Title: Discontinuity
Author: Smuttykitty
Summary: Bad sex.
Pairing: JP/Walter
Disclaimer: Characters are property of Marvel.
A companion piece to Misdirection, though they are not in continuity to each other. Similar themes of coping with big changes, using them to move on, with an emphasis on Walter's personal issues. Also, to write porn and angst. Lastly, since people will be having a cow, I felt a precedent was set that JP had engaged in sexual relations of some kind with at least one woman, Clementine D'Arbanville (AF 22, vol.1) The only plausible place this story could even happen was in between AF 48 and 50, volume 1, for you continuity geeks. Issue 48, Walter escapes the bag into Narya's body. Issue 49, the team fights Scramble, and JP despairs that he cannot be healed if Scramble dies. The goddawful issue 50 is a retread of the magic fountain from the specials, and in the end JP leaves the planet, and JM becomes a nun again.
God, he was lonely. So lonely. Lonely in his head, lonely in his soul, and lonely in his body. This strange, new body.
Walter Langkowski looked at himself in the long changing room mirror. Still tall, athletic. Just a woman. Not just any woman either. His new body had belonged to Snowbird, who was dead and in the grave. Now that was just fucked up, and no one else seemed to care. His entire world was shaken to the core. And all that right after getting out of that bag. Shaman's wicked bag which contained something: another universe, a nexus. He didn't know. He just knew he would have made a deal with any devil to get out of that damn thing. And he did, more or less. Stole another man's body, which seemed like a good plan at the time. Now, here he was. Alive, but much worse for wear, if he was allowed to be honest.
And Aurora. Well, just... fuck her. He just needed someone, something. Comfort. Couldn't she just think about someone other than herself for one second?
Of course not. He cared for her. Deeply even, if perhaps not entirely romantic in nature, but he had no illusions about her mental wellness. It wasn't good, and hadn't been for sometime. Perhaps she never would be well again, and the ghost of a woman he might have been able to love seemed gone forever, replaced by someone he hardly knew anymore. It was, in all likelihood, too much to expect that she could just give love away, when she seemed to hoard it so much.
Whatever. Fuck her. Fuck Roger, too. Asshole.
He shook himself out of his dark reverie. Finished getting dressed. He didn't have much of a wardrobe yet. Athletic clothes mostly. He hated these stupid clothes, but exited anyway. They would have to do.
His mood remained dark, but he thought he was entitled to some negativity. He had put on a good face for too long.
It surprised him to see one of his teammates sitting near the pool as he passed by. He looked closer. Jean-Paul. His feet dangling in the water, dressed in workout gear, too. Seemingly just as self-involved.
Not that long ago they had run into each other by the pool. And Jean-Paul had dropped his little bomb-shell (AF 48). No, not really. How long had they all been working together when he had noticed the other man's ice blue eyes on him when he thought Walter wasn't looking? At what point had he started to not hate it?
He gazed on the compact figure radiating that distinct brand of Beaubier misery and rage. Only a few long lines visible in the eerie pool lights.
"Walter?" Ringing out in the gloom.
He stepped closer, into the poolside lights. "Yeah." Closer he could see the dark circles under usually sharp eyes. Sharp planes even more delineated from the strain. It finally clicked in Walter's excessively clever brain that Jean-Paul was much more ill than he was allowing the others to realize.
Walter sat down on the same edge, stuck his strange legs in the water. Kicked a few times and watched the waves run in concentric circles away from him.
Finally the other man looked up and over at him from the expanse of the water. There was naked curiosity in the glance, a question asked. He decided to be bold and answer the gaze.
"I'm lonely. Don't you ever get lonely?" Just a touch of something hard and dark in his tone.
The dark haired man nodded slowly. "I do."
"That's all, I think. It's enough."
Jean-Paul looked thoughtful and nodded.
"Let's go." He stretched his hand out in offering. Cautious at first, then more surely, the other man accepted. Both paused a stride to dry legs, then continued to the kitchenette down the hall. Walter poured two mugs of coffee from a warming pot and set them on the table. Jean-Paul gingerly sat down and wrapped his fingers around a ceramic cup. He could see his teammate doing mental arithmetic as to stay or go.
Walter sat down, awkward, stiff. Heshied away from the kind but searching look his companion gave him. How unusual for him to be tender, as he silently pushed a narrow hand to Walter's fine one. Steady, reassuring. He had needed that. Simple affection. A brief touch to anchor him somewhere. He held on, almost involuntarily and didn't let go. The tension fled from the captive hand, and they sat in silence, touching.
Walter knew he shouldn't do what he was going to do, but he couldn't help it. He needed something, anything. Now. He couldn't be alone anymore. He remembered what he used to do when he was alone, much the same as he was going to do now.
