TITLE: Must Be The Music: Heart + Soul
AUTHOR: Beaubier
AUTHOR'S E-MAIL: fastlove.for.rentATgmailDOTcom
FANDOM: X-Men: Evolution
PERMISSION TO ARCHIVE: Any time, just let me know!
CATEGORY: Drama
RATINGS/WARNINGS: Rated pg-13 for language
SUMMARY: Third story in Must Be The Music. Northstar and Aurora have never been closer to the edge. Will they pull through in the end, or will they push each other away once and for all?
DISCLAIMER: I didn't invent the X-Men, and I have nothing to do with Evolution. If you somehow think I do: Thanks for the compliment, mislaid thought it may be.
NOTES: This is a sort of sequel to Thicker Than Water (which was a sequel to Relativity and then Here Comes Trouble), but it's not necessary to read that saga to catch on here. I'll make everything clear. That said, this is the third in a planned series of several one shots that explore the various main characters from TTW. Some will be serious, some fluffy, some just plain ridiculous (much like Here Comes Trouble, only more disjointed.) These stories will be written in chronological order beginning a few months after the end of TTW. This particular story coincides and shares scenes with the previous one, "Supermassive Black Hole." You don't HAVE to read SBH to get this one—but it might add another dimension.
This is Jean-Paul's. If you don't like this one, please hit up the next one just the same. They'll all be completely different from each other. Except that… you know. I'm writing them all. The current line up is Wanda, Warren, Jean-Paul, Jean, Rogue, Sam, Pietro, Alex, Scott, Aurora. But of course that's subject to change if I get a bug up my nose about something.
A short explanation of what the hell I'm doing here: When I write I have music for every character. Since I suck with titles and generally get most of my inspiration/ideas from music, each story in this planned series will be named after a song (a common cop out for me.) I'll put a few lyrics at the beginning as an example of why because I'm a geek like that. But don't try and match the song up with the story ala Dark Side of Oz. I'm not that clever. I just like music.
Thanks to beta reader Risty for her immeasurable help with the pwnage. And everything else, obviously (which is always quite a lot.)
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Must Be the Music Pt. 3
Heart + Soul
I walk without you but I need to believe
I've got my own eyes now and I want you to see
There's no discretion in my voice and you need to stand clear
I've been falling out of time but I want you to hear
I don't think you care to know but you've taken out my heart and soul
-Black Rebel Motorcycle Club
"I'd hate this country far less if I could get some—"
"Poutine?" Jeanne-Marie (Aurora) grinned over at him.
Jean-Paul poked at the ruin of his paper French fry boat with his plastic fork and didn't bother to hide his momentary bout of petulance. The fries were (well, had been) covered with cheese, but that simply wouldn't do.
"I wouldn't mind myself," she laughed, presumably at his expression. "It's not so bad here though, is it really?"
He shrugged slightly in reply. He had done very well most of the day, remembering not to touch or look for her mentally. It had been months since she'd scrambled her DNA beyond all recognition, completely erasing their former link and causing them to black out any time they came into contact with each other. But he lived with his memories of Jeanne-Marie more than the actuality of Aurora, in his own mind, so he worried that some time he would forget.
While he had better impulse control than some, he'd been known to crack under extreme pressure. In this case it could prove embarrassing.
"I like it here." She was still smiling at him across the table, stabbing at her own French fries. Her pile, unlike his, was mostly intact.
She never ate enough anymore. He'd told her so on more than one occasion, but she'd only laughed at him and said he was being silly. He'd wanted to tell her that no it wasn't— that things like deciding suddenly to change one's name were silly-- but somehow he'd managed not to. These days he managed not to say anything much to her really. Nothing beyond hello, goodbye, how was class, how's the boyfriend, lovely see you tomorrow.
It was easier that way. Jean-Paul was faking his way through their entire relationship at this point, even if she didn't seem to be. The less work he had to do, the better.
"Well we're not really that much alike, in spite of appearances," he pointed out. Yes, he meant more than their taste in cities and French fry toppings. But no, he didn't want to talk about it.
Guessing from the stern look she gave him, he could only assume that she knew exactly what he'd meant. "You're not going to do this today, are you?"
He rolled his eyes. "Don't be dramatic. All I said was that we're different." And he felt absolutely no remorse for the lie. He felt no remorse for the fact that the only Joual word spoken all day had been the singular occurrence of poutine in the conversation just now. He felt no remorse for any of it at all, in fact.
She glared for just a moment longer before her face suddenly shifted into one of her brighter smiles. Just like that, a dark cloud lifted from over the table. "I miss spending time with you."
He didn't think she understood the meaning of the word "miss." He honestly didn't believe his sister was capable of missing anything at all. She'd proven it to him over and over since they'd first met, since he'd first fallen for her.
But he didn't want to talk about it. Not now, and not ever again. This was the way things were between them. He'd live with it until he died because he knew damn well he'd never leave her. And that was all there was to it. He was getting more used to it every day, and that was how he liked it.
"It's difficult," he admitted after a pause, unwilling to pretend that it was all sunshine and roses. He wouldn't say anything to raise an alarm though—that would mean she'd try to get him to talk about it. Jean-Paul was an adept these days at avoiding his sister's questions. "But we're here now, aren't we?"
She smiled. Her smile was still mostly the same—as long as he didn't look at her eyes. "We are. And we have a dress to buy now that we've found you the most gorgeous suit in Manhattan. You're going to make Warren look bad."
"I doubt that's possible," Jean-Paul stretched his legs out to the side and slouched in his seat just a bit. The day he managed to make a blond Cover Boy with wings look bad was the day he gave up on life. There was nowhere to go but down from there. "We'll go when you finish."
"I'm done." She pushed her little paper boat away from her.
"You've hardly eaten," he pointed out.
"I'm full," she said simply. "Jean-Paul don't be silly."
Yes, he thought. Don't be silly, Jean-Paul.
"You look beautiful. Worthington's parents will drop dead at the thought that such a perfect creature would deign to date their brute of a son."
Aurora rolled her eyes at him in the mirror, adjusting that fat string of pearls Warren had given her for Christmas. Jean-Paul wondered if she knew that it was a ten-thousand dollar gift. And if she did, would that make her happy or sad?
He couldn't even imagine anymore.
