August-December 2001 (posted 02 April 2002)
Ultimate X-Men
Scott/Northstar

International relations.

Disclaimers: Everything here belongs to Marvel, one way or another. Still, though, it's nice to have a fresh new 'verse to play in. <g>

Spoilers: UXM up through #7, just to play it safe. Crossover with currently nonexistent Alpha Flight. The philosophy of this sort of fan fiction is really pretty bizarre.

You probably don't have to have read the other Handbasket stories to read this.

Handbasket Detour: A Dangerous Man
by Janete

Scott sighs internally, pleased that no one can see him narrow his eyes behind the visor.

That little smile is getting to him. Or, really, smirk.

Vaguely tilted eyes on Scott, on his coffee and his notepad. Eyes on him when he finally has to make a run for the men's room. Needing to escape this latest International Cooperation meeting. Wanting to get out of Toronto, period, if you come down to it, but that isn't going to happen. He's as unobtrusive as he can be, leaving, but he's being watched just the same, and it's hard to ignore.

The kind of look that, on anyone else, he'd think needed to be punched off, and maybe on Jean-fucking-Paul, too, but. Well.

Bad idea to get in a fight with the gay guy, for oh so many reasons.

Bad P.R.

Bad blood.

Fucking bad karma, but really, can he be blamed for being just a little on edge?

Xavier apparently doesn't recognize the great, big Keep Off sign Scott has on his mind, even when he purposely visualizes a sign and sends it at the man.

Just checking, Scott. You seem tense, Scott. Really, Scott.

Bobby and Hank still fucking like bunnies -- thankfully back at the mansion. With Peter, who really should be here instead of Scott. Jean -- fucking Jean -- apparently hopping straight from Wolverine's bed to Ororo's.

He wonders how he ended up being the only one of them who's not getting to be debauched. Resists the urge to look over his shoulder and see if Northstar's following.

In the government washroom he washes his face down. Sighs and shakes and comes back to the meeting, tries to slide in without anyone noticing.

Just wants to curl up at the end of the day and instead gets Ororo of all people standing over him and throwing clothes on his face. New orders, glasses boy. Come play with us.

Come watch the girls kiss each other stupid.

Riiiiiiiight.

They're gonna be the All X-Men Big Gay Revue. Wonders if Logan'll have to join if he ever comes back. Smirks a bit at the mental image of the Wolverine in Rocky Horror-style drag.

So.

Instead of being in bed he's in this club and it's way too late and the drink he's holding is more expensive than anything nonalcoholic should be. It'd even be a fairly pricey glass of Interferon. Ice between his lips. Watching this very -- mixed is a good word for it -- mass of people, and vaguely watching Ro kiss Jean against the wall. Bare black arms holding his golden girl down and it's not like she's resisting or anything. More like she'd take off her clothes right there if Ro asked her.

And then these lips on the back of his neck.

Spins into it and ... no one there.

People on the edge of the crowd turning to face him, give him odd looks. Scott sniffs his drink to be sure it's only what he ordered and then looks, really looks at the crowd. Slowly.

Resists the urge to touch the tingling spot on the back of his neck.

No sign of the man, but really, with a speedster, that just doesn't mean much.

Great.

Well, at least he knows the man wasn't trying to start a fight earlier.

Does his best to push back a blush, and knows he's not all that successful. Not at all looking forward to dealing with a flirtatious ex-terrorist.

Presumably ex-terrorist.

Hopefully ex-terrorist.

Though from what Scott's been able to pick up, the government had offered the man a choice between imprisonment and changing sides. God only knows how they caught him.

God only knows why the professor thought he'd be any good at P.R.

Team leader. Right.

Still no sign of the guy, and Scott moves to take another sip of his drink -- except his drink is no longer in his hands.

And there's a breeze.

Oh, yeah, this is what he needs. Fuck it.

Scott heads for the exit, calling up the memory of a Toronto map and the lovely fantasy of a warm, dark room he can just hide in until the next set of meetings and photo-ops. Has to push a little to get through the crowd until all of a sudden it just ... parts.

Half a moment to be grateful before he sees the reason why the crowd parts.

Jean-Paul, by all appearances, is walking on air.

Stalking on air. Directly toward Scott. Holding two fresh drinks.

Not quite far enough off the ground to hit the hot air that must be pooling close to the ceiling, but high enough that you couldn't miss him on a dare. Tall and focussed and layered in a lot of black that should be too young for him and isn't only because he's sex on legs.

Jean-Paul drops down in front of him and hands him something that's still got condensation on the sides. Watches him until he drinks.

Only afterwards thinks about the joys of Rohypnol, but Scott wonders if maybe this whole day wouldn't have been better if he'd spent it passed out.

Alcoholic buzz just starting to hit him by the time he realizes that what he downed was about six ounces of sub-zero Stoli. Like getting hit in the head with a large Russian.

Where the fuck's Peter, anyway?

Staggers, just once, and he does catch himself before he falls on his ass or something similarly bad. Propped up partly by force of will and partly by Jean-Paul's arm wrapped around the back of his neck. Tilting his head back. Big arm for a too-thin speedster.

Mouth that manages to just swallow him.

Right there. With everyone in the world and a lot of cameras watching.

PR city. Not maybe the kind that Xavier had in mind, and nothing that's gonna get them in good with the Representatives from a couple of key southern States, but it might make the cover of something.

Like maybe Blue Boy, if Jean-Paul's leg stays there between his much longer.

It's so hot in here Scott's sure he's going to melt or pass out.

Pulls back and stares into very vivid eyes surrounded by very black eyeliner from two inches away. Tries to ignore the fact that everyone in the world just saw that.

"Uh ..." Excellent start, Summers, really. "That is, ah, Jean-Paul --"

"Shh." Harsh little hush. "You're far too pretty to talk." Slow smile.

Far too. What? What? "I think you have the wrong idea, Mr. Beaubier." There, that was better.

"Do I? You're not pretty?" Strange little accent.

"No, I'm. Jesus." Being teased by a professional. "Look, I'm not --"

Tongue slipping between his teeth, slim, slick, and sweetly alcoholic and that leg isn't going anywhere. Which is not to say it isn't moving. Scott gets his arm between them, but Jean-Paul is gone by the time he goes to push, and Scott very nearly does fall over. Fucker.

Scott shakes it off.

Resolutely ignores the faces in the crowd, and the "Scott?" from somewhere behind him that's probably Jean. Not right now. Makes it out the exit and heads for the subway entrance.

And he's doing a remarkable job -- if he does say so himself -- of ignoring the motorcycle pacing him right up until it pulls up in front of him. On the sidewalk.

"Canadian driving laws this lax?"

"Laws are . . . boring. You're not. Join me."

Not a question. Who does this guy think he is, anyway?

Makes his way around the front of the bike and keeps walking. He'd like to see him get that bike on a subway train.

On second thought, he really, really wouldn't.

He'd like to see him drive off. But it isn't happening. Trailing along beside him with one foot down to keep the bike from tipping, just. Waiting.

Those are the most incredibly luminous eyes. Like they're lit from within or something. Part of the mutation, probably.

Subway entrance like a haven that he can dive for. The bike doesn't follow.

Underground full of party kids and curled-up homeless and late-shift workers coming off duty. Just past midnight. Cold.

He wishes he had a jacket. Even the vinyl thing that Xavier designed, though up here he doesn't need it. Land of no Sentinels. Wishes he had his hoodie back, the one hanging at the back of his closet in Westchester. Couple of cigarettes from the last time he smoked still in the pocket. Two or three maybe.

Something for his hands to do.

Route map that he has to study really carefully, since he doesn't have the advantage of colour to help him. Shuffle of an old Indian man in sneakers and a thirty-year-old parka that's too warm for this night, curled up by his feet.

Nice country they've got here. Of course, in comparison to New York . . . and it's not that he's judging, but.

But.

Drops himself onto one of the benches to wait, and maybe he shouldn't be surprised when there's a breeze and a guy beside him. Northstar's as much of a showoff as Quicksilver, but at least Quicksilver had the decency to fuck off when they weren't out working.

Of course, Quicksilver never kissed him like that, either.

In spite of himself, he shivers. And winds up with Jean-Paul's lips on his throat. Vertically, like he's checking something instead of licking at the skin there.

Scott sighs, and scowls at how much like a response that sounded.

"Jean-Paul."

"You have a wonderful accent. What is it?"

Accent? Oh, right. "Plain old American. Look, I don't want to have sex with you." Half-shocked that he was allowed to finish the sentence.

"You don't want me to suck your cock?"

"Jesus--! We're in public!"

"Well, I was planning to wait until we got back to your rooms, but I suppose . . ." Teasing, teasing voice and there's no sign of the train. At all.

Lots and lots of signs of public attention, as if his glasses and Jean-Paul's ears didn't already scream "freak!" to anyone looking. Turns and meets a smile that's far too brilliant to be that sly. Whispers harshly, "Are you trying to get us in a fight?"

"Chrisse, so prim. I heard you Americans were so wild ..."

"Sorry to disappoint."

Airy gesture. "No need to apologize, M'sieu Summers, I will live."

"I'm so very, very glad."

"Are you? Enough to celebrate?"

"Christ, you just don't quit, do you?"

Glittering smile. "No. I do not."

And he's gone, just like that, leaving another breeze and a hint of cologne Scott hadn't been able to pick up at the club.

Just a few more days, Summers, just a few more days ...

The train eventually shows up, and Scott manages to get back to his room without further incident. He's going to get the Professor for this, he really is.

In the morning.

Curls up for now without his pajamas. All his clothes in a pile on the floor, because it's not like they're going to get him into those again. Damn Jean and Ro anyway.

Shiver on the back of his neck that makes him sit straight up in bed, but all the windows and doors are closed, and nobody's there but him. Just tense. Eventually he sleeps.

Wakes with the softest, sultriest whisper he can imagine in his ear. "Sleeping alone?"

Enough to send him flying back across the bed, hanging onto the sheet but not by much. Stares at Jean who's perched happily on the edge of his bed grinning at him.

"Hey. Morning, you."

"Jesus Christ, Jean."

"He leave you before morning?" She's looking at the mess of Scott's clothes on the floor. At the bruise that he can feel now on his throat. And, well, jesus. It's like something out of a bad sex comedy.

"Jean, I just woke up."

He wishes really badly that she'd leave. Leave him alone to shiver out the edge of a hangover he's got. That thing Jean-Paul fed him was like drinking rubbing alcohol or something.

Decides to ignore her and goes to the bathroom. Sheet on the floor and at the moment he doesn't give a damn what she thinks of his underwear. Brushes his teeth without throwing up.

Brush of Xavier's mind against his that he pushes away hard.

"Oh, c'mon, Scott, I had to practically tie Ro down to get here --"

"Have I ever once expressed an interest in your love life?"

"The point is that I think I deserve details for my hard work. Though you get points for innuendo this early in the morning. Or, well, afternoon."

Spits in the sink. "Deserve? Don't even get me started on what you deserve, Jean."

Grin way too bright for his headache. "Oooh, meow. Spill it, Scott. I wanna hear all about your fall from heterosexual grace."

"Isn't it a little early in the game for you to be picking up a pride flag? And what do you mean, 'afternoon?'"

The grin turns evil. "Oh, you missed a meeting or two. I'm sure the Prime Minister won't mind."

"Don't joke like that, Jean."

"Who's joking?" Making herself comfortable on Scott's bed before sneaking a look at his face. "Oh, relax. The Prime Minister won't be here before dinner. All you missed were a few speeches. Tolerance blah blah international cooperation blah blah. And speaking of international cooperation --"

"Save it. Nothing happened."

"That great, big hickey begs to differ, Fearless Leader."

"It's not that big!"

"Oh, really? How big --"

"Jean. He flirted. A lot. I blew him off --"

"On the first date?"

"You know, Jean, at this range I really can't miss."

"Oh, fine. You're no fun at all."

"Go away, Jean."

Little twist of her hips by the door and this look over her shoulder. He's pretty much past any delusions that she wants him, but the curve of her spine's interesting enough to hold his eye for a minute.

