm.

Stretched out now in front of Walter with his shirt off, on his belly. Every fragile vertebra showing. There's this fine tremble in that body every time Walter's hands movie, every time they press too hard. And he knows that Jean-Paul's not going to surrender any of his clothes yet. He's aching from something else that Walter hasn't got a name for yet. So. Begging this trust out of him, touch by touch. Starting at his shoulders and working down, lingering a long time to just warm him. Aware of the little arch of the body that indicates pain. He keeps wanting to slide a hand under that narrow pelvis to support it so Jean-Paul won't have to.

Keeps thinking about the moment in combat when the fourteen-foot-high thing they were dispatched to stop grabbed Jean-Paul and threw him bodily into the superstructure of an office tower. The moment during which Jean-Paul just hung there, white-faced, before he came flying back out with blood in his eyes. About the moment, in the press conference that someone who shall be condemned forever to the depths of civil service organised after, when some asshole from the Calgary Herald popped up and asked whether Northstar was, well, strong enough to be in combat, especially since his effectiveness seemed to be limited to opponents of his own mass. With this long, ugly look at Jean-Paul's whipcord body still in its black spandex, and the too-thin lines of his face.

Walter thinks maybe if he'd been the one to answer, there might have been blood. He thought for a second that Heather might go in for carnage herself. And the asshole lost his press pass at the door, but then he was just gone and it was time to deal with Jean-Paul, who was a ball of tight fury. Walked out with long, floor-skimming strides and disappeared.

It took Walter an hour to find him, and by then Jean-Paul had showered and gone to bed. Not asleep, but only because he was so obviously hurting. Slow and quiet. Frightening, if Walter's honest, to see the massed energy of that inhuman metabolism turned inward, trying to repair whatever damage Jean-Paul had decided not to own up to.

Hands at Jean-Paul's waistband now. Purple bruises spreading under his fingers like irises. Sharp smell of Jean-Paul's body like walking into a conservatory in midwinter, less sweet than startlingly brilliant. Water lingers in his hair like something dark. Metal-tinge of body-shock.

But more relaxed, at least, so it's not hard to slide his hands under that belly and unbutton the pants, keeping one palm there to support Jean-Paul while he peels them back. More purple, and darker, disappearing into grey boxers. Which is nowhere Walter ought to be, except that he's a doctor, and he needs to, because he's getting more and more of a sense of how much this has to hurt. So just gently, again. Careful of the elastic over the bruises. And Jean-Paul lets him. Raises his body on crossed forearms and kicks the loose clothes carefully away when Walter cues him with a hand on his leg.

After which it's a matter of palpitation and examination. From behind, he doesn't get much of a sense of what's wrong, only pain and hot, aching skin. He feels almost, not quite, dirty when he walks around in front of the table and crouches to put himself at Jean-Paul's eye-level.

"Hey."

"Mmmm." Sounds like yes. Sounds like ow.

"Think you could turn over if I helped you?"

Bruised eyes focus on him, and Walter can't believe how awful he feels for asking. Demanding this exposure, even in the name of healing. So he just stays there, crouched and stiffening slowly, with his hands hooked on the table to either side of the man's face, and waits. Radiating please and come on and please trust me I need you to trust me. Until he gets a small nod. Then straightens and puts some of his best discretion to work to keep the turning process from being torture.

Even so, it's a white-faced Jean-Paul clinging to him by the time they're finished, and Walter's knowledge of joual cursing has increased exponentially. Stands there and holds on back for a second. Straightens when Jean-Paul lets go and turns his head away. Right. Because they're not. And he's supposed to be healing. Which he can do now with just a couple of careful touches. Brush over the belly for comfort-trust-reassurance. Gentle (carefully, very carefully) probe of the pelvis that tells him it's not only cracked, but out of line, and until he can put it back in line, all the accelerated healing in the world isn't actually going to do Jean-Paul any good.

Bends over the man again, coaxing him to turn back into a conversational posture. Trying to ignore the sheer, pale nakedness of him.

"It's broken."

"Yeah. I knew that."

"I'm going to have to --"

"Do it." Flash of malamute blue at him. Fierce and determinedly not-scared.

He does. Fast and careful as he can. It's not a manipulation that a man of Walter's build should be able to do so easily, and it's one of the few times he's been grateful to be benching the equivalent of a couple of small cars. And in spite of his best intentions, there's no mistaking the swallowed scream that works its way loose from between Jean-Paul's teeth.

