Part 1: Misunderstood
the world is full of refugees, just like you and just like me, but as people we have a choice, to end the void with all its force. so don't forget or don't pretend it's all the same now in the end. it was said in a different life, destroys my days and haunts my nights. in the beginning… when we were winning… when our smiles were genuine.
-the everlasting
The problem with sparring with a teleporter, Jean-Paul Beaubier thought to himself as he spun, was that they were so damn hard to catch.
Something blue, a tail, whisked in front of his face, and he immediately applied the proper amount of thrust, sending himself levitating just enough to miss Nightcrawler's sudden sweep from behind. With supersonic speed, he flipped himself feet-over head, and landed behind the team leader lightly, catching him with a quick, light jab to the ribs as he stood.
Kurt spun quickly, however, reached out to catch Jean-Paul's fist in mid air despite the slight "uff" sound that issued forth from blue lips. He missed, however, neglecting to factor in the other's super-speed ability as he retracted his arm and ducked into a backwards sweep of his own. The sweep he attempted to execute with something closer to normal speed, but the teleporter sprung up and back flipped out of his immediate reach with his usual catlike grace.
Northstar stood now, smiling with the pleasant feeling of exertion taking over his body. The lactic acid that came with exercise had finally begun to work its way through his muscles, and he could not think of many feelings more exhilarating. It was almost like…
Skiing.
Not quite as good as sex, after all. But still, it would do for now. Certainly did help with the pent-up frustration, anyhow.
"A point to you, Monsieur Beaubier," His German teammate made a short, clever bow to him.
Jean-Paul felt himself smiling. "That leaves us even, Herr Wagner?"
"It does!" Kurt agreed, stepping off the mat now into a patch of sunlight splayed across the gym floor and grabbing a towel from the wall. "A good place to end the day's practice, perhaps?"
A completely rhetorical question. Obviously, his mind was made up. And, to be honest, Northstar was not opposed to the suggestion. The sunlight patch had grown long and tall since they'd first began their little game, and he had to admit, it had done the trick. He was in an undeniably better mood now than he had been then. "So it would seem," he assented, moving with his own dignified grace to find a towel for himself.
"Ach, it feels good to have a match now and then, just a little friendly sparring," The other man mused, from under the white towel he had thrown over his sweat-moistened head. All that was evident of his face was his beguilingly demonic grin, complete with those fangs.
So out of place on such a charmer, Jean-Paul thought to himself. An unlikely charmer, covered in blue fur, with the yellow eyes of a demon. He liked the man, though he had admittedly spent little time with him since joining the team. At least, not one on one. Of course, he had spent little time with anyone one on one since he'd moved into the mansion. And mostly due to his own stand-offish nature. But Kurt seemed to be one of the few men in the mansion who treated him no differently for his sexual orientation. As if it didn't occur to him at all that his sparring partner was, in fact, a gay man.
Jean-Paul understood how some of the others might have a difficult time adjusting. Despite the obvious ridiculousness of it, he knew it could be quite threatening to a sheltered, hetero man to be confronted with someone who seemed to flip his rules for life on their head. It was immature, certainly. It was ridiculous to see someone as a category. Mutant. White. Homosexual. Elf-eared. He was more than any of those things, the same as they were. But then, holding others to his own standards had never proven an effective way to move through life. It left him disappointed all too often.
And, of course, there was also the fact that Kurt had conveniently neglected to bring up that the first time Alpha Flight met the X-men, Northstar had been the one to take down Nightcrawler.
That aside, he had enjoyed this workout, and Kurt's company, immensely this afternoon. "Indeed. We should do it more often."
"Agreed," Nightcrawler took the towel from his head and threw it over his shoulder, stretching his compact, muscled form out in the sunlight, reminding his teammate even more of a cat with the gesture. "Ahhh, perhaps a shower and then something to eat. Dinner should be on the table soon, nein?"
Silently, Northstar nodded his agreement, and moved toward the door, draping his own towel about his neck lightly. He was, and always had been, a natural athlete. No matter what the Olympic committee said, he knew that much about himself. These sort of things, physical exertion, this was his bread and butter.
He was surprised to see Kurt at his side as he entered the hallway. "Do you like it here?" The man asked him, still smiling.
It amazed Northstar to no end how a man who had been through all the trials Kurt Wagner had, who had seen the things he'd seen, lived the life he'd lived, could perpetually keep rising to the top. Smiling. "I do," he admitted. He stopped himself for a moment, feeling a strange urge to elaborate come over him. But the face of his companion held a definite expression of expectancy on it, as if that were the very thing he was waiting for, so in the end, he let it go. "I like teaching, and I like what it is the X-men are devoted to. It is the best place for me, at the moment, I believe."