Clothes. He rubs at the mark on his throat for a second, irritated because he can't really see it but he still knows it there. Finds a turtleneck that fits under his uniform jacket and tries not to think about the cliche of it all. Shaves. Takes his glasses off and scrubs his face down hard.

People really don't notice, downstairs. He just adds himself to the crowd and after half an hour one of the press photographers borrows him. Takes him out to the hotel's terrace, which is at least mercifully free of anyone but distracted-looking hotel staff laying tables and a couple of government aides going over loose papers.

So in the name of understanding and media coverage, he sits on the rail and gets his picture taken. Dry lawns and a lot of bare trees, and Lake Ontario in the background. Wave of humidity in spite of the cold.

Sits still and waits when they tell him and uses the quiet to put his head in order. He wishes he'd stayed in last night. Watched television or something, let the girls go off by themselves. Wishes that Bobby and Hank were along so he could send them. Wonders if there's anywhere in Toronto they could send Bobby for the night that wouldn't result in criminal charges.

There's a brush up against his hip that turns out to be Jean. Who steps in very close without actually ever touching him, and that's the way it stays until the photographer asks Scott if he'd please put his hand on her shoulder. Gets a quiet 'thanks' when he does it, and gets left alone after.

Jean says, "You okay?"

He sighs. "I think so. My head hurts." Brush of fingers and mind against his forehead and it eases a bit. "Thanks."

"No prob."

Photographer back. "Sorry kids. One more set? Last ones, I swear."

One more body added, warm against his side. Jean-Paul. Who glitters at the camera without smiling. In uniform, which in Alpha's case runs more to nylon than fake leather. Like warm-up suits with that little something extra. The combination of X-Men and Alpha Flight's gotta be a different look for the press, sort of softball-team-meets-bondage-club, but at least they match. Black on black. Warm hand against the side of his neck while they try not to stare into the flash.

Photographer gone for good, but Jean's giving him this look, and while the hand against his neck is gone, Jean-Paul's still right there.

Fingers under the back of his jacket. Touching through his shirt. Until Jean-Paul nods to Jean and wanders off.

Definitely too much to hope for that the man got the hint. Scott scrubs a hand through his hair and wishes fervently that Jean will be gone when he opens his eyes.

No such luck.

At least she's not giving him the tellmetellmetellme look that makes her look like an overdeveloped six year old. "What?"

"Just wondering what's on your mind."

Seizes up at the thought that Jean's found a way to poke around his head without him feeling it and gets a scowl in response.

"You've made it pretty clear that you don't want me in your head without permission, Scott."

"Since when do you listen?"

"Since ... I just wanted ... look, just forget about it."

"Jean --"

But she's already walking away.

One more check mark on the to-do list under improving interpersonal relationships. If things would just slow down a little. If people would.

And it's not as though the team is actually in trouble. Working better every day, as a matter of fact. They like and trust each other, especially with Wolverine off doing whatever it is he's doing. Definitely something to hope for that whatever he's doing takes a long, long time. But they all basically respect each other.

Like each other, too -- as long as Scott's not in the picture himself.

And leaders don't have to be liked. Plenty of evidence showing that it's better if they aren't.

Still, though. It would be nice. One conversation without awkwardness or hurt feelings. Just one.

Scott considers and rejects the idea of heading down to the cafeteria. He doesn't think they'd be serving it, but one overheard description of poutine was enough to kill anything resembling an appetite.

Grabs a bottle of water instead and heads for the street exit, shaking hands and nodding sagely at everything said to him. Not that he's listening, but it seems like the thing to do.

Something like Jean's voice in his head about protecting his tight-ass leader image. Whatever. Anything. Air.

Takes a deep breath when he gets outside. Doesn't really smell like anything resembling a city to him, though it's not quite suburban either. Something weirdly in-between that probably has something to do with being Canadian.

Not at all surprised to find Jean-Paul in step with him, and they take to the streets together. All races, all nationalities jumbled together, and yet nothing at all like New York. Something to chew on later.

"Can I help you?"

"Peut-etre ..."

And nothing else. God, Scott can't wait to see how his new team-mates put up with him. "Well?"

"Did you enjoy the Savage Land?"

And that, well, that shouldn't be as much of a surprise as it is, considering what he knows about Jean-Paul. Something about a mutant underground railroad down to the Savage Land. Political prisoners. Terrorists. One definition or another. "Yes and no." There. He can be cryptic and annoying, too.

"You seem to have returned intact."

"I got some good bruises."

"And you returned in time to rescue the man who murdered thousands." Steady eyes on him. Jean-Paul's profile says they're blue.

"Things would've been worse if he'd died."

Bad night, that one. The president laid out on the ground at Magneto's feet, and Scott'd had to think hard before deciding not to let Magneto take him apart. Silver-haired charisma, even in the helmet that obscured most of his face. Colder than anybody Scott ever met, but smart, and he'd known what was going on.

"If the leader of any other country had loosed the Sentinels, the world would call it genocide."

"I'm not defending what he did."

"He will never be accused. America does not answer before the world."

Scott sighs. "Remind me when this started being a conversation about politics."

Jean-Paul gives him something that might be a smirk. Apparently, Scott just lost this argument. For now. He files it away for one of his longer mental conversational reviews.

One more try, "Fine. Tell me why you're pissed with me personally or fuck off, okay?"

Long look. "You thought it was a better choice to save the life of your president than to tend to the injured in the Savage Land?"

"It wasn't just the president ..."

"There were children. They died because all aid went to America instead."

He thinks maybe ... "And you sent those kids there. Guilt enough of a reason to try and jump me in public?"

Flicker of a glare.

"I know you were intelligent enough to remove yourself from Xavier's reasoning once. I would like to know why you came back."

"Xavier's got a good idea."

"Xavier is a middle-aged, wealthy American. I suspect you will find that most of his ideas are concerned with protecting what he has."

"And I suspect you have a lot to learn about Americans."

"Again, perhaps. So you do believe in Xavier's ... dream?"

"I hope for Xavier's dream. I believe he's the best chance I have to make a difference."

"And if there was a better chance?"

"Is this a proposition?"

Slow smile. "It always was."

"I suppose I walked right into that one."

"If you always insist on making things so easy I'll quickly become bored, Scott."

"Let's have sex."

"Tch. I know you don't mean it."

Scott smiles despite himself. "It was worth a try." They walk in silence for a while, and Toronto... still looks nothing like a city. Scott keeps expecting them to disappear into tree-lined streets and white picket fence country. It doesn't happen, but Scott suspects that has more to do with Jean-Paul's subtle leading than anything else. "So, I take it this reformed act is just that?"

"Scott, I'm wounded! I am," a flourish, "an upstanding citizen now. All the papers say so."

"My apologies, then. I don't know where I got all these ideas about you."

"Hmmph. Then I must not be doing my job properly." Lightning-fast kiss on the corner of his mouth.

"You're just not getting this whole heterosexual thing, are you?"

Airy gesture. "Beneath my notice. But we were talking about your beliefs."

"We were?"

"Oui. Would you have stayed with Magneto if he had not attacked your president?"

"First of all, there are a large, large number of Americans who would refuse to claim George Bush as their anything --"

"You did not vote for him?"

"I don't have quite that much self-loathing. Not that the other guy was that much better, but ... look, how would you feel if I judged you based on Canadian politicians?"

Oddly delicate shudder that makes Scott smirk. "I take your point. But you never answered my question."

"Magneto believed in killing people. I don't. It wouldn't have lasted much longer."

"Your government --"

"I don't work for my government."

"No, but Xavier seems determined to... work within the system."

"And I'm not entirely happy about that -- but I don't want anyone's blood on my hands. Ever."

"A strong sentiment."

"You feel differently?"

"I think I may not be wrong in assuming I've led a more... varied existence than you have. I have learned that saying I wouldn't ever do something is... ill-advised."

Scott stops, waits for Jean-Paul to face him. Eyes a lighter, stranger purple than Bobby's. Certainly not unattractive, but. "You'd take someone's life?"

"I have."

Not like he's proud of it, at least, but there it is. And if he thinks about it, Scott realizes that he could probably have guessed. There are pictures in the file Xavier showed him of a cloth-masked Jean-Paul throwing Molotov cocktails at police lines in Geneva and Singapore and Rio. Of him picking fights with less militant organizers. The blood everywhere when they dragged him down in the middle of the Summit raid in Utrecht three years ago, skinny strung-out mutant heading like an unstoppable force towards a room full of leaders, meeting the immovable object of about a hundred police crammed into that marble hall.

Jean-Paul Beaubier, anarchist organizer that most governments and most resistors of government both wanted out of the way. Dangerous and ruthless.

Nothing like someone who gave him that playful little kiss on his mouth.

"Well, that's something to be proud of, I suppose."

"Fuck you, Summers."

French edge on 'fuck', like it has to be cut off at half a breath. Like a shove that doesn't come.

Silence in which he gets to walk by himself. Furious Jean-Paul just standing there, far behind him.

Twenty minutes before the man drops into step beside him again, wind and a new set of footsteps, and then Jean-Paul asks, "Do you think I am?"

"Proud?"

"Yes."

"No. But I think you're dangerous. You learn anything from getting dragged down like that?"

"I learned that striking alone is largely futile."

"Hence Alpha Flight?"

Shrug. Long, white hands keep disappearing into pockets and then pulling out again. "I worry less about them than about the men who control us. They think that mutants are weapons. Interesting that it should be your government that wants mutants outlawed."

"You're not going to make me argue the second amendment with you."

Urban twist of the next street. Glass downtown sliding back into view. He's seen enough of a map to understand that they could wander through urban sprawl interminably, and he's probably as lost as he wants to be. Doesn't want to have to call Jean or Xavier for directions. Light in his eyes reflecting off the buildings.

And eventually, Scott says, "Aren't we?"

"Hmmm?"

"Aren't we weapons?"

"I'm not. You are not a weapon unless someone can point you at someone and use you to hurt."

"So that makes you what?"

"Human."

Mouth on his again. Not hard, but making a point. And Scott finds himself wondering if he's attracted. It's been a long time since he's been a position remotely like this one -- and maybe that's the point. It is remote. And he is attracted. Which is something that hasn't happened in a long time. Not with a man. Not since... and there's no reason at all to think about any of that, so he won't.

So the question becomes whether or not he's going to do something about this attraction.

Jean-Paul pulls away before he can decide, which at least proves the man isn't perfect at this.

Or maybe he's just biding his time. Waiting for Scott to make a move.

Paranoia, around Jean-Paul at least, seems absolutely reasonable.

The two of them just standing there staring in the middle of the sidewalk, however, does not, even with the noticeably softer look on Jean-Paul's face.

Scott looks away first, makes an after-you gesture.

"Ah, I do love a gentleman. My thanks, m'sieu."

Scott doesn't bother to check his smile. "Anytime."

The silence is companionable, giving Scott the opportunity to actually pay attention to their surroundings. Very clearly the gay part of town. One more kiss and they're pretty much guaranteed to wind up on the cover of a newspaper with major circulation, but Jean-Paul keeps himself to himself.

Propriety? Keeping Scott on his toes? Smiles to himself. The latter is far, far more likely.

The rainbow flags pass out of view sooner than Scott would've expected, but maybe that's Canadian circumspection at work. In any case, Scott suspects Jean-Paul could queer an entire neighbourhood just by standing still long enough.

Smiles to himself again.

"It is good to know you can be something other than grimly serious, Scott."

"I'm glad."

"Why are you so angry all the time?"

"Why are you?"

Jean-Paul actually starts at that, though Scott would've thought he'd expect the question to be thrown back at him. Scott isn't sure how many times he'll actually meet the man, but he suspects he'll treasure every moment he surprises him.

"I am angry... perhaps because I someone has to be? No, that is... facile. Sexually frustrated? More and more likely, but... it was a serious question, oui?"

"Well... yes."

"So. I will attempt to answer seriously. Tch. You cannot possibly appreciate how well I am behaving for your benefit, Scott."

"I think I'm getting the picture."