"Let's hope you're right, brother." She winked when she was done expressing her displeasure. "I love this dress—I hope I can use it again."
"Never." He leaned on the wall, already wearing his own newly-purchased ensemble. It was getting close to seven and if they were going to make it out of Manhattan and to Worthington Manor, they needed to leave. Now.
But he'd never objected terribly to the concept of being fashionably late.
"You'll have to burn it. Or give it to Goodwill."
She wrinkled up her nose and snorted out an indelicate sort of laugh. "You're such a snob."
He laughed back. "Had you forgotten?"
"Never," she grinned.
She did look magnificent. Draped in an almost-but-not-quite revealing white dress that was almost classical, with a fat string of high luster pearls around her neck, the effect was Audrey Hepburn-ish. She looked too thin, but not dangerously so.
Yet.
Personally, he had only agreed to go to this ridiculous dinner for Rogue's sake. She'd almost begged (he'd considered making her, but relented at the last minute) so she wouldn't have to be the third wheel with Scott and Jean. Even though the two of them hadn't been dating for months now, the idea still seemed to strike terror into Rogue's heart.
And really, he was never one to pass up an excuse to buy Versace. His money was doing well for itself thanks to various investments and he hadn't spent a thing since Christmas.
He wasn't exactly looking forward to the event, nevertheless. Worthington was all right, he supposed—he treated Aurora extremely well and he didn't have any particularly offensive manners or habits with which to irritate Jean-Paul. If she had to date someone (which he knew very well she did—god knew what kind of horrible things would happen to her were she unattached with people like Roberto DaCosta and Remy LeBeau in the house), she'd done well to hook up with this one. But that didn't mean that Jean-Paul gave two fucks about his birthday, his parents, his schemes to introduce the X-Men to said parents as a philanthropic venture for mutant rights or his ridiculously large and swanky "ancestral" home. It was bound to be a dull night, to say the least.
They'd better at least have cocktails, or he was bowing out after dinner.
"Warren is so nervous." She gave a satisfied smile once her pearls were straightened, checking herself out carefully in the mirror. "He acts like he's not, but how could that be?"
"Well I suppose their reaction to you will help him gauge how they'll react to him," Jean-Paul replied with a shrug. There was another thing he couldn't possibly care less about—Worthington's fear of showing himself to his parents. It was not a problem Jean-Paul had personally ever faced, not having had parents he would refer to as such. But he didn't have a lot of time for people who pretended to be other than they were.
Except himself. But desperate times, etc.
"I hope they won't make too much trouble" She picked at her hair now, carefully swept back and pinned with an iridescent barrette high on the back of her head. He noticed with some displeasure that it covered her ears—the points of them anyhow. Had she done that on purpose so the Worthingtons wouldn't see?
The concept bothered him more than it probably should have. Why should she hide like Warren? She was better than that. He'd (nearly) tried to understand her compulsion to change her DNA so it would be unrecognizable to current mutant detection technology once upon a time—but that had been Jeanne-Marie. If Aurora had one point in her favor, it was that she had no fear. Other than of losing her control and reverting back to Jeanne-Marie.
Then again, he didn't know much about her comparatively.
"Well if they say anything I'll be happy to beat them up for you," he tossed off nonchalantly rather than pursue the subject with her. Careful avoidance came as naturally as breathing. "Just give me a sign."
"Jean-Paul," she laughed, eyes flashing and showing how truly amused his offer made her. "I'd better do it myself. What will I do next year when we're living in different houses?"
He didn't reply for a moment. He'd assumed that ESU would have co-ed dorms… or that they would at least live near to each other if not in the same building.
"Did I tell you?" she fiddled with her earring now. "Jean agreed to live with me next year. She says we can keep her dorm room—her roommate is moving off- campus."
Jean-Paul blinked. Jean…? But Jean went to… "You're going to NYS?"
She nodded. "I think so, yes. I had a look at their arts library last week and it's wonderful."
He was rendered momentarily speechless by this revelation. He was certain he'd expressed to her that he would be attending ESU in the fall… had she misheard him?
He knew the answer and he knew it was nothing less than what he should expect, but still couldn't help the stab of indignation that shot through him. It was idiotic maybe—when had she ever gone out of her way for him, and why should he imagine she would now?—but that didn't make it any less painful.
Perhaps he should havegone back to Montreal for university. The thought sounded spiteful in his mind, cruel, because if he did that it wouldn't be because he wanted to (decent French fries or no)—it would be because he wanted to hurt the people here.
"Well I suppose you will have to start fending for yourself then," he said quietly. As if she hadn't been for a long time anyhow.
She simply flashed him a smile, completely unaware of the cruel thing that was twisting up inside him at the moment.
He smiled back painfully.
It had been months without her properly now. He had thought he was getting used to it, but the moment things started to feel almost okay again something like this always happened. Something that hammered it into his head just how little she cared. Yes, if she liked their library, department and/or professors she ought to attend NYS—it was a sound and logical decision.
But he'd told her months ago where he'd be going and she hadn't even thought to tell him when she'd chosen another school. Why was he here in the first place if not for her?
He fought down the urge to lash out admirably, if he did say so himself. And tried to re-adopt his former mantle of resignation. It was almost time for the party anyhow—which meant he'd at least have Scott and Rogue to divert him.
Too much time with Aurora was always difficult. Jean-Paul had never done well with love, let alone of the unrequited variety.
"I feel like an idiot," Rogue sighed at him over the top of her champagne glass. She'd made a beeline for him (and by association, the table full of alcohol) the moment she'd come into the room. Though Jean-Paul never would've admitted it, her presence (combined with Scott and yes, even Jean's) had lifted a terrible weight off him. Before they'd come, he'd been standing there alone in the Worthingtons' ballroom as dozens of Dedicated Followers of Fashion filed in. Now that Warren was introducing his sister to the parents, it was nice to have company.
Worthington Manor was all he'd expected and nothing less. Marble floors, intricate wainscoting, ceilings that were so high their patterned designs were fairly wasted on those tiny people wandering below. Chandeliers and Persian rugs and everything else Old Money was supposed to have.
He probably should have been impressed, but he couldn't let himself get there.