Walter holds the bone in place for ten or fifteen minutes, long enough to let the jacked-up healing system take over and secure it. Rubs Jean-Paul's belly with one hand, then the other, whispering soft apologies and whatever comfort he thinks the man might accept. Pretends he doesn't see the helpless, angry tears salt-scarring the sides of Jean-Paul's face, if only because he can't reach far enough to wipe them. Fury in Jean-Paul at them. Trembling rage that runs down into Walter's hands.

"Shhh. I know it hurt. It's OK."

Until he looks down and starts to understand the grace of the hipbones in his cupped palms. Like something you dream about. And he knows that Jean-Paul's already forgiven him for the pain, but this might be harder. Because he's not prepared to let go just yet.

He starts massaging, carefully, around the edges of the bruises, just loosening the massed blood there, working gently towards the heart. Pauses to check the ribs and stays there even after he's sure they're fine. Stroking now from shoulder to hip while Jean-Paul gradually relaxes and lets his anger go. Whispers praise to him that he's willing to bet Jean-Paul's never lavished on a fully-clothed man before. Which should be a tribute to his healing skills. Is, maybe. But the soft, French-tinged words are more welcoming than he has any right to expect, and Walter's enjoying them more than decency allows.

Working gradually back down, smoothing the rest of the bruises away. The worst pain's dissipated, as far as he can tell, and Jean-Paul's body is moving gently with the path of Walter's hands. The last time he glanced over at those blue eyes, they were closed, but that was several minutes ago, and he's afraid to look again. Works down, ending at the spot that was broken, and pauses there, warming again. Both his huge hands framing the dark, rough hair and the flesh between that's not exactly not-hard. And even if it doesn't mean. It's flattering. What he wanted.

Careful and obviously insane while he bends over his own hands. Lays a single, open-mouthed kiss on the thin skin that covers the healing break. Sucks for just long enough to leave a faint mark. Flare of sex-smell just beside him, marking the line he crossed.

He should stand up, and leave, and go jerk off in the shower and spend a day or so really putting his head in order. Because he's a healer, and he's not supposed to do things like this, even with his best friend, even if they're both enjoying it. Even if he's hard against the table's metal edge.

What he does is turn his head so that his cheek's against Jean-Paul's pubic hair and he can gaze up the slim lines of that body. Meets Jean-Paul's eyes as steadily as he can. Amazed somehow that they're not angry. Marked instead by huge pupils, almost wiping out the blue. One long-fingered hand reaches down to touch his face.

And he has to say something, apologize, beg, demand, but all that comes out is, "Can I?"

And somehow Jean-Paul's eyes go even wider for a moment, the pulse in his throat near thrumming now. His first attempt to talk drowned in an incoherent moan before he whispers, "ah, oui..." more than a little desperately and Walter can feel his cock drooling pre-come, feel sweat break out on his temples and the back of his neck and he clenches his hands hard on table's edge to try to gain back the shreds of his control.

Lowers his head to Jean-Paul's abdomen and... tastes. Pain sweat and new, other sweat salty on his tongue, running it over and over the bruised skin, leaning up to flick at one nipple once, twice, and Jean-Paul's hand ghosts through his hair.

Flash of long, pale throat as he leans back and surrenders to it. All the signal Walter needs before he begins to mouth the nipple in earnest, tonguing and nipping and sucking once, hard, earning a soft, helpless sound that makes him moan, mostly untouched, thrusting gently and helplessly against the cool table. Making it hotter. Making himself need.

Can't in any way justify just crawling up on the table and rubbing himself off on all that pale, wonderful skin, so sidles around so he can brace himself with one hand on either side of Jean-Paul's head, leans in for a kiss that he hates himself for demanding but Jean-Paul is right there, eyes as open as his own, watching and watching as Walter slips his tongue between Jean-Paul's lips, as he licks a tickling stripe up the roof of the other man's mouth, as he sinks in to devour in earnest. Eyes finally closing but he knows Jean-Paul is still watching and it makes him flush.

Makes him rougher than he wants to be, but Jean-Paul gives everything, surrenders everything and Walter barely stops to breathe, moving his hand gently down his torso before gripping the hard length of him in his hand.

Stroking faster than he really wants to, unable to control his hand, greedy for the feel of that silk-hot skin, for the fire as Jean-Paul groans and returns Walter's attack, kissing harder, leaning up to bite and suck on Walter's lower lip...

Strange, because the only cock he's ever held before is his own, and this is somehow entirely different. The shape of it, the texture. The angle as it slides across his palm. This incredible power like nothing else. And if he reaches just a little farther he can brush against Jean-Paul's scrotum on the down-stroke, just tease it and feel him writhe at the not-quite-there touch. Swallowing every whimper. Kissing long and deep and wet. Messy and wonderful, erotic just in the friction of their mouths against each other.