"Hmph. See that you do." Nearly hallucinatory wink. "I am angry because I am a naturally dissatisfied person. I am a bitch to work with, and, I suspect, even more to live with. I am angry because we live in impossibly wealthy time, and yet people suffer all the time. I am angry because most of the people I fought to protect from suffering would just as soon see me dead. I am angry because I care, and I would rather not. I am angry because I know it makes me appear to be infinitely less shallow than I truly am. There. Now you."

"I don't know."

"A bald-faced lie. Try again."

"I feel like a weapon. Xavier points and I shoot."

Interesting look, that one. "You don't like him."

"He's given me everything I have. Not like I was doing much before. But he's holding all the cards, you know?"

"Are you afraid of him?"

"A psychiatrist would say -- one who's not Xavier, though he'd probably say it, too -- that I have control issues."

"An interesting state of affairs. I don't suppose the great professor is your psychiatrist?"

"Officially? Yeah, he is. Because he wouldn't have got custody otherwise."

Which makes for a pause in which Jean-Paul breaks stride and Scott doesn't. Four steps ahead of the man -- maybe for the first time ever -- before he notices.

"Scott, how old are you?"

"I'm seventeen. Why, is your conscience hurting?"

"You look much older."

"I have got you worried. People gonna come and take you away?"

"Prosecutable age of consent is fourteen in Ontario. And yes, I am worried. Particularly that your psychiatrist is using you as a combat agent."

"It's not quite like that."

"Are you afraid of him?"

"I don't know. He let me leave." Thinking about what a huge lie that is. Fingers in his brain, rearranging chemicals until he was so horrifically calm.

"Hmm. And took you back, apparently." Pause. "Are you afraid of me?"

"More afraid of what you could choose to do."

"That is fair... you do not have to stay with Xavier, you know."

"I think I prefer being treated like a piece of meat to being treated like a child."

"And do you prefer being treated as a pawn by a man with questionable ethics to that?"

"It's time for more meetings --"

"Fuck the meetings, Scott! We are being honest, oui? Speaking like adults?"

"Yes."

"Well. I do not want to see you used."

"I appreciate the sentiment, Jean-Paul, but I really don't feel like talking about this right now."

"You will think about what I've said?"

Hand on his shoulder, forcing Scott to look him, more or less, in the eye. "I will."

"Okay, good. I do not think I care for this Xavier very much."

"Jean-Paul --"

"Alright, alright, I will stop. I am hungry, and you did not eat lunch. Join me?"

"I really should get back."

Deep, deep sigh. "And now I have upset you. Let me take you to lunch to apologize. My treat, oui?" Stops Scott with a gesture before he can speak. "Please. I have enjoyed our conversation. Perhaps we can move the topic to something less... controversial?"

"Like what? Religion? Family?"

Wicked smile. "Ah, that is a wonderful suggestion. Tell me of your family, Scott."

"I don't have one."

"You see? Already we've moved on to something less painful."

Scott snickers despite himself. Black, black sense of humor. "Okay, you can take me to lunch."

"Ah, you are so kind..."

They wind up at Spring Rolls, a crowded but stylish Thai place with, he has to admit, absolutely incredible food. Makes a note to suggest it to Jean later, but mainly just watches Jean-Paul consume enough food for about three Hanks and a Peter.

They have to use another table to hold all the food. Something about having a metabolism that fast, he supposes. It probably explains why Quicksilver never ate in public.

Jean-Paul has no such qualms, which suits his personality pretty well.

"So, what about your family?"

"I have a sister, Jeanne-Marie. She is... troubled in some ways. Threw herself into the church."

"She's very religious?"

"She's a nun."

"I'll take that as a yes. Do you get to see her very often?"

A shrug. "She came to the prison to pray for me. I fear she is not very pleased with the choices I've made in life."

"That must be hard."

"Jeanne-Marie does what she does to survive, as I do."

Scott nods, returns his attention to the pad thai, which is as close to perfect as it can possibly be, and watches Jean-Paul eat. Surprising to see him do it at a nearly human pace, but he'd slow down for this food, too.

"Does it bother you?"

"Pardon?"

"That I eat so much."

"You forget who I live with."

"Ah, yes, your whole team lives in the same house. I think I would go insane."

"New team that bad?"

"We are all adults. And we have little in common beyond our mutancy."

"We do okay." Except for Logan, who's like cyanide down the well. Who's gone for the time being. "Gives us a lot of chances for illicit sex."

He's made Jean-Paul choke. He's proud of that.

Jean-Paul gropes for his water glass, downs most of it, and shakes silently for a minute. Gives Scott a look in the exact middle ground between sultry and dirty.

"Vraiment?"

"Huh?"

"Really?"

"Um, by any count, yeah. Absolutely true. We've got seven people right now, and four of them are fucking each other's brains out."

"Teenagers. I can only imagine what that volume of hormones would do to the human mind."

"Says the guy who keeps trying to seduce me."

"Who?"

"You. Deny it and I'll kick you."

"No. Who are your resident lovers?"

"Oh. Um, Jean and Ororo and Bobby and Hank."

"I see a pattern."

"All the X-Men having Big Gay Sex? I'd noticed."

Long look. "Interesting phrase."

"I blame TV."

"Does it bother you?"

"Depends. Jean and Ro, not really. They're a little too impressed with themselves, but what the hell. Bobby and Hank? Yes. A lot. But Bobby's told me I can fuck off, which unless it starts bothering the team is pretty much the end of it."

"I think I applaud him. You felt it necessary to interfere, though?"

"I was worried. Hank's a lot older than him, and a lot bigger than him, and he had these bruises and. Never mind. That's none of your business."

Long, steady look. Master of the pregnant pause, sitting there across from him.

"Fuck off. It isn't."

Nod. "Alright."

Quiet. Noise all around them and this mix of people who either stare at them or don't. He gets the feeling that maybe really a lot of these people at least sort of know who Jean-Paul is. Watching him while he finishes eating and studies the table carefully for a minute. Looks at his own fingernails distractedly.

"What's it like to be famous?"

"Hmm? Oh. Irritating." And he reaches across the table absently and picks up Scott's hand. Looks at it like he's looking for something.

Brushes a thumb over Scott's palm, but doesn't do anything else that would give him an excuse to pull away.

"You read palms?"

"Oui. I predict that I will make you come screaming."

Scott supposes it was his turn to choke. And have way too many images crowding his mind about just how Jean-Paul would go about doing that. Fully aware that he's blushing.

Jean-Paul searches his face in that way people have when they're trying to look him in the eye that tends to make them look far, far more insecure than they really are.

Still, it's an attractive look for as long as it lasts, before Jean-Paul picks a spot on the visor to stare at. And stares. Not a leer so much as a promise.

"Uh..."

"Scott, I very much want to have sex with you. Can we?"

"Jean-Paul --"

"Now, if you had just said 'no,' I could assume I had no chance --"

"You didn't give me a chance!"

"Scott, you were about to equivocate."

"How do you know?"

"Because I am very, very good at this."

"You've also got an ego the size of a province."

"C'est vrai, but that does not mean I am wrong."

"God, you're unbelievable!"

"And you haven't taken your hand back yet."

"I was being polite!"

And Jean-Paul lifts his hand and kisses it, just once, in the centre of the palm, before releasing it. Scott had honestly believed dry kisses were supposed to be chaste before now.

"So, you were being polite. That is sweet. You should know by now that you need not be polite with me. I don't want that from you."

"What do you want?"

"Honesty. Camaraderie. Sex. Perhaps not in that order. I think we can be very good with each other, Scott."

"Thanks, but I'm not really in the market for a long-distance relationship."

"You have no idea how quickly I could reach you in New York from here if I had a reason."

"Look, Jean-Paul, I'm really flattered, but the truth is I'm not in the market for any relationship. There's just. Too much going on right now."

"I can be an excellent distraction."

"That's just what I'm afraid of." And Scott immediately wants to take it back, but it's much too late, judging by the predatory gleam in Jean-Paul's eyes.

"If I kissed you now, Scott, what would you do?"

"I don't know. Freeze, take it, go away after and shiver in the bathroom and do just about anything to avoid coming back out here."

Jean-Paul nods. And then lays a corporate credit card on top of the cheque and stands.

"I think we have meetings."

Wordless all the way back. And really, Jean-Paul could be there in a couple of seconds without making himself breathless, so he must still be with Scott because he wants to be.

Just this once, a block from the hotel, one arm wraps around Scott'sneck in a sideways hug and pulls him close for a moment. Kiss that he almost can't feel on his hair. And this incredibly sad look that he doesn't quite know how to interpret.

Thousands of photographers as soon as they come around the corner. Walking independently, both of them with their hands in their pockets. Scott separates himself from the flashbulb-induced blindness enough to notice that Jean-Paul's not smiling for the cameras. But maybe he never does.

Conference room inside in which they both slide in at their team tables and Xavier and Chretien keep talking. Jean looks at him like she's going to say something. Then looks over at Jean-Paul and doesn't.

Only later, in the elevator, she says, "You hurt him."

"Sorry. What?"

"Northstar. I didn't think it was possible but you hurt him. Break his heart in one day?"

"Jean ..."

She gets off with him and walks him backwards until he has to sit down in the next alcove. Gets a better view of her cleavage than he really should have while she's bending over him.

"How'd you do it?"

"I don't know what you mean."

"I got to feel him brooding all afternoon. Tell me how."

Leans forward and really if she gets any closer he's going to be giving Ororo some competition whether he wants to or not.

She smells really, really good.

"I don't know. Disappointed him, maybe."

"How, Scott."

"I told him what'd happen if he kissed me."

Jean pushes herself upright and walks away from him. Ignores him when he calls to her. Ignores him when he calls her back as Marvel Girl, which means that he should really haul his ass down there and drag her back by the hair and remind her that he's in charge.

Instead goes to his room. Strips the vinyl off and showers and still smells its plastic edge all over him.

Goes out. This incredible freedom of being able to walk around in ordinary clothes without being afraid. Like as long as he keeps his head down and nobody looks too hard at the glasses, he could go anywhere.

Wonders if he could convince Xavier to leave him behind. Wonders, if he just ran away and hitch-hiked to Vancouver or somewhere, would anyone would come after him? If he came to Jean-Paul's door tonight and asked whether Alpha Flight would have him, would they?

Suspects he's not at his most welcome right now. Except that he's at least as shaky and unhappy as he's made Jean-Paul. And this.

He doesn't know what to do with this.

He finds a liquor store. Ducks in and works his way around everyone else until he comes up with something with a high proof and a price tag he can cover out of what's in his pockets. Slides in between two people who look like they're stocking up for the winter months, and the girl on checkout, who looks like she's three days short on sleep, doesn't ID him, just glances at the passport in his hand and the American money he gives her, takes it at par and hands him his bag.

Back to the hotel, somewhere between sweating from the walk and freezing cold. Upstairs, in his room long enough to find the program folder somebody's aide gave him yesterday, and finds room numbers.

Two floors up and a walk off to the right to reach Jean-Paul's door.

Leaning against the doorframe and holding out the whiskey when Jean-Paul answers the knock in his jeans and socks and no shirt. Stares at him for a second, then goes back to his bed and finds a sweater. Pulls it on and comes back.

"Did you want something, Scott?"

Really doesn't want to examine the twinge of disappointment at a fully-clothed Jean-Paul. "I thought we could continue our conversation."

Long, long look before Jean-Paul nods, gestures him in.

Scott takes the chair in the corner of the room, turns it toward the bed, over which Jean-Paul is quite literally hovering, cross-legged and fingers folded.

"What do you want to talk about, Scott?"

"Well, I think we still have religion left." Tries a smile. The bottle is heavy in his hands. What was he thinking?

"Atheist, you?"

"The same."

"Well, that was brief."

"Uh. Yes." And the silence is awkward this time. Ridiculously awkward. Jean-Paul not looking at him at all. God, the flirting would've been less uncomfortable. "I'm guessing now wasn't the best time to visit. I'll. Um. I'll get out of your hair." Moves to stand.

"What did you really want to talk about?"

"What?"

"Tonight. Now. What did you think would need a bottle of cheap bourbon to get out?"