"Come upstairs with me. Please."
He had turned his head, was looking at Jean-Paul out of the corner of his eye. Didn't want to look to closely at him, lest he somehow jinx the situation, or stop himself. One last chance to throw on the brakes. He saw sharp eyes widen, then turn thoughtful. Was it awful what he was doing? To take advantage of his teammate this way? The affection that he had confessed to?
"Please, if you have ever cared about me, come upstairs. I will beg. I am begging, in fact." And it was true, so true.
It moved swifter than anticipated, but he went along with it. Jean-Paul stood up with a final sip of his coffee, and looked towards him expectantly. Walter stood up, suddenly self- conscious. Wrapped his arms around his strange body in a backward attempt at modesty. Quickly noticed the other man's reluctance to look to closely. Snowbird's delicate curves would never draw his eye.
They walked up the stairs with heavy footfalls, Jean-Paul started heading towards "Wanda's" room. Walter shook his head.
"No, yours."
Jean-Paul nodded slowly, maybe realizing for the first time where this was headed. They continued wordlessly, and Jean-Paul opened the door without flourish and entered first. He followed and sat down on the bed uninvited.
"Wanda..." Jean-Paul started.
"Don't fucking call me that. I am Walter. I'm the same person. Don't fucking call me Wanda." Vehement. He was unable to contain it anymore.
"Okay." Jean-Paul gave a little laugh. Shifted his weight, unwilling to sit so close, but unsure where to stand.
"Touch me," Walter implored softly. He ached like one big bruise. So lost, so lonely
"I don't know," Jean-Paul confessed simply.
Walter looked up sharply, met his eyes.
"Bullshit."
"Walter. I... I, you know." Walter laughed, dark and low. Basely enjoying the snarky speedster's rare speechlessness. "I don't believe you. And probably for worse reasons."
The look shot back was venomous, and suddenly they were on sure ground again.
"You used to want me. I saw it. The jealousy. It took me forever to put all the pieces together, but I did."
Jean-Paul's features twisted in rage. "Fuck you. I don't need this. I have my own fucking problems. Go find my sister, if she'll have you. Va t'en."
"You're sick, something." The words fell like bombshells. "Even now, do you still want to be alone?" He didn't mean to be nasty. But shit, couldn't anyone bend, just once? Here he was bending over fucking backwards.
Walter closed his eyes as hot fingers smoothed over his face, brushed hair off his forehead.
"I still know it's you," Jean-Paul said in a conspiratorial tone and continued pushing his hair back comfortingly.
This was the moment, if there was ever going to be one. Walter clasped Jean-Paul's nape and pulled him in close, their lips nearly touching. The other man's lips quirked into a Mona Lisa smile.
"You're right, I am dying. I would stay away in light of the circumstances." A faint hint of an accent. He liked that.
"I'm a doctor. I'm not terribly concerned." That wasn't true. He was urgently concerned, but now wasn't the time. He needed this so badly. Enough. With his eyes open, he pushed into a proper kiss. It was hot and sweet and salty. Tasted different than his sister.
With more ease than expected, they fumbled their clothes off and had some awkward semblance of sex. The pain was minimal to Walter's virginal body. The entire endeavor was not particularly pleasurable for either party. Sturdy, uncomplicated, to the point. Certainly neither party's finest performance but strangely tender. Benevolent bad sex.
They lay together in the absurdly narrow bed, all elbows and knees. Walter clutched foolishly at one of the hands floating in the sea of bed covers. After a short while, Jean-Paul rolled over to his side facing Walter, his hair dark and tousled, a faint sheen of sweat covering him. Walter didn't know if it was exertion or sickness, and pushed the thought away.
Jean-Paul ran his finger's through Walter's curly hair in an utterly asexual way. "My poor Walter," he purred gently. "My poor Walter."
"You know, JP? It's been a bad year, maybe even two." And Walter finally felt it start to crack. The piece of ice stuck inside of him.
The stroking felt nice. Relaxed him more than the sex. Soothed. "I know, fuball. I know."
"Thank you."
"Why are you sick? What's happening?" Walter hadn't meant to pry, but with so much opportunity before him, he could not resist.
Jean-Paul's face became still. "I don't know. Pestilence said it is a disease inside of me. Je ne sais pas."
"Come to the lab. Between Michael and I, I'm sure we can figure something out." Ah, a problem to solve. He was good at this. Everything else, not so much.
His sharp features stayed immobile, frighteningly pale even in the grainy overhead light. "Perhaps, but let's just stay here for awhile."
Walter held him close. Rested anchored, even briefly, after so much time adrift. After all, he knew better than most just how precarious it all could be. You never know what tomorrow might bring.