Lifts his hand away from Jean-Paul's cock and sucks the long, desperate whimper into his lungs. Brings his hand up to the place where their mouths are joined and adds his salty fingers to the mix. Just a whiff of it in his own mouth, most of it in Jean-Paul's, but he picks it up fast. Doesn't withdraw the fingers when it gets obvious that Jean-Paul's prepared to suck them. Each of the five, carefully and separately, with Walter's lips still resting against his.

He keeps thinking that if he could just get up there. He wouldn't even have to be naked. Just on his side, one of Jean-Paul's thighs between his and their bodies pressed together for friction, and he could kiss this man for the rest of the night, wrap him up in his oxford-cloth grip and cling to him. Maybe at some point in this, just a touch. A brush of fingers pushed down his waistband against his skin. Even soft, though at the moment he doesn't really believe he'll ever be soft again.

"Waal-terrr." Barely more than a whisper, but laced with please and you bastard don't you tease me.

It's not really up if he's only got one knee on the table, he thinks. It gives him more leverage, and more reach. Finally able to wrap both his arms around those thin shoulders. To impose a little of his weight on that body. Not a danger to the still-fading bruises, but manifestly present, and chest to chest. Kissing down deep again, hand out of the way beside Jean-Paul's ear. Almost comfortable, definitely this side of desperate, until Jean-Paul thrusts hard against his hip.

And it's all so incredible, Walter's reaction helplessly cliche to being wanted by this man. Hot and shy, pressing just that much closer to the bruised but healing skin, and Jean-Paul's arms slipping beneath his own, long, strong fingers skating over the muscles of his back, slipping and kneading, tactile encouragement and plea but he can't leave that mouth alone. Hot and wet and slightly bitter, perhaps, with the pain he's still feeling but Jean-Paul isn't at all hesitant.

Giving himself fully to being touched, near-worshipped by Walter and Walter has to kiss, stroke and suck and yes, yes, fuck that beautiful mouth with his tongue, air cool and needed against his slick fingers until Jean-Paul bucks again and

"Please, touch me again --"

And before Walter's mind can begin to wrap itself around the sound of Jean-Paul's pleas his hands are moving again, down the naked expanse of flesh to rough curls and heat, so much heat and Walter needs to needs to

Needs to break away from the bruising kisses, shift awkwardly down Jean-Paul's body and take his cock between his lips. Different, shocking feel of it, but everything is right, so right, that the only real shock is that he hasn't done this thing, offered this thing for his friend to take. For himself to take and sucking now.

One hand wrapped on the root and bobbing his head, helplessly fucking his mouth on Jean-Paul's cock, twisting and suckling, stabbing his tongue at the drooling slit while the other man buries his hands in Walter's hair and tugs and releases in rhythm to Walter's movements. And his other hand, oh, please, yes.

One more transgression among many, one more unavoidable sin to cradle Jean-Paul's tightening sac, squeeze gently and caress before moving further back, before teasing around Jean-Paul's, tight, hot hole and slipping just one finger in, and in to the second knuckle and Jean-Paul's whispered screams perfect accompaniment to this wonderful fuck.

Inside Jean-Paul, and Jean-Paul inside him and the endless, wordless chant in his hand to please him, pleasure him, give him this and give himself this and Walter is lost. The pressure on his tongue, the stretch of his lips, his finger's hot, tight new home and that tiny bundle of nerves that has Jean-Paul writhing, has Walter humping shamelessly against one long leg and he's praying for it now, begging for it and --

"Walter --"

Jean-Paul comes near silently, unbreathing, biting his lip and thrusting, thrusting and he tastes... He tastes wonderfully bitter, and salt, but Walter can't quite swallow it all without coughing.

The shock of it jerks him back, and he only stays standing by clinging to Jean-Paul's arm and the edge of the table. Coughing convulsively and shaking. He must look so incredibly stupid, eyes streaming and his mouth marked by this white. Not just his mouth, either. Chin, cheek. Lips. The bigness of his eyes behind his glasses.

Jean-Paul's as obviously limp as old rags, wrung out with pain and orgasm, but he struggles into something like a sitting position and gets his knees up enough to balance. Pulls Walter up by pulling his arm in towards him and drawing the clinging body after it, and takes him by the shoulders. Leans in and kisses him, very carefully. Then licks him clean. Just the tip of that very red tongue skating over his face. Not even wet, but very. Slick. And while it's coming down from his cheekbone, Walter extends his own tongue and strokes it in passing. Almost laughs at the startled, open-mouthed grin he gets in return.

Finds himself held by his beautiful, naked friend. Kissed on face and ear and forehead while he tries not to be obvious about humping the table. He's just about desperate, and this gentle teasing isn't anything like what he wants.