"You look wonderful," he assured Rogue, casting his eyes around the room slowly, taking it all in. She did look wonderful, as a matter of fact. She wore a dark purple, almost black dress that was devastatingly feminine—but not without her usual "I'm so goth" edge. She even had on the necklace he'd suggested, a faux-amethyst and antique silver job from one of the mall kiosks. She looked… well, beautiful and grown up.
Which of course was exactly why she'd hate it.
"No, you look wonderful," she pouted. "Warren, Aurora, Jean and Scott look wonderful."
And they did too. Scott cleaned up very well, in his smartly-cut pinstriped jacket and trousers. Showed off those shoulders that he and his brother both carried so well. And Jean was undeniable in an expensive-looking emerald silk dress with a slightly Asian cut to it—a dragon winding up and around her straight skirt. Normally Jean-Paul didn't go in for that sort of thing, but she wore it like she belonged in it, and that was all that mattered—particularly in a crowd like this one.
"Why can't we all be good-looking?" he smirked over his glass at her after another sip. The urge to chug was building as his boredom increased exponentially with each passing moment, but he held himself in check as best he could.
It had been a long day.
"No one has to be the ugly duckling, you know," Jean-Paul suggested.
She rolled her eyes at him. "How'd the day go, anyhow?"
He shrugged. "Uneventful." Perhaps marginally painful, but not a great deal more than he'd expected, really. Something was bound to piss him off.
He was over it. Really, he was.
"With the two of you, that's good news," she muttered.
Well. No arguing with that anyhow.
"Let's take Scott and Jean some champagne," Rogue suggested, picking up another glass and holding it out to him. "Scott looks like he's about to blow a head gasket."
Jean-Paul continued to smirk, accepting the glass and starting toward the other two X-Men who were still lingering near the entrance. When he arrived he handed the fresh glass to Scott and threw an arm over his shoulder. "If I buy you a drink, does that mean I get to take you home?"
Scott rolled his eyes… but the stony straight line his lips had been forming till that point cracked and almost became a smile.
Rogue handed Jean the other glass as she came up behind him. "Don't make him too nervous, JP. Any more and his head might pop."
"I'm fine," Scott protested, looking at the glass in his hand doubtfully.
Jean-Paul kept smirking. Scott was as far from fine as was possible. PR made him sweaty, as Jean had explained it. Judging from the look on his face, the way he was standing in that excellent suit like a little toy soldier at the ready, she'd judged him precisely.
Jean sighed at him. "Just drink it. It won't kill you."
"Will it kill our chances with Worthington, though?"
Jean-Paul squeezed Scott's shoulders once before releasing him. "Don't be such a pussy, Summers. It's not as if you'll go staggering up to him and vomit in his jacket pocket after one little glass."
As expected, Scott caved and took a sip. The sight brought a small twinge of triumph to Jean-Paul. At this rate he'd have Scott in the clubs in no time at all-Or not, but the concept was amusing just the same.
"Wonder how it's going?" Jean shot an interested glance over the heads of the twenty or so people between them and where Warren and Aurora were standing with the Worthingtons. "Was she nervous?"
"Is she ever?" Jean-Paul snorted.
"This is pretty good," Scott decided, smacking his lips once then sniffing at the champagne again. "Tastes pretty strong though."
It was Rogue's turn to sigh now. "Scott if you got any more Boy Scout I'd start to think you like little boys."
"Doesn't he?" Jean-Paul asked.
Scott looked, if possible, even more uncomfortable. "I hate you all."
Dinner had been boring. The people were boring. Jean-Paul had spent a half hour talking to a stockbroker who'd clearly recognized him as someone with money to burn, only to decide that the woman was a shark and he didn't want her touching his money with a ten-foot pole. Various society types had asked his name. His connection with Warren K. Worthington III.
He'd amused himself by giving various stories. Once he'd been Warren's prep school soccer team captain. Another he'd been his lawyer. No one had believed a word of it, of course, since they'd all known damn well who he was before they'd asked. If his resemblance to his sister (who was currently breaking the hearts of all the twenty-something heiresses in the room, not to mention their mothers', by being Warren's girlfriend) wasn't enough, the news that there were X-Men in the room would have been more than sufficient. After the first fifteen minutes the news had spread like wildfire through the ballroom.
Scott looked a little better now that he'd been formally introduced to Warren K. Worthington, Jr. Jean was like a fish in water with these people. And Rogue… well, Rogue was disappearing at regular intervals to "go to the bathroom". Jean-Paul had followed her once till she'd disappeared outside. So unless she was pissing against a tree to mark her territory she was skipping out to smoke/give herself a break.
But she was holding up well just the same.
Jean-Paul, on the other hand, was ready to go home. People were starting to leave and he took that as his cue. He assumed Aurora would want to stay till the end, but she would neither expect nor want him to stick around.
He was just about to express this to his fellow X-Men when she caught his eye. She was standing in the middle of the room… with a crowd around her.
Well, not a crowd exactly—but four or five men, all of whom had a fevered sort of look in their eye that Jean-Paul was very familiar with. She was leaning on the arm of one and talking into his ear, then she laughed at something the one on the other side of her said. That kind of feminine laugh that makes a straight man's knees buckle because he can hardly believe it's being directed at him.
They were probably harmless - Investment Bankers and Business Associates who wouldn't dare.
But they weren't the only ones who'd noticed. An older couple nearby was whispering and the woman was pointing indiscreetly in Aurora's direction. A few others had noticed, but were less obvious.
"Christ," he growled under his breath. And things had been going so well.
The three other X-Men followed his gaze. Scott's face went stony. Rogue rolled her eyes. Jean's mouth opened slightly like she had something to say, but snapped shut again quickly. "Goddammit," was all she said.
"That's not gonna look good with the Worthingtons," Scott pointed out with that astuteness that so often garnered him the alternate codename "Captain Obvious." Then he shot a sharp look at Jean-Paul. The one he usually shot when he expected to get punched in the nose.
But Jean-Paul, for once, wasn't bothered. It was one thing for his sister to act like this at the Institute where no one could see her. Even at school where it led everyone on, but they couldn't really do anything about it. But here…
If even Jean was irritated (and Jean generally defended Aurora, seeing as the two of them were ever-so-close), it was because there was a very real problem at hand.
When Aurora actually held out her arms and hugged one of the banker-types while the others watched in awe, Jean-Paul felt something in him snap.