Scott sits heavily and blows out a breath. Because, well, what did he think he was doing? Apologizing, maybe. "I wanted to apologize."

"You did nothing to apologize for."

"No, that's not ... I just wanted to."

And now Jean-Paul's looking at him. Somewhat curious, but mostly resigned. "I won't push you, Scott. I don't have to flirt with you at all."

"I know."

"Is that what you want?"

"No. Yes. Christ. I want... I want to tell you why I want that."

"You don't have to do that."

And there's something... wrong, disturbing even, with Jean-Paul sounding even half that gentle. Making it easy for Scott to just bolt. Hell, probably wants him to. Nobody likes hanging out with the person who just threatened to run and hide if you kissed them. But. "I do. Have to say it."

"Alright."

"I mean, you don't have to listen --"

"I'll listen. Honesty, oui?"

"Yes. Yeah. I guess. I guess I'll just spit it out, then. It's not that I'm not attracted to you. I am. Very attracted. It's just... I don't have the best history with guys."

"Somebody hurt you."

"You could say that."

"Badly enough that you felt you had to intercede for Bobby."

"Who told me he was old enough to know the difference between healthy and unhealthy sex, and that I was out of line."

"Bobby is, I think, fifteen."

"Yes."

"I would worry too."

"Hank's nineteen. It's a smaller age split than you and me."

"Four years in their case. Eight in ours."

"I want to be able to go over there and kiss you. You tasted really good, you know?"

Soft, inward smile. "Thank you. You have lovely hands."

"Why did you pick me?"

Hands in the air. "Choose a reason."

"Give me some."

"You were lovely. You were watching me. You refused to talk during the first meeting. You watch everyone. You ran away to Magneto. You came back. You looked utterly miserable in that club."

"Why get me drunk?"

"I thought it might induce you to sleep with me."

"That's blunt."

"It's the truth. There are rumours about that I'm an unpleasant person."

Momentary urge to blankly refute that, but... that wouldn't be honest. And there's something incredibly powerful about this style of conversation. About this conversation. "I don't find you unpleasant."

"You flatter me."

"Annoying, yes. Pushy as hell, definitely. Intermittently infuriating ..."

Short bark of laughter, and Jean-Paul rolls over on his back. Actually lands on the bed for what could be the first time. Gives Scott an upside down smirk with his head hanging over the side of the mattress. "And attractive. Let's not forget that, Scott."

"Not possible."

Long, shared look. A serious look, but not, for once, measuring.

"You are a dangerous man, M'sieu Summers."

"Then I'm in the right company."

Jean-Paul brings the back of his wrist to his forehead, sighs dramatically. "Ah, and just when I am weakened by your disregard, you build me high once again with flattery. My heart is weak ..."

And Scott smiles, opens his mouth, perhaps to comment on the man's acting ability, but all that comes out is, "I'd like to be your friend."

And Jean-Paul is on his belly and staring at him hard in less than a blink. "Vraiment? Really?"
 

"Really."

Brilliant smile, quickly and expertly hidden behind a leer. "So. We will be friends, you and I. Kissing friends, perhaps?"

"I don't want to give you the wrong idea..."

Dismissive gesture. "Oui, oui, no sex, you are not ready. Yet. This I understand. Mais... perhaps I can show you not all kisses are to be escaped?"

Heart in his throat at just the thought of it, and Scott nods. "Okay." Expects a rush at him, but Jean-Paul stands slowly, normally. Eyes on Scott's the entire time as he walks across the floor. Feet actually touching the floor.

Hand on his cheek, warm and callused. He wants to see the blue of Jean-Paul's eyes. Wants it with a sudden heat that makes him blush. Tiny curl of a smile on Jean-Paul's mouth and the realization that he'll be kissing it, just as soon as Jean-Paul leans in and.

Does it. Slow, careful. Dry for long moments of press and near-release until Scott closes his eyes, opens his mouth, and slips his tongue past Jean-Paul's lips. Something sweet and reminiscent of dessert, and hot and wet and Jean-Paul sucking on his tongue for long moments.

Almost drinking him, and it's too gentle, too slow, too serious or not serious enough and Scott slips his tongue back into his own mouth, coaxing Jean-Paul to follow. Jean-Paul's hand on his cheek and tongue in his mouth and fingers tracing his jaw line and Scott.

Can't help it. Pours himself into the kiss, licking the other man's tongue and moaning because this is. Everything that Jean-Paul wants to give him and the promise of so much more.

Wants to reach out and take it, pull that lean body against his own and just crush it to himself. Wants to keep kissing until he passes out. Wants to run for his life.

And when Jean-Paul pulls away, Scott's more than a little relieved. "That was..." Soul-searing? Blinding? Very nice?

Low laughter without a trace of airiness, for once. Disturbing and compelling. "Oui. It was."

Jean-Paul tracing Scott's cheek with his fingers and staring at his mouth. Which, really, is only fair considering that Scott is staring at Jean-Paul's. Wet and a little swollen. Kissed. Kissable.

"I think I need that drink now, Scott. Join me?"

"All --"

Scott, I need to speak with you immediately.

What is it, Professor?

I'll be waiting in your room.

He gets the same slightly nauseous feeling as Xavier withdraws from his mind that he's been getting since he came back from the Savage Land. Like he's not doing it very carefully and leaving little raw bits of Scott behind.

Makes him stagger and by the time his vision clears Jean-Paul's holding him up. Arm around his waist, holding him very close. One hand on his forehead, tilting his head back so Jean-Paul can look at his pupils.

"Chrisse, Scott, are you alright?"

"Yeah. I'm fine." Pushing away. "Xavier wants to see me. Like, now."

"It wasn't me who made you swoon, then."

"Sorry to disappoint."

Sigh. "Ah well. Do you want your bottle?"

"You wanna keep it for me? I think Xavier might not be too impressed if I showed up with it."

"Very well." Reaches out and steadies Scott a little. "You look terrible."

"Yeah, I probably do. I'll talk to you later, okay?"

"Definitely."

Hand trailing down his arm to take his hand, quick squeeze. And Scott leaves.

Upstairs though the too-deep rugs in this place. Makes everything too quiet, and it smells a bit too much like pink-scented air fresheners. The kind he remembers from somebody's house, a long time ago. One with white wall-to-wall in the bathroom and furniture you couldn't sit on or even touch.

His own room's locked, but Xavier has a key card. Scott's pretty sure that he's the only one that Xavier's holding a second key on. He's the only one who walked out, after all, and there's no telling what he could do next. He could start holding the cleaning girls hostage any time now. Feels like a revocation of the promise the man gave him, though, that he could always lock his door from the inside. More nausea.

Wishes he'd got that drink.

And yeah, Xavier's there. In the corner, on the other side of the mess of clothes and papers. Little wheel tracks through them, so it can't have been easy, but it leaves him perfectly positioned to watch the door.

"Sit down, Scott."

Edgy little compulsion in his brain, but he isn't strong enough to fight this and everything after it too. He sits, in the middle of one messy bed. Aware that anybody who photographed him right now wouldn't be looking to use the shot to promote the upstandingness of young mutants. Fear of delinquents in the dark, maybe.

"You should be in bed by now."

"I thought we decided I was a bit old for a curfew." Remembers that conversation. Not one of the bad ones, just that edge of the psychiatrist-cum-parent speaking.

"We determined that your sleeping habits were your own as long as they never interfered with your duties." Long, steady look. "You were conspicuously absent this morning."

"Yeah, I'm sorry about that. Anybody notice?"

"The Minister asked where you were. Briefly, but he did. The others were all present. As was all of Alpha Flight."

Fuck.

"I slept in. I'm sorry. I felt like shit."

"It happens when you drink. I would have thought you'd have noticed by now."

"I didn't --"

"I rather think you did. The image was in Jean's mind, and Ororo's. Do I need to remind you that your arrest as a minor in possession of alcohol would do critical damage to our mission?"

"I didn't buy it."

"No, of course not. I'll allow that you also didn't know what it was when you drank it, though that alone was remarkably stupid. But you accepted the drink, you drank it, and you left the club in the company of a man eight years your senior, and then were not present for our morning meetings.

"Scott, as you well know, I feel no need to interfere in my students' relationships so long as they don't affect the X-Men."

"Why do I get the feeling that any relationship I choose to enter into will, in some way, affect the X-Men in your opinion?"

"There's no reason for paranoia, Scott."

"The man who has legal custody of me is the world's most powerful telepath and feels no compunctions about screwing with my mind when it's convenient. I'd say that's an excellent reason for paranoia, Professor."

"So you want it to be that sort of conversation?"

"Is there any other kind with you? You've got an agenda. Fine, I signed on. Now get the hell off my back and out of my room."

"You have responsibilities --"

"And I have every intention of fulfilling them for as long as we're working together. Isn't that what you said? 'More of a partnership than anything else,' isn't that right?"

"I wasn't aware of any definition of partnership that involves one of the partners taking off with no --"

"Permission?"

"Word. Scott, why are you so angry?"

"Because you don't trust me enough to make up my own mind, for one. Because you don't trust me enough to tell me half the things going on in your mind for another. That's enough to start."

Gently, "I've never lied to you."

"And you and I both know that's not the same thing."

"And you and I both know that there are other telepaths out there who could easily pick past any shields you might put up to get to any and all information I release. We are not safe, Scott. You should know that best of all."

"Wonderful, let's just drag my past into it."

"If you wish."

Angry, angry, and Scott forces himself to pause before he says anything else. Hard to concentrate when he's straining so hard to feel any touch of the Professor's mind to his own, but he can do this. He can do this. "Stay out of my head."

"Scott --"

"No. No equivocating, no soothing voices, no psychic commands, no little mood adjustments whenever you feel like it. No more. Or I'm gone."

"And where will you go?"

"As far away from you as I can get."

Long, long moments of silence. Not even sure he could believe the man even if he did promise. Not looking forward to being on the wrong side of him. Nowhere near convinced he has a right side. "Well?"

"All right, Scott. I will not enter your mind without your permission, unless you are in grave danger."

"And who decides that?"

The Professor sighs. Rubs the bridge of his nose. At least the damned cat couldn't come. "You do realize that there is the possibility that you might not be in any condition to make that decision?"

Feels young. Stupid, lost. Wonders how difficult it is to get Canadian citizenship. Hell, Zimbabwean citizenship. "Fine. Fine, all right. If I'm in danger." Feels like he's giving away the house. "Are we done?"

"I need your word that you're going to stick this out, Scott."

Narrows his eyes at him.

"I can't help it if you persist in screaming your thoughts across the room."

"I don't want to be your pawn."

"We're all pawns in someone's game."

"And I don't want your philosophy."

"Do I have your word or not?"

"I'll think about it."

"I'm afraid I need better than that, Scott."

"It's been a long time since you've given me any reason to trust you, Professor."

"It's been a long time since you've bothered to try."

Headache coming on and Scott grits his teeth against it. Doesn't help remotely. "You killed Magneto."

"There is no prison in the world that would have been capable of holding him."

"So you're playing judge, jury and executioner now?"

"We all do what's necessary, Scott. I think you'll find your friend Jean-Paul has a similar philosophy --"

"I don't want to talk about him with you."

"All right." Mild as milk. "The point remains."

"So it does." Brief moment to wish he believed in a God he could pray to. "All right. All right. I promise. But I wouldn't kill for Magneto and I won't kill for you."

"Thank you. And you do realize that I hope the situation never arises where that would be necessary?"

"I'll get back to you on that. Now can I sleep, please?"

"I think that would be an excellent idea. I'll leave you to it." Wheels himself to the door. Looks back. "I don't want to be your enemy, Scott."

"And I sure as hell don't want to be yours. Good night."

"And to you."

Just curls up on his bed with his clothes on for a minute. Knees up against his belly, shoes still on. Mess in here that he should've dealt with instead of leaving it for the staff to deal with. Wants to be back in Westchester or New York or somewhere really remote on the West Coast where he can just sort of crouch in one of those big, ancient trees for the next century.

Kicks off his shoes after a while.