"Hey, I love you, but I swear to God if we don't finish this --"

Breathy laugh against his face. "Okay, Okay. 'Stie, you're so picky."

And somehow, though it doesn't seem as though either of them moved, there's a hand between them now, unzipping his pants and carefully pushing them down on his hips. Pulling him out. Walter shudders a bit at the shock of air on him. More at the first real touch on his length. Pale, hot fingers on him, nothing like his own and nothing like a woman's either. Undeniably male, somehow. Careful on him, just mapping out his favourite touches right now. The little spot just down and left of the head that makes his whole body tighten. The soft feel of the inside of Jean-Paul's thigh against the tip when the man wiggles insistently closer.

Jean-Paul keeps brushing these delicate little kisses over his face, never letting Walter catch his mouth. Teasing with his lips and his body. The strokes on Walter's erection are gentle, but there's this whole body pushing at him, closer and closer. One long leg looped behind his, now, holding him in. Arch of the barely-bruised hips that lets Walter's erection slide down, towards that wonderful, tight little place he was a minute ago.

Jean-Paul should know better than to try to drag the animal out of him. It's liable to get him into trouble. Get him hauled suddenly into Walter's body and kissed like starving, his thighs forced apart and up, around Walter's waist so that he's undeniably open. And he must've known that, because his reaction is only a smile, the radiant one that other people don't get out of him, and the deep, long kiss that Walter was wanting.

Leaves him tangled and only essentially naked. Jean-Paul's body like something carefully marked by an extravagant artist, white and purple and hard and soft and warm. Hot. And he smells so. Good. Smells so good.

Tiny triggers, all of it, pulling at the beast inside, so carefully leashed. It can stay there for now, he needs bare skin for this, needs to feel everything, ridges of sensitive flesh pressed against his cock, open invitation to plunder and Jean-Paul radiating happiness like a scent.

Easy and clear, open for just this once, like Walter has never actually seen before. Gift accepted, longed for even, and the offer of Jean-Paul's body in return and he's leaning in, push-pushing at an obscene impossibility. He can't do this, not like this, not risk more pain for his friend.

Scrambling away awkwardly, almost clumsily, ignoring the hazed look of regretful confusion in Jean-Paul's eyes because accepting that would damn him. But they are in the med-lab, and some procedures require. Lubricant.

Beaten up tube of K-Y, half full, more than enough yes and returning to find Jean-Paul ready for him, strangely well-formed feet planted on either side of the bed, knees up and open. More, so much more he wants, god, to taste there, and he thinks he knows what it would feel like, thinks it could make Jean-Paul blush, even, and that is a vision he saves. Something for later, when he can tease, when he can do more than just rut like an animal.

Slick finger, one inside too fast for Walter's senses but Jean-Paul only arches up and takes it. Arches up on one hand and uses the other to brush faint touches on his own torso before reaching up again for Walter's hair, finger dig faintly into his scalp and he's mussed now, knows there's no mistaking this for anything remotely professional and only wants to get wilder.

Fucking him now, again with this finger, so slick and he needs more than that so he slips another finger in. Twists them and plays, the occasional short, rough thrust that makes Jean-Paul gasp in joual, grab harder at Walter's hair and he's hard, so hard and aching. Cock purpling, and he can feel the shift trying to start there, give him a sheath that would pull back and expose this, animal, animal and he bites his lower lip hard enough to draw blood.

Breathes. Stops the change with an internal angry growl and slicks himself carefully, knowing that once he's inside he won't last long, knowing that Jean-Paul deserves everything he can give.

Still in his human body, but it doesn't keep him from animal-crawling up, onto the table, over Jean-Paul's body. Forcing him to scoot back til he's laid full-length with his legs still apart and Walter between them, staring down at him through determinedly human eyes.

Lets himself down on top of Jean-Paul's body slowly, careful of the new healing in the hips under his. Just as he touches him gets a flash of that earlier scream and of his own agency in it. Damns himself for it and lowers his head and kisses the mouth under his. The wetness of it takes just enough attention off the ache in his belly and cock that he can fit their bodies together. They breathe together for a minute, getting a sense of Walter's mass, of the contained power in Jean-Paul's torso. Then Walter hooks those legs up around his hips and pushes, and can't help loving the crisssssse that pours into his mouth.

Fingers at the back of his neck. He's the one on top, but he's being held as securely as if he were tied to the table. Trying to hold the animal down with the awareness of not just any body, but Jean-Paul's body specifically, impaled on him. So he can go gently at first, 'cause whatever else might've been going on, he knows it's been a while for both of them, and pain isn't what he wants. Just pure, careful. There. Finds the small, hard lump of pleasure and the right angle to keep hitting it, and Jean-Paul moves up, against him, suddenly not subject to gravity. Clings, thrusts back.. Kisses him and rubs one angular cheek against Walter's rounder one.