Not, he told himself, because she hugged everyone in the world but him and didn't seem to mind that fact at all. No. Just because she was making a complete and utter ass of herself. In the worst place possible.
Scott looked away, grinding his jaw.
"I'll handle it," Jean-Paul heard himself say.
No one argued. Not that it would've done them any good.
He made his way through the crowd quickly, sidestepping any obstacles and keeping his eyes focused on his sister. She took another man's hand now and let him kiss it. Then laughed. More people were looking, trying to be discreet. He could feel the tension she was building around her - if no one did anything it might explode. Hell, he half thought it might even inspire Warren to try and take his balls back from her and say something himself. The way the man had looked the other afternoon when they'd both walked in on her hanging off Gambit, Jean-Paul thought it would be about fucking time if he did.
But he had no desire to let that explosion happen. He wouldn't let her make a fool of herself (and them all) here.
It was for her own good.
He came up behind her, edging out the nearest admirer deftly, and leaned as close as he dared to her ear to say, "Sister, a word?"
She turned to meet his eyes and smiled brightly. "Of course. Excuse me, gentlemen," she laughed.
The admirers milled about. If they ever dispersed entirely he didn't know. He walked off to the side then turned to face her.
Calm. He would be calm about this. It was for her own good, after all.
"You're making an ass of yourself, the X-Men, and your beloved birthday boy."
Her eyes went wide.
His heart began to thud inside him at an extremely dangerous speed, his ears sounding with the rush of it, a strange and pleasant sickness rising in him in reaction.
"What?" was all she said. As if she hadn't heard.
"Don't play coy," he said simply. "Your flirting is disgraceful."
She flushed slightly till she became a beautiful shade of pink in the cheeks. She was quite brilliant when she was angry, he thought. "I am not flirting!"
He laughed a genuinely unpleasant laugh. "You liar."
She stood up straight, raised her head high, as if she'd been slapped and refused to show that it had hurt. Her upper lip curled just slightly as she snarled, "What?"
He liked it. Everything in him responded eagerly to the anger flashing in her eyes, in every small movement of her body, her face. With every little emotional response she showed he could feel himself growing calmer, at least externally. More in control.
"You're a liar," he repeated slowly in his most patronizing tone of voice. She sounded like a mildly dim-witted child who didn't understand why she ought to be ashamed for getting caught with her hand in the cookie jar before dinner. "You might have some issues, dear sister, but surely you're not stupid. You're flirting with other men at your own boyfriend's birthday dinner, where you not only represent Warren but the X-Men. You're embarrassing yourself and there's no one else here to tell you."
Her eyes were narrowed and her breathing was becoming slightly erratic. He could see it from the rise and fall of her shoulders. "You're purposely being spiteful. I am not a liar and I was just talking—"
He cut her off with a laugh, hoping it sounded as cruel as he wanted it to sound. "Like you were just talking to Remy in the foyer the other morning?"
"I don't—"
"There are only two options here. You're either a liar or an idiot. Do you think every person in this room hasn't noticed you rubbing up against every man in—"
"You dare?" She did the cutting off now, baring her teeth and leaning forward slightly. "You, the most shameless flirt in the history of the world? How many men have you—?"
"I'm not embarrassing myself and my friends by acting like a whore."
The word sent a thrill through him. Perverse and delicious.
The way her face twisted up into something horrible, melting all her effortless beauty into an angry mask, sent another, even better thrill through him. It was beautiful, he thought. It was just what he'd always wanted.
Her voice was low and dangerous when she spoke again. "What did you say?"
"I think you heard me." He shrugged as if his heart wasn't soaring. He wanted to say it again, but held back. The time wasn't right. No, he had to make it perfect, had to say it just when it would do the most damage. Not yet. "You could at least have waited till his birthday was over, you know. As a courtesy."
"A whore?"
She'd spoken too loudly. Jean-Paul felt heads turn.
Suddenly he wished he'd taken her outside to do this.
But it was no good now. If he broke the momentum of the argument it would be over and she'd only be angry. He wanted better than that. He wanted more.
"What would you prefer?" he asked as though he genuinely wanted to know. Like he was taking a survey. This was his opening. "Not Whore? Slut, then? Tramp? Woman of ill repute?"
Her small white hands clenched into fists. He noticed that they were shaking. Her lips quivered as she growled, "I wish I could smack you."
She would have done and he knew it. He smiled, again cruelly, even as his own hands involuntarily curled up into fists. Despite his acute awareness that more than one person had now noticed that things were not quite right in their little corner of the ballroom, he couldn't feel anything much but a terrible sense of victory. The color in her cheeks, the wildness in her eyes...
He'd done that.
And he'd also, for the first time since her little procedure, made her admit that not being able to touch him was remotely inconvenient for her.
"I wish you could too," he snarled through his smile.
"How dare you," she growled, righteous fury collecting in the air around her like light usually did. "Warren has never accused me—"
Jean-Paul snorted again, rolling his eyes up to the ceiling in a great show of how very little he cared to hear her madness. Oh, so very little. "As if he would. What man can speak when someone has his balls in a vice? It's terribly uncomfortable, I hear."
"I would never cheat on him!" she announced, effectively to half the room.
Oh he wished they weren't there - this should be his alone - but it was still good. It was all he could do to keep from laughing out loud. He was silent for a moment, watching her fume and enjoying it, before he finally said, "There's an English expression, Aurora. Actions speak louder than words. You've heard it?"
"You don't know anything!" She was most definitely not using her 'inside voice'. Her entire body was vibrating just slightly. He knew what it felt like. His was as well—that energy they still had in common, though not half so much as they used to - it was rushing all through him, tearing him up inside. It felt wonderful. "Why do you act on his behalf?"
Funny how she had the ability to latch on to one aspect of his accusation and completely ignore the other. "Well I certainly know how I'd feel if my significant other threw himself at anything with a dick."
She shuddered.
He kept smiling. So good. "But you're missing half the—"
She never let him finish. She stamped one foot like a petulant child and half-yelled, "Stop it! You're hateful! You have to ruin everything!"
Him? He was supposed to be the one ruining things? Oh, that was just brilliant! Still conscious of eyes on him even if his sister wasn't, he kept his voice low, but the appearance of complete self control he'd cultivated was slipping and he could feel it. He gripped at it desperately as he spoke. "You have ruined tonight. And everything else."