There's a kind of warm glow coming off the city outside. Edges of condensed car exhaust. He can hardly believe how cold it is for October. Gold-on-black that gives him something to stare at out the window.

Knock.

"Fuck off." Very softly.

Longer knock.

"Scott?" Jean-Paul.

Has to pull a lot of bits of himself together to answer the door. Messy hair and no shoes and his sweater pushed up his belly. T-shirt showing underneath.

Sleepy, "What?"

"Are you alright?"

Shakes himself out. Feels like a dog doing it, all his hair flying. "Yeah, I think so. Sorry about running out on you." Rubs both hands over his face, wishing vaguely that he could really work the heels of his hands into his eyes, get some of the ache out of them. "Fuck I'm tired."

Jean-Paul nods. Steps in just that much closer.

"This is a shit thing to say, but don't kiss me right now, okay?"

"I won't." Soft breath against his cheek.

Leans into him for a second, shoulder to shoulder. Big arms around his shoulders sometime after. Bigger than they should be, considering most of Jean-Paul is tendon and bone. Just muscle mass, probably, the kind that you build up by being older than Scott is, but at any rate it makes him a pretty solid surface to lean against. Hugging him with this fierce tightness that he wants to shake off for the first couple of seconds.

And then takes it. Arms around his shoulders, and fuck him for a human wreck, because this is the only friend he's got, and Jean-Paul's been pretty open about his quest to get into Scott's pants. Enough of that hanging over him that he can't give the hug back. Just leans against Jean-Paul and rests his forehead against the man's neck and sags a bit.

Eventually stands up again and moves out of range. Hugging himself in a way that he doesn't want to be.

"See you tomorrow?"

Jagged little smile that makes him shiver. "Goodnight, Scott."

Tries a smile in return. "Good night."

And then a little too restless to go right to bed. Straightens the room some. Folds and re-packs the dirty clothes on the bottom of the suitcase, sniffs the uniform and decides to switch to the extra one for tomorrow. Doesn't want to encourage the Professor to mindfuck any local dry cleaners.

Or anyone else, ever, really.

Just feels extremely... dishonest. And that's pretty much the word of the day, isn't it?

Paces a little. Doesn't really have the energy for it, but doesn't especially want to get in the bed, either. Even bigger than the one at the mansion. Too much space. Too much room.

Considers asking the Professor for something nice and narrow, considers the problems of that should Jean-Paul...

And he said he'd come.

Too much to think about tonight.

Crawls into bed and has just enough time to realize how tired he really is before passing out.

Still dark when he wakes up, which he supposes is a good sign. Checks the clock. Quarter to six. Idly considers waking Jean-Paul for a nice, brisk run. Decides to preserve the friendship a little longer, but there's no way he's getting back to sleep. Winds up just wandering the halls for a while, nodding to the security guards. Third time past the guys in the lobby and they make him sit down and drink some coffee. It doesn't seem quite logical, but he goes with it.

Manages to talk about the weather, and a lot about New York. Doesn't know enough about the tourist areas to really be much help, but he supposes it looks good on the whole interpersonal relations scale.

Back to his room to splash some water on his face before the breakfast speeches, and to avoid being the first one there. Doesn't particularly want to look like he's just gotten that stern talking-to he suspects they all know he got.

Only a few speeches this time around. Department H representative talking about their goals for Alpha Flight. Team arrayed behind and to either side of him, freshly scrubbed and fully in uniform. One really, really little guy. One really, really big guy. Though to be fair, the big guy looks like he'd be way more comfortable in, say, a library. Or possibly a comics shop. Code name... Sasquatch. Yeah, that was it. Odd. Very odd.

One long, tall brunette who looks like she could kick his ass six ways from Sunday, and also looks like she knows it. Lily or something. Damn. He really is unprepared. Vague, brief moment of wanting to apologize to the Professor, but it passes.

A man and a woman giving off serious 'together' vibes. Guesses those would be the co-leaders... Heather and Mac. God, at least he remembered that much. And not mutants at all. Cyborgs of some kind. Wonders how Jean-Paul feels about that.

Catches him looking at him, one eyebrow raised. Sudden, highly rational fear that the man will do... something. Scott clears his throat and focuses on the speaker again. Nothing new, but nothing particularly ominous, either.

Good enough.

And then filing past the reporters for obligatory "candid" shots. Scott smiles for the camera and Jean moves up beside him for a few shots. Wonderful.

"He's not unhappy anymore."

"Oh?"

"Um, yeah. Scott?"

"Yeah?"

"I'm sorry, okay?"

Nearly stumbles, but plays it off as best he can. "Okay..."

"I just. Can we talk? Sometime when it's not insane?"

Now that's ominous, but he's going to be on his best behaviour today if it kills him. "Sure, Jean."

Quick squeeze of his hand and she's slipping through the press of reporters, dignitaries, and mutants again. Presumably back to Ro.

Breakfast is good and stressful, complete with reporter-musical-chairs, each and every one of them with a plastic smile and a question timed for the moment he manages to get some food in his mouth. This, at least, he can do. God knows they've practiced their answers.

Little girl reporter, of all things. Looks about three or four years older than he is at the absolute outside. Ponytail and a little grin, notebook in one hand and dictaphone in the other. She wins the chair war and gets him in a corner, like they're just friends. One foot under her and these half-teasing questions about whether he likes the country, the people. How he feels about doing this at his age, and a little wanna-tell-me-how-old-you-are look. Followed by exactly the same as a formal question, which he manages not to answer.

Which must piss her off, because the next thing she says is, "So. How much of the city did you get to see with Northstar?"

Little tilt of the man's head at the sound of his name, but he's twenty feet away, and the man who's interviewing him is soft-voiced, bearded, and armed with a CBC recorder.

"Oh god, I don't know. We had lunch at a place called something like Golden Spring, but I haven't had a chance to sightsee properly."

"Are you friends?"

"I think so. I've known him for about three days."

"Is your relationship with him causing any friction between your teams?"

The phrase that immediately leaps into Scott's mind is, When did you stop beating your mistress?

Followed by, Ride of the Valkyries.

As a middle-aged, overweight, long-haired woman in something like a cross between bondage gear and a Halloween costume runs shrieking towards him. Waving a toy sword. Scott isn't sure he understands a word she's saying.

Maybe he looks pathetic and helpless, or maybe it's just because she knows he's already screwed, that the little girl leans over and says, "She's Mary Walsh. She's a comedian, and she has pretty much total access. She's gonna come over here and yell at you for a minute. Smile and nod. Don't hit her. Everybody in the country's gonna see this the day after tomorrow."

"What's she saying?"

"That's a Newfoundland accent. Just smile and nod. I'm so gone."

"Hello my darling! As Marg, Princess Warrior, I heard about your little quest and I just had to throw on my little suit of power and come help you! Ooooooh! Look at you!"

Hand that clamps around his chin and squeezes his cheeks in like the grip of the aunt from hell.

"Good lord but they're turning them out young these days! When I was your age, b'y, and I'll have you know it wasn't so long ago as all that, they made your superheros out of stronger stuff than you. I likes my men with a little meat on them. Come on. Up with you."

The same hand lifts him more or less straight onto his feet. He's not quite sure how she got to be so strong. He wishes the cameraman and the guy with the boom would stop looking at him with quite such helpless grins.

"Just a little fella, aren't you, duckling? And those terrible men're all about makin' you rescue damsels! Bet you couldn't even pick me up." She lets go of his chin, but the arm clamps around the back of his neck, and she lets her knees give. Staggering under her extra weight. "Poor little fella. Can't even lift the likes of me. Not that you couldn't make two damsels of me, but come on, my love. Give it a go."

And what the hell. Smile and nod and try it. Arm under her shoulders, arm under her knees. Shorter than he is, but solid and fierce, and she's swinging her sword wildly. Finally gets her up and boosts her in against him, grins at the camera as best he can.

She kisses him. Wet and messy and it's obviously meant as a joke, but his eyes bug out anyway.

Moment where she pulls back and points his face towards the camera, obviously capturing his expression for posterity, and why couldn't this have happened to Hank? Or Peter? Or Jean. Jean would've been a good choice. Bug her about her new lesbian love life.

And over his shoulder, the lady in his arms yells, "Oh! Mr Beaubier have I got a lovely little one for you!"

Something he can't hear. She's heavy and she keeps wiggling and it's going to look so, so bad if he drops her.

"No you don't! I've got him all held down for you! Peter you old dog, you give him to us. Come on."

Jean-Paul comes. With his hands in his pockets and his face already faintly red, trailed by the man from the CBC. Who looks like he's going to kill himself laughing very, very quietly.

"Alright, my love. I've tested him for you and I'm willing to declare him the best little kisser the poor old yanks brought with 'em, but I wants a second opinion."

Jean Paul puts his hands up. Covers his face for a moment. Asks, "Why?"

Job asked "Why?" in that exact same tone.

"For both sides of the court, boy. We've got my opinion for the ladies, and we need yours for the men's."

Jean-Paul dodges the guy with the boom and steps too close. "Marg" gets him in a headlock. Grins at the camera and announces, "Faster than a weaselling Northstar!" Kisses him on the side of the head and pulls him in. "One kiss, love. For the greater knowledge we're supposed to have of all you sort."

Awkward as hell, and in a minute Scott's back's gonna give. Realizes that Jean-Paul's hovering close to a foot off the ground to lean over the leather-clad body between them. Soft lips across his cheek that whisper, "Sorry."

This very soft, careful kiss just to the side of his mouth.

"You can do better than that, b'y."

Jean-Paul backs off. Puts his hands up in front of his face and shakes his head.

In Scott's ear, she whispers, "It's alright. You can put me down."

His knees, somehow, don't give. Swings her down and lets her hold him around the neck for a second. Competent fingers work at his neck and when she pulls away he's wearing a very small red cape. Goes with his face.

Makes him jump when he pats his ass. And marches away, sword out, tech guys trailing after.

And the world goes distinctly pink as everybody and their mother gets the apparently obligatory post-Marg, Princess Warrior shot of him. Canadians, he's decided, are clearly bizarre.

By the time he's fixed his expression, it's much, much too late, and he returns to his breakfast, which is now extremely cold and rubbery, but he finishes it anyway. Surprisingly uninterrupted. It's possible they're taking pity on him, but that doesn't seem quite in character for reporters.

Wanders over for more coffee and gets to nearly finish that in peace before another reporter corners him. This one in a very good suit who, for some reason, wants him to talk about the economy.

Scott fakes it as best he can until the man wanders off in the vague direction of Ro, who's getting her hair petted by far too many different people. Her smile doesn't slip. But then again, it seems painted on at this point, so he supposes that none of them are getting off easy here.

Sighs again and decides to not take the opportunity to escape. Works on making his expression as blank and noncommittally pleasant as he can. Thinks he probably looks more like a sacrificial lamb than anything else.

Sure enough, cameras start pointing in his direction again.

And soon there are more speeches, and Scott's beginning to wonder if they might not all be the same speech. At this point, no one can possibly be listening close enough to be sure.

The professor goes on just before lunch, and, perhaps picking up on the entire room's mood, keeps it brief. Tolerance. International cooperation. Dangers of the Sentinel program. Hope for the future.

Less than twenty minutes, all told, and Scott could almost hug the man.

Almost.

Waits until there's a lull in the congratulatory crush at the front of the room before sending, Headed out to lunch. I'll be back in plenty of time for the closing ceremonies.

Thank you, Scott.

Makes a break for the exit and has made it two blocks away before Jean-Paul just sort of... appears at his side. No way in hell he's going to get used to that.

Companionable silence for another block, mostly because Scott can't think of a thing to say.

"Italian, Scott?"

"Pardon?"

"For lunch. I know a place where the portions are fit for the gods."

"They probably run in fear when they see you coming."

"Ah, but you don't, and this is enough for me."

"I'm a practical man, Jean-Paul. It's not like I'd get all that far."

"From me? No, I do not think so."

Smiling at each other for long moments before Scott realizes that's what he's doing and then he just hopes he can blame his blush on the ridiculously cold wind. The uniform keeps his body warm enough, but it could use a mask. Maybe a long, vinyl scarf.