One right shift and they're back down against the table with all of Walter's weight forward to hold them there and Jean-Paul glittering up at him. Debauched and perfectly aware and Walter can't think when he ever saw his friend so happy. Wouldn't have thought than any man could look so radiant in the heart of a sex act.

Warm metal strokes against his sac the next time he thrusts, and Jean-Paul pulls one leg up even higher, so that it brushes the small of his back. Other one against Walter's ass, encouraging him gently to thrust, work them both.

And oh god, this is more dangerous than anything he should be doing. There's blood and sex and a half-dozen other base instincts clamouring at his brain stem. His body's almost screaming, and some higher, human-rational part of his brain is whispering you bastard you stupid bastard you _love_ him and what's that going to get you?

And maybe it's that, and maybe it's just the knife-sharp rush of fucking Jean-Paul but he can't be silent and stops trying, moaning and gasping, embarrassing himself and Jean-Paul lays a hand on his throat and is looking at him with something like awe.

Like hunger distilled to its finest elements, bucking up against him, fucking himself down on Walter's cock, not hard but still so obviously loving this, oh, loving what he's doing.

What Walter's doing to him.

Catches one leg behind the thigh and hikes it higher, making Jean-Paul yell, make him chant yes and yes and yes and Walter thrusts a little harder now, faster, on the thin razor edge of control, trying not to blink just so he can watch Jean-Paul's face, watch him arch and shake his head, watch the sweat bead at his temples.

Angle too good now for him to do anything but stare at the sweat and want. Licking his own lips now, biting back hoarse cries he knows would wake the whole house and burying himself again and again. Rocking the bed and using his free hand to twist and grab at the small nipples. Thrusts ragged now, thighs trembling with the tension, body screaming for more and Walter lets go, lets the sound out and just loses himself to the fuck.

Last glimpse of Jean-Paul's wide eyes before he throws his head back and comes, choking on a soundless scream, thrusting into his own hot slickness deep inside Jean-Paul.

Gives, and crumples onto Jean-Paul's body. Just so fucking grateful when Jean-Paul accepts him. His legs slide carefully down and tangle with Walter's, and one lean arm comes around the back of his neck and holds him. Croons to him in a mix of English and French that Walter can't really follow but doesn't need to. All variants on it's alright and thank you and hush. Petting him, he realizes. Which would be so unreasonable, considering who's where, except that he's shaking and exhausted, raw and when, exactly, did he get to be the one who needs comfort?

Nuzzle touch of his face to Jean-Paul's hair and he manages a smile.

"You OK?"

"M'dieu, Walter." Breathy laugh and a kiss on his eyelid.

"Are you?"

"Yes."

He has to get his weight off Jean-Paul. Not just for the sake of breathing, but because he knows he's heavy enough to do some damage, and Jean-Paul's suffered enough for one night. Actually off is too far, but it's easy to kind of slide off and curl in against that body from the side. Jean-Paul moves a bit more slowly. Rolls himself carefully onto his side, keeping their legs tangled, and strokes Walter's foot with his. Strange that he forgets sometimes how tall Jean-Paul is, just because he doesn't have the implausible super-hero physique down.

But there's a lot of flat muscle there, clearly visible because there's inches between them now, at least at this end. Enough that Walter can prop his head on his hand, and watch Jean-Paul lie with his own head on his arm, sleepy-calm and smiling.

There are new bruises. He touches each one, carefully, a little baffled by Jean-Paul's slightly smug grin. Purple like irises on that skin, and hot. His palm on each place with a tenderness he's just starting to recognize in himself.

Jean-Paul says, "Thank-you." Very softly. Lays his hand on top of Walter's on the rib-bruise that hand's currently touching.

Thanked for that. As if -- as though -- it's too much and it makes Walter angry through the haze of his own lazy pleasure and he has no idea how to respond, what to say. Can only stare into Jean-Paul's puzzled eyes, dreading the fear which somehow never comes.

As if this anger, too, was all expected. All part of him and the sudden blinding need to know what was in the man's head. See it and comprehend it and roll in it like something sweetly corrupt.

In the end, "don't thank me. Please."

Pale fingers tangling in his sweat damp hair, Jean-Paul's response only a long, slow kiss that drains everything out of Walter save for the now maddeningly formless need.

Wraps his arms around Jean-Paul and holds him tight.

Waits for a reckoning.

janete
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