"You want me to be unhappy like you!" she announced. "You're taking his side because you're jealous!"
For a moment he was confused. Her anger, her reaction still thrilled him. But he honestly had no idea what she meant. "Of what?"
"Warren! Don't deny it, I saw you with him yesterday morning!"
Jean-Paul felt something hard and dry in his throat. As he tried to swallow it he attempted to reconcile what she was saying with reality and failed miserably. Yesterday morning? Jealous of her because of Warren? Did she honestly believe that he had the slightest interest in her weepy-eyed emo rich boy?
Well… it couldn't be helped. She was clearly out of her mind, he'd known it since he'd met her.
He continued to fight for control of his face, his body, as he asked her, "Are you serious?"
She stamped her foot again, ridiculously enough. "You're jealous!"
"If I'm jealous," he heard himself say, "it's not of you."
His smile grew slightly, in parallel with that horrible thing that had been twisting in his stomach all day long. It was getting bigger and bigger too.
She didn't understand. He knew she wouldn't, and that was why he'd said it in the first place. If he ever thought she'd hear his words and connect them with that part of him he never would've let them slip out.
"You admit it!" she looked like she'd just won a great battle. Instead of lost it entirely.
He felt his fists clench a little more tightly. "You're mad."
She winced.
He could have cried for happiness.
"How could you?" Her voice fell again, almost exactly matching his in pitch and volume.
At that point Jean-Paul became vaguely aware that someone else had entered their little scene. That it was Warren and he had a hand on his sister's shoulder. As if to calm her. Comfort her.
Jean-Paul didn't want her to have comfort. And he didn't want her to be calm. He'd done all this, in fact, so she would have exactly the opposite. He knew it and he was proud of it. He watched her eyes turn wet, smiled at how easily she did it. She wasn't sad at all and they both knew it. No, she was angry. She wanted to hit him. She was so good at this, it was almost as if he'd taught her himself.
She turned her watery doe-eyes to her boyfriend, plaintively sighing that, "You should hear the things he's said about me!" Then she turned back to him and said, "To me! How could you, Jean-Paul? You must be jealous, nothing else can explain this!"
He just glared at her, defiant. She was so foolish. She didn't deserve to know the truth. That lie, in fact, suited her. Let her have it. Let her be angry for all the wrong reasons.
He didn't care, so long as she was angry. So long as she felt something.
"Aurora. Jean-Paul," Warren's voice came softly. Urgent and pressing. "Please…"
Jean-Paul turned his attention to Worthington, suddenly snapped back to the reality of the situation. The concept that they were being watched, so prevalent in his mind initially, had completely faded within moments. Warren's words brought it back to him violently.
He'd gotten what he wanted anyhow.
"I've outstayed my welcome."
It was perfectly obvious to him.
Warren didn't seem to agree, shaking his head and looking exquisite in his anguish. Aurora, however, agreed with his assessment vehemently. "Go!" She pointed toward the door that led into the foyer and stamped one foot again in an utterly priceless imitation of a spoiled child. "You're not welcome here. You're hateful."
That word again.
Yes, he supposed he was.
Jean-Paul turned and walked away. There was nothing else to say anyhow.
Rogue caught him before he got to the car.
He'd had a feeling she would. He could've run, sped himself up and been in his car and driving recklessly toward Bayville before she ever had a chance, but he didn't really care anymore. He wasn't angry or sad or even triumphant. Mostly he was just tired.
"What part of 'handling it' meant that you were going to cause an even bigger scene?"
Well she certainly didn't waste any time, did she?
He shrugged, keeping his leisurely pace across the gigantic stone cul-de-sac. It was a nice night, really. He would miss those when he moved to Manhattan in August—all the light pollution would be a deterrent to sky-watching.
"What did you do?" she demanded.
She sounded angry, true. But he was pleased to note a hint of resignation in her voice as well. Good. Then she wouldn't make this too difficult. Rogue knew how to make things difficult when she so chose. Very, very difficult. And he was simply too tired for that right now. He just wanted to go home and pass out.
"I told my sister that she acts like a whore."
Rogue was silent for a moment.
Jean-Paul allowed himself a glance at her. Her face was made for moonlight, pale and wide-eyed. Prettier than she'd let herself believe. Normally he would've told her, but she was clearly not in the mood to be deterred by compliments. She was chewing at her bottom lip with what looked like dangerous intent. "Not in those words?" She finally asked.
"No. Well, yes, but not just those words."
"Mother fucker," she sighed.
"Everyone knows it's true," he pointed out. No one would have said it to him—he might've killed them if they had. But he wasn't blind. "You know it is."
"Flirting ain't fucking," she pointed out, as if dispensing one of those little tidbits of redneck wisdom southerners were so fond of.
He shrugged. "Even Scott said she was making us look bad. Albeit in his polite Scott way."
It sounded like he was justifying himself to her. He wasn't, not really. He didn't need to. It had been for her own good. All that other nonsense, all his internal gloating, all that good blood rushing feeling… it was secondary.
For her own good.
Rogue stopped walking and grabbed his arm suddenly. He was so surprised at the action that he stopped in his tracks and turned to face her, only realizing afterward that he'd done exactly what she'd intended.
She never touched him. If they touched, he initiated it. Oh once in awhile, when things had been really horrible for him, she'd patted his arm or his hand. But not unless the situation was dire. Rogue didn't touch anyone. Rogue had issues.
"What the fuck are you trying to do?" she demanded.
He narrowed his eyes. "Not now, Rogue." And he turned to walk away again.
She only tightened her grip on his arm and pulled him back to her. A little more roughly than Jean-Paul had expected, actually. It was not a very friendly action. "No, you stupid asshole."
He met her grey-green eyes straight on. Showing absolutely nothing.
But he couldn't exactly reply either.
"Tell me why you said it," she demanded, arching one eyebrow at him. As if she already had the answers (which she just might have) but planned to hear it from him just the same. "You could've just distracted her and talked to her tomorrow, Jean-Paul. That's what we all thought you were gonna do, or I never would've left the room to take a piss. Why would you do that?"
He glared. And growled, "I said—"
She pulled at his arm again, this time even harder.
Ouch. That was going to leave a mark. Damned if he'd give her the satisfaction of showing it though.
"Tell me," she insisted, eyes narrowing even further.