When club-kids do winter

Grinning again, and fuck it, it feels good. Almost as good as when their arms occasionally brush. Really, really wants to kiss Jean-Paul again, preferably someplace far away from the rest of the world. Maybe the moon.

He really didn't get enough breakfast. Or sleep for that matter. Should be something to worry about, but it really isn't.

"So, Scott..."

"Yeah?"

"Did you plan on wearing the cape all day?"

The cape. The cape --! He'd forgotten the damned thing. Scrabbles at his back to get it off, but he can't get a hold on the thing and Jean-Paul is laughing his skinny ass off and --

"It blew off two blocks ago. I swear."

"I was wearing it all morning?!"

"Relax, relax! It just made you look like a... good sport?"

"Oh. Well. Good?"

"You really didn't know it was there?"

An extra brightness in Jean-Paul's purple-but-really-blue eyes. He's clearly delighted by the turn of events. Wonderful.

But also, really... he likes the way it looks on Jean-Paul's face. Really a lot if he's being honest with himself.

Heat of the restaurant fogs his visor instantly, which he really should've expected. Steals a napkin from the nearest empty table and squeezes his eyes shut. Wipes the visor, warms it against his skin, wipes it a little more. Unconscious routine, and when he has it back on and opens his eyes again Jean-Paul is staring.

"You cannot open them at all?"

"Not without large amounts of property damage."

"I had hoped..." Abortive reach for Scott's face. "... to see your eyes."

"I'm reasonably sure they're a fairly ordinary blue."

Crooked smile. "Thank you, Scott. Now I know everything I need to know about them."

"Good. Then you get to owe me an answer." Nods at the spread hands. "What the hell was that, earlier?"

Jean-Paul. Laughs. Damn him. "I have been a favourite target of Mary Walsh's show for some time. They accost politicians and public figures and embarrass them."

"And the secret service doesn't stop them?"

Jean-Paul cocks his head. "There isn't one. The last Canadian politician to die by violence was hit by a bus."

"I could live here, I think."

"You would be welcome. We could add you to the list of young athletes from strange countries who stay after every athletic event. Do you throw the discus?"

"Sorry, no." Pause. "Why'd she pick me?"

"Mary? I expect because she thought you were cute and helpless."

"As opposed to because you kissed me in public?"

"Mmmm?"

"One of the reporters asked if I was your lover."

"He was bored."

"She."

"Alright, she was bored. It is not national news. Your lovely, shell-shocked expression will be, but this, like all things, shall pass."

This time, Jean-Paul does touch him. Brush of a thumb across his cheekbone that he almost leans into. Not quite, but his neck moved, and Jean-Paul might have felt it.

If he does, he lets it be. Orders and eats pasta like a one-man famine while Scott steals his meatballs. Protein. He's restless, more so now that he's not hungry anymore. Like he could get out and run for miles. Fight something. Run.

So. Outside. It's colder again, and he's tempted to revise the need to somewhere indoors to run, but decides he's not that picky. Anywhere'll do. Park. Long, empty street. Beach. Hotel hallway, except that he can picture Xavier's face when he inevitably gets caught with his dignity down around his ankles.

Park on his right, just a half-block of green space turned silver-brown in the cold. Jungle-gym in the shape of a rocket in one corner with a couple of swings. Nobody in it.

Shakes himself loose and runs for the other end, hard, trying to exhaust himself rather than build muscle or cardio. Touches the bench on the other side and runs back. Runs the perimeter and just runs until his head's silent and he's hot from it.

Until Jean-Paul catches him around the waist like he's standing still and pulls him down.

Cool hands rubbing over his face. Hard on his cheeks until his breathing steadies. Shape of him this washed range of colours against the red-grey of the sky.

"Feel better?"

"Yeah."

Hand that pulls him up to a sitting position. His own hands are icy. Needs a scarf, needs gloves. It's got to be below freezing, but he doesn't know how much. The humidity's turning to ice on the grass.

Brief moment of foreboding about just how much Bobby's going to enjoy the upcoming winter and then Jean-Paul is kneeling in front of him. Close, very close, and in this weather Scott can tell just how warm the man really is.

Fast metabolism, radiates heat, right. Holding him now and Jean-Paul is... vibrating? "Are you okay?"

"I should be asking you that question, Scott." Hint of a scold.

"I'm just... used to a more active life. We've been doing nothing but sitting around for days."

"All right." Holding Scott's hands between his own. "Perhaps we can convince you to dress appropriately the next time you need to burn off energy?" Warm, teasing voice that shoots right through him.

"Um, yeah. Sorry about that --"

"Or perhaps I can convince you to find another way to burn?"

God, that voice. "Jean-Paul..."

"May I kiss you, Scott?"

Low, sweet plea that makes Scott moan. "Please..."

"Chrisse, you are beautiful --"

Kiss neither gentle nor rough, just a sharing of self that rocks Scott to the core. Warm lips and hot tongue and Scott's hands are still trapped between Jean-Paul's and there's a long, lean thigh between his own. Just barely not touching him. An invitation, an offer clearly made and Scott has to touch.

Pulls out of Jean-Paul's hold, earning a low, disappointed noise that makes Scott just haul the man into his lap. Jean-Paul straddling him and Scott's hands roving over his back and kissing hard now. Pure passion, blinding and too needful for fear.

Jean-Paul's hands on his chest, half-crushed between them, but still moving, searching, touching him with pleased hunger and Scott.

Wants to be naked with this man.

Wants to forget everything and everyone but this, right here. Jean-Paul so open, despite the fact that Scott knows -- knows -- that he can't possibly know anything like the whole of the man.

Wants to, and wants to confess the desire, and every other. "Oh, God, Jean-Paul --"

Kisses all over his face, his jaw, the high edge of his throat left bare by the uniform. This beautiful body draped over Scott's own. The promise of friendship and raw pleasure.

Wants to take some of this.

Has to flip them without the advantage of flight, but he's marginally taller, and it gives him leverage. Not going to play the ravished beauty in this, even if he felt like one. Gets Jean-Paul's shoulders down and lays his weight across the man's chest. Looks at him for a second.

Reaching, ruffling fingers. "I like your messy hair, Scott."

"Yeah."

Scott kisses him. All the weight of his head behind it. All the control's his and Jean-Paul just relaxes into it. Soft mouth working against him, licking around his mouth but not demanding anything. Hands that just stay on his shoulders instead of pulling his head down.

Crackle of the frost under them when Jean-Paul rolls him off and lays on his side, panting. Wet mouth with lips cracking in the cold. One hand rubbing from Scott's shoulder down to his hip.

"I think if we don't want to be arrested we had better stop."

Which isn't quite what his body's asking for, but getting arrested for public indecency probably isn't the best way to stay on Xavier's good side this week. Though he wonders if he could make some argument about healthy sexuality and any red-blooded American male in the same situation.

And if he isn't going to just throw Jean-Paul down and do him right here, he needs to get up. Feet under him all on his own, stands, walks the half-dozen yards to the swings and drops himself into one canvas-rubber sling. Cold chains against his fingers.

Jean-Paul hovers in front of him. Leg just slightly to the side to avoid getting bashed when Scott moves towards him, feet a few inches off the ground. Pulls his knees up and crouches over them, at eye-level. Nothing about the shape of him clear from the black uniform, but Scott wonders if he's hard.

Scott is. Thinking about cold and waiting for his arousal to ease and praying Jean-Paul won't touch him until it does.

Just a faint touch on his knuckles, like Jean-Paul knows what he's thinking, more friendly than anything else. "Are you prepared to move? They will be expecting us back."

"Yeah, I guess."

It's so cold. His hands feel like raw meat, even shoved into his pockets. Aching a bit all over from the time they spent on the ground. Walking back through this urban world where people mostly ignore them, and where everything's so red-washed-grey that he's having trouble telling the sky from the ground.

Warmer moment when the first snow hits him. Single bits falling, and it's so grey he couldn't see them until they hit. Something dangerous that he'll have to remember, but also just startlingly cold-wet on his still-burning face.

Doesn't really snow any harder after that, but he's more aware of it. Single-flakes falling and the faint disappointment on the faces of everyone around him. Like this is the beginning of something huge and not very well-loved. Canadian winter. The kind you need a better coat for than his.

There are reporters outside the hotel, but they're mostly hunched in on themselves inside their coats, and smoking. Small groups sheltering lighters. The girl who abandoned him to Marg, Princess Warrior, is there, buried in a ski jacket and sucking on the cigarette like it's her last hope for survival.

And this gust of wind and snow that makes him flinch and sends a kind of collective moan through the smokers. Jean-Paul behind him with one hand on his waist, and in spite of the audience he thinks he could take being kissed again.

An odd thought, one he wants to examine sometime after Jean-Paul kisses him breathless again. No, no. Think. He can do this. Something quick and easy, a nice rationalization.

No, a reason.

Sneaks a glance at Jean-Paul as they weave their way up the steps around all the reporters, who apparently could care less that they existed. More strangeness. These same people will soon be all bright eyes and predatory smiles, but it's just a job to them. And Jean-Paul's own smile isn't going anywhere.

I put it there.

And that's it, really. His choice, nothing riding on it but a friendship he chose. He could have sex with this man, but only if he wants to. When he does.

No one in the hall for a few steps, and Scott rests his hand in the small of Jean-Paul's back. Just a touch, just a moment before pulling away again.

Whispers, "I want you."

"When?" Barely a hiss of breath and Scott has to shiver.

"After closing ceremonies. We. We'll have time."

Curt nod. "Until then, my friend."

"I was hoping we could... continue our conversation."

"I would not be able to keep from touching you... especially when you insist on blushing like that. Tres, tres beau." Teasing voice with so much heat.

More on his cheeks. "Um. You may have a point. I'll just. Um. Are we supposed to be in formal dress for this?"

"Sadly, no. I would like to see you... out of that damnable uniform, but I think we are supposed to wander through the nice ladies and gentlemen as we are."

"Sounds more like a freakshow than a dinner."

At the elevators now, and there are a few dignitaries hurrying their way. Jean-Paul leans in to whisper, "surely you expected no different...? Until later, Scott."

Bang of the fire door opening halfway down the hall and Jean-Paul is gone, leaving Scott to the dignitaries. Blankly pleasant expression... on.

On for hours. While he shakes people's hands and nods and gets patted on the shoulder. None of it settling into his head the way it should, so he settles for the next best thing, which is standing beside Xavier and nodding politely while other people talk.

Gets the feeling that Xavier's happy to have him there, though he doesn't say or send anything. Everyone else is moving separately, but it's his privilege as leader of the X-Men and first of Xavier's students to just stand here and be serious and quiet if he wants to. As long as he answers anything people ask him, he's doing his job.

And the next time people excuse themselves, he sits for a minute. Lets his head sag, breathes the stress out, and pulls back together. Watches Ro slide through the crowd towards them and Jean talk to the Assistant Deputy Minister. Her hand on the arm of his suit. Flirting. Scott wonders if he should worry.

Possibly, Scott. I don't know yet.

Really?

As I said, I don't know. But the situation could damage the team if it becomes any more fragile. And then aloud, "How was your walk?"

Not exactly casual, but it feels cordial, at least. Like they might not fight anymore for a while. Funny that knowing that should let him relax. Not always happy with the man but he's really genuinely all he's got.

"It was okay. Do you want me to say something to one of them?"

"I'll leave it to your discretion for now, Scott."

So he'll have to deal with that, later. Probably fight with Jean about it, in the Blackbird or later when they're home. And he knows she isn't doing it on purpose, but she does flirt. With pretty much everything in pants, not that he's counting. And if she's holding him accountable for making people miserable...

Kind of thing that makes him chew really deliberately during supper. People talk, and pictures get taken, and every so often he turns towards the podium like he's listening. He's not good at this. Xavier won't let him close enough to the centre of things to play tactics, and the quiet talk that's all the rest of a conference like this just makes him want to grow a shell. Grateful that they didn't subject Bobby to this, at least.