He continued to glare.
She gave it right back.
Finally she snorted, her pouty lips still forming that slight sneer, and released his arm. It throbbed slightly where her bony little fingers had made painful indentations in him, but he refused to rub it. Or otherwise express his discomfort.
"Your life sucks," she said finally. "I get it. But that doesn't give you the right to be a dick."
"My right is god-given." He looked down his nose at her. "I'm pretty."
She snorted out another laugh, and the tension was completely broken. "Fucker."
He smirked at her. Relief rushed through him in rivers, but was entirely banned from his face.
She shook her head, her face morphing from mildly disgusted into something more confused. "Why'd you say it? It must've broken her heart."
He started walking back to the car beside her, not feeling the need to reply.
She'd answered her own question.
The next morning wasn't as terrible as Jean-Paul had expected. Was he a touch more guilty than he had been when he'd fallen asleep the night before? Yes. Was he depressed, anguished and preparing to slash his wrists in a nice hot bath and leave his corpse as a poignant Ode to Marat?(1)
No. He felt horrible and evil, but he could live with it. And a certain satisfaction still lingered to pull him through, should his conscience attack.
He had his breakfast alone for once. It was a long weekend and everyone was still asleep, so he stole some yogurt and five or six cereal bars, stuffed them into his pockets and retreated to the outdoors.
The first thing he saw there was probably the most beautiful car he'd ever laid eyes on in his life. He recognized it immediately and, naturally, coveted it from the pit of his stomach. It was a Bugatti Veyron 16.4—a car he'd never actually seen with his own eyes but was quite familiar with just the same. No man who appreciated fast cars as Jean-Paul Beaubier did would ever fail to recognize its divinity.
He made a circle of the thing, chewing thoughtfully on a strawberry Nutri-Grain bar. It was black and blue—which would've been his choice as well—and perfectly mint. It could only really belong to one person, but Jean-Paul didn't see this as a conflict of interest. This was a car, after all. The car.
Before too long he heard footsteps behind him. He didn't look over his shoulder, but assumed it was the car's owner.
Anyone else would've said hello by that time.
"Is it yours?" he asked, still examining the vehicle with great interest, chewing at his breakfast and refusing to look at his new companion.
"Yes. It was my birthday present."
Jean-Paul watched himself carefully in the rear driver's side window to make certain his face was smooth. Unbothered. When Warren finally appeared over his shoulder there he turned and faced him, meeting his eyes as easily as could be.
As if nothing had happened. As if his sister hadn't accused him in front of at least a dozen people he'd never met of desiring this man's affections so badly he would arbitrarily accuse her of being a whore.
To say that Warren looked bad would have been an understatement. His normally carefully combed hair was wild, as if he'd just rolled out of bed and his eyes had slight dark circles underneath them. Far from marring the perfection of his Ken Doll looks, they seemed to give his prettiness credibility. Instead of being made of plastic, he was suddenly human.
What a night he must've had, Jean-Paul thought, completely detached from the concept that if Warren was suffering it was at least partially his fault.
Well, mostly detached.
"Jean-Paul, about last night—"
"I'm sorry to have ruined the end of a lovely evening," Jean-Paul smiled ingratiatingly. As if he were genuine. As if he cared.
Judging from the company last night, Worthington was probably familiar enough with the tactic to realize it meant he was being ironic.
"I don't care about the evening."
"Well, thank you for it just the same."
Warren sighed, white wings fluttering just slightly. Jean-Paul smirked. He'd seen it before in the Danger Room—and sometimes when he'd seen Warren with his sister. It was a sign of frustration.
Lovely.
"Please, just talk to me for a second."
Jean-Paul simply stared at him. As if telling him to hurry up and talk if he was really must.
"I've never been able to figure out why you're so decent to me when everyone else expects you not to be—"
It was only half a sentence, but before Warren could speak again Jean-Paul cut him off. "Haven't you heard? I'm trying to fuck you."
Warren closed his eyes for a moment. His neck went slightly pink, but for the most part he held himself together.
That was too bad, really. He looked close to unraveling, and Jean-Paul had been sure that would do it.
"I…," Warren started to speak, but when he opened his eyes and saw Jean-Paul simply smirking at him he stopped. "Jean-Paul, please."
"I'm sorry, am I making you uncomfortable?"
"Would you stop?" He'd finally cracked a little, his frustration creeping into his voice. "She didn't mean any of it, you know she didn't."
For a moment he didn't answer. He wasn't sure if he could really continue with this perverse thing he was working, realistically. Worthington was too defeated, that was fairly tapped. So what then?
Suddenly he decided that he'd simply be honest. Nothing was more painful in this situation than the truth—so why not? "You know she did. She meant every word of it."
"Did you?" Shockingly, the man didn't look accusing. He didn't look angry. He just looked… tired.
It wasn't going to work. Jean-Paul turned to walk away. "Fuck off Worthington. I'm done being decent to you."
Why should he? When he was a dick to his sister's boyfriends he was an asshole. When he was decent to them he wanted to fuck them. At least this way he was doing it how he wanted. One person would feel good about it.
"Please."
He begged prettily, Jean-Paul thought. That must have been what Aurora saw in him.
"If you're gonna beg," a new voice suddenly suggested. "You'd better get on your knees, flyboy."
Jean-Paul started to smile before he even turned around. There was Pietro, leaning on the driver's side door of the Bugatti with his usual lack of courtesy for other peoples' property. Smirking happily at one very worn-out looking Angel.
He couldn't have said it better himself.
Warren looked from Jean-Paul to Pietro, and then visibly gave up. His entire body sagged, even his wings began to droop. It was quite pathetic. "Stay off my goddamn car," he warned Pietro darkly. And with that cheerful suggestion, he finally fucked off.
Pietro waggled his eyebrows at Jean-Paul. "Who took a shit in his cereal?"
Jean-Paul shrugged and started walking again, knowing Pietro would be beside him in a split second.
And he was. So Jean-Paul related the entire story of last night's events to Pietro, sans personal feeling or interest. He simply told him precisely what had happened, what had been said, and that was that. He wasn't sure why he did it exactly, other than that he saw no reason not to.
When he was done Pietro looked almost thoughtful. His pretty face had that look to it—slightly pursed lips and furrowed brow. It was charming.
God help him, but it was.
"Wow," he pronounced finally. "Wings looks pretty roughed up about the whole thing too."
Jean-Paul had a vague idea about that. "She'll use him up."
"Yeah, yeah," Pietro rolled his eyes. "Like she did to you, I get it. Very deep."
He shot Pietro a dark look for that. He didn't much care for the pang it gave him in the chest. Anyhow, it was none of his goddamn business. "Fuck off. I'm not in the mood."
Pietro rolled his eyes again and stayed right by his side as they kept walking toward the woods. Slowly. Pietro only did this when he actually felt like spending time with him and Jean-Paul knew it and had a grudging appreciation for the fact. In spite of his irritation, he didn't genuinely want Pietro to fuck off right then.
The company was nice.
After a longer silence than Jean-Paul had ever known Pietro to endure, the Brotherhood boy finally said, "Why don't you just talk to her?"
Jean-Paul threw another dark look his way. Had he lost his mind?
"Dude, you're such a hypocrite."
"What?" Jean-Paul stopped walking, staring at his theoretical best friend, one part awe and two parts outrage. He might be a dickhead, a cold hearted bastard and many other things. But a hypocrite he was not.
He almost hoped Pietro would argue with him. He'd love to fight right then. Fight him, fuck him and send him on his way. He was getting to be a nuisance this morning.
But instead he just shrugged. "Back when we were having those nightmares you told me I should talk to Wanda. I was scared to though."
Jean-Paul remembered now. He also remembered Pietro waking up in a cold sweat, shaking and screaming and finally dragging him to go talk to his sister with him.
He felt himself soften toward Pietro again. Against his will, but there it was just the same.
"If I hadn't we probably would've gone crazy. Not that what happened was a lot better, but it was better than crazy."
Jean-Paul snorted. That was all he was prepared to commit to the conversation at the time. He didn't much care for where it was going… but he didn't stop it just the same.
"I don't know what the fuck is wrong with everyone lately," Pietro complained suddenly, seeming to change topics at random (which was entirely expected and well within the bounds of his personality profile.) "First Wanda is being all thoughtful and shit and talking to our stupid father, now you're being a jackass about Jeanne-Marie—or Aurora or Cloud or Rain or whatever the fuck she wants to be called now. Since when am I the stable one?"
"Compared to your sister?" he asked, amused, remembering finding Wanda surrounded by perfect lines of magazine clippings, pasting them over a hollow, sad charcoal drawing of a man on a bare canvas. He loved the girl in a way, but she was as far from stable as could be. "I caught her reenacting an OCD scene from The Wall on your kitchen floor a few days ago. I'm pretty sure you have a leg up."
The silver-haired speedster punched his arm half-heartedly. "Well if my sister is fucked in the head then you should listen to me. In case you haven't noticed, we're friends now. Unlike some people and their fucked-in-the-head sisters. You hypocrite."
"Stop saying that."
"Why? Hypocrite."
"Pietro—" It was a warning that time. One more word and he'd have all the reason he needed…
But he backed off again, holding out his hands in silent surrender. The little bastard. "You're doing the same thing I do, you know. That's why you're a hypocrite."
Jean-Paul gritted his teeth.
"I'm just saying. You're always bitching at me because I try to be a dick to make you mad and go away and now you're—"
"Shut the fuck up," he snapped. "I get it. And that's not why I did it."
"Whatever," Pietro shrugged. "Close enough to make my point, right?"
He noted that Pietro knew better than to press him for the exact reason. That in itself was less disturbing than it should've been, maybe.
But it also made him feel marginally better.
"Talk about something else," he instructed.
Pietro shrugged. But did it anyhow.
He wasn't sure why he was knocking on her door after dinner. Maybe because she hadn't been there. Maybe he wanted to be sure she'd eaten.
She'd looked very thin yesterday.
"Come in," Aurora suggested from the other side of the door.
He opened it and leaned on the doorframe. Not quite coming in. But close.
She looked up from her desk at him. The room was half dark—it was dusk outside and she only had one desk lamp on. It was behind her head, lighting her up. A bit like a shot of a heroine in a bad seventies movie.
She didn't say a word. She just sat a little straighter and looked back to the notebook in front of her on the desk.
"You haven't finished your homework yet?"
She still didn't look up. "I've been busy this weekend."
He wouldn't have called her tone "frosty", but it wasn't exactly pleasant either. "I suppose," was all he said. And he just stood there, watching her.
There was no point in remembering how he would've solved their problems before – how he would've hugged her and she would've known. It didn't matter what had been. She'd thrown it all away.
Still, he needed her to understand or it would never be all right. He knew it would never be enough, looking at her sitting there across the room. Miles and miles of empty desert, her on that side and him on this. It would always be like this. But he had to live with it, so she needed to understand.
"What do you want?" she finally asked, putting down her pen but still not looking at him. "Did you come to apologize, or to call me more names? Get it over with."
::I don't know.:: It depended on her, really.
Finally she turned her head and met his eyes. ::I hate you, Jean-Paul.::
She didn't, not really. She couldn't possibly. But he said::I know,:: anyhow. It was nice to hear her speak French, at least. It had been a long time.
::You hate me too, no?::
More than she could know. ::Sometimes.::
"Why?" she slipped back into English. As if it would be easier for her. As if she didn't see how it separated them, made them just like everyone else. Made them average. "We had such a nice day yesterday…"
He stepped inside the room and closed the door behind him before saying, "You had a nice day yesterday."
She was so selfish. So blind. So ridiculous.
Just like him. And she didn't care.
"You never said anything."
He leaned on the door now, making himself comfortable. This had to happen, so he would be honest. This wasn't last night. This was to see if last night had really shown her anything at all. It would mean everything. "I haven't said anything in months."
Now she turned her chair around completely and stood, taking a few steps toward him. "Jean-Paul stop this. This is reality. This is how it is."
If that line of reasoning worked he would've stopped feeling betrayed ages ago. "Can I stop hating it just because I want to?" As he said it, he felt himself getting angrier with her, feeling all hope of reaching an understanding slipping away. Feeling like he'd done it all for nothing. "Do you think I enjoy loving someone who doesn't love me back? Is that your idea of a good time?"
After the words were out, he wanted them back. They bounced off the walls, hollow and pointless.