Stands for whatever the last toast is, and gets just a glimpse of Jean-Paul down the other side. Extra burn in his stomach when the wine goes down. Cold and warmth and this thing he's been waiting on for hours. As soon as he gets out of here.

Easier and faster than it should be. Reporters go home and ministers go home and good little mutants retire to their hotel rooms and sleep their crime-fighting sleep.

Shaking and tired and still wanting, in the elevator. The one he waited a dog's age for because Jean and Ro were in the other one, and he could actually see Jean leaning in. Let them make that one up themselves and he'll sort it out tomorrow or the day after.

His elevator, and this breath of wind next to him. Jean-Paul who hugs him but doesn't offer to get off on Scott's floor. Warm grin just before the doors close on him.

This is probably his punishment for making the man wait. Irritating as all hell. But also oddly... cute. Like Jean-Paul feels the need to make up for past good behaviour, lest Scott get the wrong idea.

The man has a lot invested in being the bad guy, just as Scott has way too much invested in being good.

Scott smiles to himself. He doesn't plan on being very good at all.

And, true to form, Jean-Paul appears just as Scott's closing his door, bottle of chilled champagne in one hand, roll of condoms in the other.

"Ambitious much, Jean-Paul?"

"Call it... hopeful."

Long, good moment in the half-open doorway, close but not quite touching. Scott leans in close enough to kiss. "I need a shower." There. Take that.

"I could lick you clean, beautiful boy..."

And so much for taking control of the game, because Scott has to kiss him. Right there for anyone who walks by to snap a picture. Get that wicked tongue in his mouth and suck and suck, press close, slide his leg between lean thighs and push Jean-Paul back against the door frame.

Sex on legs, oh yes, definitely, and Scott wants.

And so does Jean-Paul, who doesn't drop anything. Just presses his wrists against Scott's back and rubs, fucking Scott's mouth with his tongue and spreading his legs. No equivocation, just pure sex.

He's not going to make it to the shower, but he can at least move the party indoors.

Moment of pure, petty joy. Hank has a fifteen year old boy and Ororo has the world's most determined flirt, but he has... Jean-Paul. All this, all of it --

"Yes, Scott, anything you want --" Kissing him again and backing them into the room, to the bed where he drops everything but Scott. Hands all over him, searching blindly for the uniform fastenings and Scott gets his hands in Jean Paul's hair. Tilts his head for a better angle and drinks him down. So fucking good.

Top of the uniform cracked open and the bodysuit he's wearing beneath it might as well be skin.
 

Jean-Paul pushes him off, pushes him back. Hair wild and eyes wilder. Breathing a little roughly. Mouth so much redder than anything else and Scott hauls him back again for another kiss, and another and Scott pauses only a moment before sleeking a hand over Jean-Paul's ass. Round and hard and perfect against his palm.

Barely manages to let go long enough to fumble for the zipper hidden under Jean-Paul's hair. Gets it open and. Skin. Hot and finely grained and the vastly important and completely nonsensical realization that the man is naked, absolutely naked under his clothes.

Breaks the kiss himself this time to peel Jean-Paul out of the uniform. Lean-muscled and. Beautiful. Wants this. Wants this and Jean-Paul isn't stopping him. Barely touching him, ghosts of contact on his face, his shoulders, and Scott leans in to one copper-brown nipple and sucks.

Gasps at Jean-Paul's moan, this strange, huge gift to make the man feel something good and a moment of blank understanding, large and blinding and brief.

And then Scott can only focus on that skin.

The way it tastes. And just that it's human skin. Soft textures and tastes in it, and he wishes he could really tell what colour it is, beyond 'pale'. Olive or fair? Not something he's going to get to know, though. Just his imagination to go by, and the smell of it. Something warm and a little bit sweet. Little shivers in it.

Little shivers all over Jean-Paul's body. Little raw places that Scott's stubble leaves on that chest. Going to have to be careful.

Fingers in his hair suggesting that what he was doing was about exactly right, and would he mind doing it again. Not forcing, not even any real pressure, but there's a request there. Thumbs sliding down to rub his jawline.

On either side of his face and lifting him up so Jean-Paul can kiss him again. Burrow into his neck and nibble at it while Scott pants.

Hand that slides in and strokes his ass and puts them close enough that any amount of serious movement is going to get obscene pretty fast. And even if Scott leans back, gets his hands in and gets the man's shirt actually off, Jean-Paul's still holding them together, still bucking a little against Scott's hip. Other arm up when Scott lifts it, watching the way Jean-Paul's whole body stretches with the lift. Hooks the hand behind his neck and just stands there, rocking in.

All this flesh on offer suddenly. Bare chest and bare belly and dark hair just showing between his navel and the waist of his pants. Rubs his hands along the side-seams.

"These tear-away?"

Laughter. "No. Only Walter's are. It proved easier than providing him with a uniform every time he transformed. But all of our uniforms are based on the same design, so they do look that way." Shivers as the hand brushes his thigh.

Long, long arch as he lets go of his neck and brings the arm around Scott's neck to kiss him again. Like they could just stand in the middle of this room and kiss all night. Rock against each other and ignore the latex and alcohol at their feet and maybe sometime towards morning get absolutely all their clothes off.

Hand that touches his throat for a second before he realizes that it's asking about just that. Clothes. Would he consider losing his? Some of them? And yeah, if it results in feeling Jean-Paul that much better against his chest, he wants the jacket off. Heavy vinyl, too hot right now and he's struggling out of it as soon as Jean-Paul has it undone.

On the floor and yeah, against him. Hard nipples rubbing through the body suit. Weight against him walking him back. Gets him sat down on the bed and gone and back in a slightly unnerving blink. Champagne and water glasses and that specially intent expression currently focused on getting the cork loose.

"I swear to god you don't need to get me drunk."

Fractured purple eyes. It's a long look that ends with a glass of champagne and a kiss on his shoulder.

"Work on drinking that for a minute, Scott." Warm touch moving all over him. Chest and stomach and back, circling in a way that could easily just be comforting. Mouthing his neck. Teasing at the zipper at the base of his neck. Kiss just where the cloth ends. Only real skin he's showing. "Can I unzip this?"

Big thought of oh-god-naked that ends with him saying, "Yes."

Unzipped all the way to his waist, and Jean-Paul's hands are inside, god inside, his clothes, and the drink is sounding like a really good idea. Finishes it fast and lets the glass tip over on the bedspread. Leans forward over the hand Jean-Paul's got against his stomach and lets the man kiss his back. Pushing the suit wider open. Sometimes he just breathes on him and even that's enough to make his hair stand up. It's been. He doesn't know how long it's been since he let anybody touch him. He didn't even like wrestling with Logan in practice.

Soft, wet kiss and Jean-Paul tongues the small of his back like it might open up for him. Eases Scott onto his stomach and puts his whole attention into it. Just occasionally brushing a hand over his ass and then just enough to remind Scott it's there. Rubbing the insides of his thighs and rubbing circles on his shoulder blades.

"There, Scott. Does that feel good?"

Loaded question, and Scott wonders how much of this is the oddly gentle friend he's made and how much is the terrorist. Master of breaching security lines and going where you told him a dozen times he couldn't be. Maybe not like this, but...

Honesty. "Yeah. Yes, but." Has to bite his lip to keep from throwing the man off in a fit of whatever it is that he will not, will not call panic. "Go slow."

"Of course..." Spoken into the hollow of his spine, making him shiver, tense into the wet, wet kiss that follows. Strange, viciously slow arcs of sensation and what was he thinking? Fast would be so much easier than this, anything just to have it done.

Jean-Paul making love to his back like it's the only part of him that exists. Making him achingly aware of every muscle, and especially that incredible bundle of nerves just above his tailbone. Great place to punch. Wonderful, awful place to be kissed. Tongued and bitten until Scott's hard enough to drill something.

Hard enough to hump the mattress just a little. Controlling the motions as best he can but still feeling every muscle group he has to move to do it. Aware of them, and how it all must look to Jean-Paul. Hard not to blush at that. Impossible, even having admitted that he wants this.

Hard teeth beneath his shoulder blade and Scott gasps, nowhere near ready for it, or to be soothed by that tongue. Broad, flat licks and hands on his hips, shaping themselves to him. Thumbs kneading into the muscle, fingers tracing the bone. A moment to realize Jean-Paul's actually moving him, guiding his thrusts against the mattress, slow and rough.

Straddling Scott's thighs, and God, he can feel Jean-Paul's eyes on him and keeps his own tightly shut behind the visor.

Feels like he's being gentled to this, to the idea that someone else can control his body and every reaction. That Jean-Paul can have him and it would still be... okay.

Spit drying cool on his back and Scott wants to be touched there again, catches himself arching for it, pushing up on his elbows, and blushes hard. Gets the job done, though. Hands on his back again after a brief caress and a longer squeeze to his ass.

No way to come out of this believing anything but that Jean-Paul finds him attractive. That he is attractive, sexy in some way that can be seen. Some sure, adult way where no one has to be hurt.

Trusts Jean-Paul, and wants, maybe more than anything, to be able to keep doing it.

Fingers brushing every bitten spot, digging in where he's tense and warming him. Nothing soothing about this. Scott's body knows the feel of Jean-Paul's mouth now, and every time the man pauses Scott tenses up again in anticipation.

"Scott, are you okay?" Genuine curiosity, which is just too much and not enough of everything he needs.

"Yeah --" Shocked at the sound of his own voice, low and needy and harsh. "I just... it feels good."

And there's the kiss he's been expecting. Jean-Paul sliding down his body, covering him. Hands on Scott's arms and mouth on the back of his neck. Wet and maddeningly gentle and Scott can't breathe, can't think. Bends his head and arches up into it. Lips and teeth and tongue working him and oh, God, leaving marks.

Humping the mattress again, this time pushing up against Jean-Paul's erection every time. Blinding, absolutely blinding and Scott has to push him off. Turn over onto his back and grab and pull and shift until Jean-Paul's above him. Until he can see him.

Bruised soft mouth and uniform sitting dangerously low on his hips. Dipping curve of pelvis clearly visible and painfully defined. Scott seats his thumbs there, brushes thin, thin skin over and over until Jean-Paul starts to move.

Little thrusts against him, cock to cock and Scott hopes like hell Jean-Paul realizes that his eyes are open now. That he's looking, drinking him in.

Wants to fall right into the hunger he sees in Jean-Paul's eyes.

Thinks maybe he already has.

Food for lust, something like that. Ready for it when Jean-Paul wraps his fingers in the slick black still covering his chest and arms and starts peeling it forward. Over his shoulders and off, getting one hand free at a time and kissing it, palm and wrist and elbow. Smouldering there and settled in a way that says he could ride the twists of Scott's body, if not forever then for long enough to get some fairly serious things proven.

Finally just balls the slick blackness at Scott's waist and lays down against him. Naked chest to his, rubbing back and forth like skin contact is the best of all possible gifts. Kissing like that. Extra friction that he's milking for all it's worth, pushing Scott until he's got to grind his teeth down to stubs or whimper.

What actually comes out is a kind of mix of those two. Aching jaw from keeping himself quiet. Wants to gasp when Jean-Paul licks his chest and has to unlock his teeth to do it. Hissing and pushing against the thigh between his legs and he wishes the man would kiss him again so he wouldn't have to worry so much about the noise.

Takes it, finally, when he gets that Jean-Paul isn't ever going to give him exactly what he wants. Has to make some of this happen on his own. Coming in from the side and pushing into his mouth, letting the aching noises come out. Pulling back after that and sucking on the man's lips. Hand that locks into his and just holds it, out beside them, fingers rubbing gently into the centre of his palm and making him shiver.

Arch and stretch back, push against his shoulder while Jean-Paul tries to get both hands behind him without dislocating his shoulder. Somehow without stopping this careful attention to Scott's mouth. Rubbing into the stubble like it's a new, bright edge on the experience.

Lays Scott's hand at the small of his naked back. Holds the wrist and pushes down. Scott's hand down the back of his uniform pants and the bastard's grinning at him.

Come on, Scott. Are you in?

Is he?

Not sure, but it's new, warm skin, and every time he presses, Jean-Paul makes him glad he did. Can't bring himself to get the hand right down where he knows Jean-Paul really wants it, settles for rubbing hard, pulling him in closer.

Softly, "Fair enough. How are you, Scott?"

"I'm okay." Hard to talk. His throat feels like he's been crying. "Can I sit up for a minute?"

Jean-Paul nods and shifts off him. Sits up and offers a hand that pulls Scott in against his chest once he's upright. Something about the position tempting to just swing his legs across Jean-Paul's lap and get closer. But he wanted air.

He leans back, squirms until he finds the headboard to brace against. Still touching, but only calf to knee. Breathing deeply and rubbing his arms.

Watching while Jean-Paul bends over his feet. Unlaces his boots, peels his socks off. Bare feet very, very pale against the black of both their uniforms, black-covered ankle cupped in Jean-Paul's hand. Raises the foot to his mouth and kisses it. On top, licking carefully at the huge number of long bones in it.

"Jesus. God. Do that again?"

"If you wish." Again, other foot. Sliding down to offer more leg, more foot. Hands up the legs of his uniform pants. On top of the body suit and making it clear that it'd be better if he was naked, or closer to it.

Still watching Jean-Paul when he looses both clasps at the sides of his uniform pants and works them off. Pulls his knees up and watches the other man from over top of the stretched black. Cold on his bare feet where they got kissed.

Jean-Paul reaches out and touches his stomach. Rubs a thumb up and down once, then lays the hand on Scott's knee.

"Can I choose what you take off next?"

"I'm not sure --"

"Please Scott. I would like to see you with your visor off."

"Maybe I didn't make the part about horrible death and property damage clear."

"Keep your eyes closed. I don't want to make love to you while you're wearing that thing. It makes you look like a weapon."

Makes him go cold. "Not to put to blunt an edge on it, but like hell am I doing this blind."

"I think you had glasses on when you were in the club. Can you wear those?"

He could. Closer to naked without the visor's weight, but he's got more expression without it. There's enough light to see the bruise forming on Jean-Paul's cheekbone, and Scott wonders how long ago he caught him with the edge of it.

Scott leans forward and hooks his fingers in the waist of the man's pants. Pulls him forward. Control. His choice on his terms.

"When you have these off."

Gone in a blink, which he probably should've expected. Jean-Paul straddling his lap and utterly naked.

"Jesus, Jean-Paul! Give a man some warning."

Two fingers on his cheek. "Hm. I think not."

And Scott has to look.

Jean-Paul slightly hunched over him like the world's prettiest gargoyle. Lean, hard chest and muscled concavity of belly. Longish cock hard and slim. Dark in his vision and wet at the tip. Scott brushes his thumb over the head, does it again when it makes Jean-Paul hunch a little more.

Runs his other hand up the side of Jean-Paul's torso. Ribs present but not starkly so. Brush of dark hair under the arm he's using to brace himself on the wall.

And Scott leans over as best as he can, moving as little as possible. Shades case in the top drawer of the nightstand. Squeezes his eyes shut and pulls off the visor --

"A moment, Scott."

Breath on his cheek and Jean-Paul is kissing his eyes, nuzzling against them gently and licking at the shallow grooves left behind by the visor. It feels. It feels...

Just wants to push his face into it and does. Nuzzles and sloppy kisses until Scott can find Jean-Paul's mouth, always pulling away before Scott can make the kiss as deep as he needs it to be. Too fast to catch and not going anywhere.

"So is this eyelid fetish new?"

"Ah, oui. You hide them so demurely, how can it be otherwise?"

Soft kisses to his eyelids, left then right then left again. Soft brushes at his lashes and finally Jean-Paul's hands, rubbing at the thin skin and occipital ridges. Scott knows the skin here is not quite normal, can't be since otherwise he would've blown it all off a long time ago but this is...

"Let me put the glasses on, Jean-Paul."

"But I'm not done..."

"Please." And apparently he sounds (desperate) serious enough to make Jean-Paul pause.

Pull away far enough to let Scott get the glasses on. Opens his eyes to find Jean-Paul studying him. Calm and serious. "Do I owe you an apology?"

"No, it's okay. I don't much like taking unnecessary risks."

"What about me? Am I not a risk?" Played comically, but not entirely so.

"You're necessary."

Studied again, but only for just long enough for Scott to notice. "And yet you will not let me keep you."

"I'm not a pet."

"Not even my pet? I suppose I must learn to do without... but perhaps not without a taste..." Mercurial flash back to amused.

Kissing again, curled together, and this time Scott can be bolder. Pull Jean-Paul in by the hips and spread him one-handed. Drinks in the gasp and moves to moderately safer areas. Strip of skin behind his balls, thin and hot. Shifts and presses until he finds the right spot, the spot that makes Jean-Paul thrust hard against him, makes him need very much to be naked. Pulls his hand away and gets bitten for his trouble. Lightly, but the point was made.

"I just want to get my pants off!"

"Ah. Sorry." Pause. "Go ahead."

Laughs against the other man's mouth and pulls the suit down, leaving just his boxer briefs --

"I shudder to think about how many layers of clothing you must wear in winter, Scott."

"Not all of us come with our own internal furnaces."

"True, but were I not a model of patience and restraint, I fear I would be frustrated."

Scott rolls over on his back, furrows his brow. "I think you're trying to make a point, but I can't for the life of me figure out what it must be."

Jean-Paul growls. Pounces.

Mouths Scott's cock through the boxers, wet and hot and serious. Hands twined in Scott's own to keep him still and then sucks.

Hard.

Hard enough to make Scott arch off the bed and bite off a yell. Can't think clearly enough to curse, can't grab Jean-Paul's hand, can't do anything but take it. Feels himself leaking and can't stop thrusting his hips into it. On and on until Scott knows -- knows -- he's going to come and then just.

Stops.

"Oh, you bastard --"

"Such language! What would the Professor say?"

"The same thing if you were sucking his cock!"

Jean-Paul snickering against Scott, random nuzzles and pushes against his cock. Just barely enough to push into, never long enough. Never hard enough and now that he's had a taste he just wants more.

"Jesus, Jean-Paul, God, suck me..."

One warm hand dives into his boxers and pulls his cock out. Rubs just under the head while Scott twists under him. Other hand working the cloth off his hips. Just off. Naked legs and naked hips and naked cock that Jean-Paul kisses. Cups his balls and nudges his legs apart and then bends over him.

It shouldn't be possible for Jean-Paul to do this, feels like he hasn't got any teeth. He's done something with his lips, not that it matters. Soft, wet, hot, slick all up and down him. Tongue working around the head, under and into the groove and all along the underside. Thumb touching his own lips and touching the root.

Hand clamped around the base of him, just absolutely still, and it's like something out of another person's life that Jean-Paul's doing this for him. Can't even touch himself sometimes and now he's got this man's mouth sucking his cock. Making soft purring noises like it's incredible fun.

Curve of his lips that Scott feels like a spark, and the hand's gone. And even Scott knows that this is utterly the wrong angle, but Jean-Paul's bringing his head down, breathing carefully and laying his head on one side and pushing and pushing until his nose his brushing Scott's belly and the head of Scott's cock is down his throat. Like the tightest, slickest hand in the world.

Biting his own fist now to keep quiet. His hips took on a life of their own the first time Jean-Paul swallowed around him, and he's going to have to apologize for this, he really is. Fucking down into that tight little space while he's got both hands in Jean-Paul's hair and oh god, he has to stop this. Exactly what he swore he'd never do to anyone, trap them like that. Has to pry his fingers loose and by the time he does he's shaking, and Jean-Paul never lets go. Just reaches blindly with one hand and catches Scott's and holds it. Other fingers stroking his balls, careful and precise and picking up on every little thing that makes him move.

Drooling on him, sucking and humming and holding him, fingers in his palm again in something that's way too much like comfort.

Reaching with both their hands for the one in Scott's mouth, and pulling it loose. Hard rub of a thumb across his palm.

He groans. Loses it into a whimper towards the end, can't help it. Just about impossible not to make noise, no matter how badly he needs control. This mouth on his cock, fingers gone from his balls catching the drool-slick around Jean-Paul's mouth and rubbing it on him, rubbing in it and nudging his legs apart and reaching down to just brush him behind his balls. Shiver and a, "God, Jean-Paul," when they touch his hole.

And up again, rubbing behind his balls with careful, slick tips until he's almost yowling, least dignified he can remember being and only held down by the hand clamped onto his.

Throat open and hand in his, pulling him over. Riding him out when he comes howling.

Only slides off once he's collapsed against the pillows. Panting and shaking and Jean-Paul strokes him and pulls his head back so carefully. Kisses Scott's thigh, and his hip. Straightens and grins at him.

And then scoots across the bed to retrieve the champagne bottle and the second glass. Pours and drinks and visibly rolls it around in his mouth before swallowing. Takes the glass and comes back. Up Scott's body, straddling his waist. Bends and kisses him. Gives him the champagne and the lingering taste of himself.

Kisses him for a long time, champagne between them, refilling the glass and drinking and sharing and sucking it off Scott's fingers.

Kissing and drinking about the only thing Scott can manage for a while, half-stunned and every nerve ending buzzing from Jean-Paul. Sucking his cock. Which he'd asked for. Hell, demanded.

Terrifying power there, this strangely free brand of sex. Free in every sense of the word. Jean-Paul hard against his hip and anything but demanding.

Happy with Scott. Happy to pleasure him, share with him. The ludicrously obvious realization that yes, this is exactly what Jean-Paul wanted from him. Not all of it, not by a long shot, but.

An entirely new definition of sex for Scott to ponder. Everything that Jean tried to tell him. Everything that Bobby tried to tell him.

"I feel. Extremely dumb."

"Then I have done my job correctly."

More kisses, more champagne. Scott could really, really get to like champagne. Light and sweet and subtly ticklish. Not unlike the kisses, really. He could really, really get to like kissing Jean-Paul.

All right, he already has. But still.

"No, I mean. I didn't think ..." Didn't think you wouldn't hurt me. But then, he's not done yet, is he?

"Scott, you are a beauty, and you should tell me the names of everyone who has ever hurt you, so that I may do many things to them of which you would not approve." Teasingly serious. Scott didn't think he could possibly blush anymore than he already has, but clearly this is a night to showcase exactly why no one ever pays Scott to think.

Shakes off a little of the haze internally. "What do you ... what can I do for you?"

"Mmm. You can relax, and let me make you hard again, and then you can fuck me."

"Um. Oh." Definitely not what he was expecting.

Jean-Paul rests his smile against Scott's cheek. "And then you can let me touch you, all night long. I would like that. May I have it?"

"I don't. I've never -- I don't want to hurt you."

"Do you think I would let you? That is not really my style, cher. I think perhaps I must teach you a few things about sex."

"I didn't think you wanted a student." Jean-Paul kisses his frown, making Scott aware of it and need to erase it. Blank his face, something.

"No, no! Not the politician face, please, you make me feel as though I should be wearing a terrible suit and boring the life out of you."

Honesty, honesty. "You make me feel very, very young, Jean-Paul."

"But you are young! There is no shame in that. But no, no, I do not mean to make you uncomfortable. That is, perhaps, the least of my desires. Should I ask why you do not want to fuck me?"

"No, you shouldn't."

"Then I will not."

Languid silence and that long, lean body close to his own. Warm, almost snuggling. Brief, wistful image of Bobby curled up on Hank in some improbable position, peacefully asleep. No way they could have brought those two along. Bobby, he thinks, is probably very happy with the way things have gone.

One blow-job from an ex-terrorist and now Scott has no choice but to do his best to accept that. And no, that's not really all it is, but. But.

Traitorous mind using the silence to imagine what it would be like to be inside all of that heat. Jean-Paul, spitted on his cock and. And what? Would he make noise? Or would he just grit his teeth and take it in silence?

Latter both more and far less likely in his head. Intellectually he understands that people, many, many people enjoy being fucked (made love to) that way. Emotionally...

Crowd of images of life before Xavier. Makes him stiffen and tense and how could he want that from him?

"Scott?"