Nothing more came from her for a moment. She didn't move closer. "I … I don't really hate you."
"I know you don't. If you did that would mean you loved me."
Her brow furrowed in frustration as she worked visibly to follow. "You don't make sense."
No, of course not. Why would she understand that statement, being incapable of love or hate? "You don't care about me either way." Hadn't he said this before? Hadn't it fallen on completely deaf ears? Did last night really mean she would suddenly be capable of being human? Would it really make the difference he needed it to? "You give yourself away to anyone and anything that comes around, but you don't even care that I'm the one who deserves it."
He sounded so angry. Why was he so angry? Why was he breathing heavily? Why did he keep doing this to himself?
But it was out now. So he finished it. "I'm the one who loves you."
She shook her head. But she still didn't look sad. Didn't look remorseful. "I do care. Jean-Paul, I know all of that."
All for nothing. Nothing he could say would change the look on her face, would change the fact that she could never feel what he wanted her to feel. It wasn't in her. There was no capacity for love or hate like he felt. If it were possible she would've felt it last night. "This is pointless," he said, defeated. That thing that had twisted up his stomach yesterday, cruel and triumphant, must have been dead now. He didn't feel it at all—not that, or anything else. "I'm sorry I said anything."
And he truly was, but it was done now. Again and again. He turned numbly to go.
"Stop."
He reached out.
"Please."
His hand touched the doorknob.
"Listen for just a moment."
He turned it.
"Did you ever wonder… why I am the way I am?"
He stopped. There was something there he hadn't heard before.
The thought was at once funny and brilliant. Funny because he couldn't help but call it wishful thinking. Brilliant because… what if it was real?
"Which part of you exactly?" he asked over his shoulder. "The part that makes you throw yourself at random men in front of your supposed boyfriend, or the part that makes you too cold to care if you're throwing away the best thing you'll ever have?"
She didn't answer. She just looked at him. Still not sad… but her eyes were different. She didn't look confident, unafraid, and certain like she had throughout this entire ordeal. She looked… like she was asking for something she knew she might not get.
He turned around. "It was the best thing we'll ever have," he repeated.
That was it. That was the reason.
"I do it because I need people."
"Of course you do," he shot back immediately. Then he eyed her warily, silent for a moment. The moment this became more of the same… the moment he knew, he was gone. Why did he keep doing this to himself? She couldn't help him. She didn't know how. "What other reason is there but the fact that you're attention-starved?"
She chewed at the inside of her cheek for a moment. Then said, "Being away from you makes it worse."
It would've sounded much better if he hadn't twisted her arm, her heart, into saying it. "I doubt it. You've always been a flirt, even before."
"Don't you see the difference, Jean-Paul? Can't you feel how hard it is for me too?"
Was that… actual emotion? Was that sadness? Longing, even?
Surely not. Surely he was mistaken. Surely he'd finally gone mad with her and was imagining things.
"No." He refused to be beguiled by the promise in her voice. "You've never once shown or said to me that it was the least bit difficult for you to be cut off from me like this. Not until you wanted to slap me last night."
She just looked at him, reminding him very much of a cat. Considering and lashing her tail. After a long moment, she spoke. "I deserved what you said to me then."
He nearly choked.
She hadn't deserved what he'd said at all. He didn't need to pretend that anymore to make him treat her like that. She hadn't deserved a word.
But she had deserved to feel that way. He was sure of it, felt completely justified for everything he'd done to her, the way he'd treated her.
Did she really understand?
He didn't dare. "Well we agree there at least."
"I don't want to fight," she shook her head, now coming a little closer. She was within four or five feet when she spoke again. "I know I broke your heart, but mine is broken too—I told you that a long time ago. I have to choose between being cut off from you and functional, or being connected to you and broken. I couldn't function."
Broken record. And they'd been doing so well. "So your argument is that it actually is harder for you and that's why you've become an even bigger—"
"Whore?" She smiled. It wasn't cruel or evil. Just a smile. Like the memory of his accusation was suddenly a fond one. Then she shocked him by saying, "Yes. I can't do it myself, Jean-Paul. I need other people. I need to talk to them, to touch them. I like it. It's who I am."
He didn't want her to make sense. He didn't know if she was genuine or not. He could never tell, not anymore. He would've known before…
But why was he thinking of that? This was the way it was. This was how normal, average siblings worked. This was reality.
"It doesn't mean anything," was his final dying protest. All she did, all the love she tried to collect… it wasn't real.
She smiled again. "It's better than nothing."
For the first time since he'd met her, Jean-Paul felt completely outmatched by his sister. Because in those three words she'd explained everything about them. About the way they were and the way they had to be and why.
It was better than nothing.
He nodded. And didn't reach out to take her hand like he thought he should. "I understand."
She cocked her head at him again. "Are you sorry for what you said?"
He shrugged. "Partly. I know you're not a whore. But I'm not sorry I hurt you."
It sounded backwards and he knew it. But it was a fact.
"That's all right," she conceded. "I understand now. At least a little bit."
He sighed and leaned against the door again. "Warren tried to talk to me this morning. I told him to fuck off."
She just smiled again. "I'll talk to him. He takes good care of me, you know.
He rolled his eyes. "I know. That's why I was… decent to him."
She had the grace to flush slightly. Not much, but at least it was a sign. Of some kind of feeling. "I believe you. I just… I didn't know why you'd say things like that to me. To your own sister. It was all I could think of. I needed a reason."
"I understand." He could hardly fault her for that. Not after all this.
She looked at him for a long time, silent. Mostly he wondered what she was thinking about when she saw him. He knew what he thought, but the two seemed so unrelated.
This was what it was like to be average. Only a little less than average, really.
"I wish I could hug you," she said finally.
He had to close his eyes. Because there it was. Right there. "I do too."
"Jean-Paul…" he felt her come a step closer as she spoke and opened his eyes. "You won't leave me will you?"
He didn't know why the fuck she'd even have that thought in her mind. It was perfectly obvious to him that he'd be the one left behind.
But maybe not today.
"No," he answered around the lump in his throat. "Come down and have something to eat."
She nodded and smiled.
It was better than nothing.
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(1)Yes, I know Marat was stabbed to death in the bath and didn't kill himself. But it's still something Jean-Paul would entertain himself by thinking. It's too aesthetically satisfying, if morose.