"Forgive me if I am putting my nose where it isn't wanted," his companion sounded apologetic, "but you often seem… removed. It is not my business, of course, and I suppose I should keep my prehensile tail out of your way. But it is difficult not to notice."
He wasn't sure what to say to that. A few sharp comebacks danced over the tip of his tongue, but he bit them all back instantly. He had never been the most friendly of men, he knew. In fact, he was a trial to live with, he was certain of it. But this man, his leader now, a good man, did not deserve to receive a lashing from his infamous forked tongue for simply being concerned about him.
So, surprising even himself, he decided to be honest. "Sometimes, I wonder what I'm doing here. I don't feel quite as much like a superhero as I should, perhaps. And the team… we are not exactly close friends, most of us. But I know this is my place. I've had some good teachers, and I know what it is I need to do."
"I would like to meet your teachers, someday," Kurt mused quietly, obviously understanding the need to feel one's place in the world better than most.
"I wish you could," was the only reply he had to give.
"Hey, what are you so pissed off about?"
Jean-Paul looked up from his mashed potatoes to see the mocking countenance of Robert Drake, Iceman, cocking an eyebrow down at him. And he felt that black hole inside him threatening to swallow, once again.
He had purposely come here, to the library, to avoid any contact with his teammates. He was feeling favorably disposed toward them at the moment, true, but he knew all too well how easily they could crush that for him with a few well placed words.
Or, for that matter, how easily he could crush it.
"Pissed off? Who informed you that I was pissed off?" He asked, returning to the act he had been putting on previously. Pretending to read a book while he ate.
"Call it a hunch," Bobby planted himself on the desk, at a safe distance, of course, from the other man. He didn't pretend Jean-Paul didn't exist, no. Perhaps it was only because he'd saved him. Once. They had not started off their association here as the best of friends…
And of course, he could not know how it made his teammate feel. To have him so near. To want to look him in the eye, but to be afraid to. To be afraid that it would show. Jean-Paul Beaubier was rarely afraid of anything. And when he was, it made him angry. "Can I help you with something, Iceman?"
"Just saying a friendly hello is all, Northstar." Bobby actually sounded… pouty.
He glanced back up at him, to catch a glimpse of the way he stuck his lower lip out just a bit, the way his brown hair fell into his eyes just so.
And he felt horrible. "I'm sorry, Bobby. I was just trying to concentrate," he lied.
The smaller man shrugged, "Whatever. I guess it's tough being the famous Jean-Paul Beaubier, droves of maddened fans beating a path to your door night and day. Never a moment's rest."
A flash of anger, and he turned to face Iceman head on, about to lash out with his usual righteous fury.
But he stopped, when he saw the playful grin on Bobby's face, and the way he held his hands up, as if Jean-Paul would start breathing fire at any moment. "Whooo, you're easy to wind up," he chuckled. "Just messing with you, chill out." A flash of the boyish Bobby Drake so many people wanted to believe this man was all the time.
"Feeling better?" the anger melted away quickly. Too quickly. He fought an urge to smile.
Bobby shrugged, "I guess. But we never did have that dinner, or whatever. Warren and I were going to go have a few drinks, talk about old times. Thought I could at least buy you a beer."
Going to a bar with Iceman and Archangel, old friends from the beginning of time. It was not all that long ago that this man had threatened his life, in fact, if he were to let anything happen to Warren Worthington.
He somehow felt it would be one of those occasions when three was, most definitely, a crowd. "Perhaps I should let you two catch up."
Bobby's smooth brow furrowed at that, and he bit his lip. He looked young, yes, but not like a boy. Thoughtful. Intelligent. A man who's life had been riddled with the same pressures and fears as Jean-Paul's own, and from a much younger age. Bobby was raised to be a superhero. And it showed in the way he held his shoulders back. The way his eyes frosted over internally, when he began to think. "Yeah, alright. I guess. Look, I'm sorry if I've been a dick, or whatever. I've just been… I didn't mean… Did I say thank you?"
Jean-Paul nodded, even though he wasn't even sure himself. "Nothing to thank me for. It's something any of us would do for another." Here it was. The moment when he could say something, make some sort of contact. Get closer.
But did he really want to? Why put himself through that, when he knew this was something he would never have?
It was damned inconvenient, he decided, suddenly being attracted to a straight man. It was a pitfall he'd managed to avoid his entire life, for the most part. Until now.
"Yeah, ok," Bobby stood now, no longer grinning, completely back to the proverbial little black rain cloud he'd been for weeks now.
"Some other time," Jean-Paul suggested, trying not to sound hopeful.
"Definitely," his teammate nodded. "I guess I'll see you around then, huh?"
For a moment, he wished he had Nightcrawler's ability to banter. To draw the man into a conversation. Something about the look on his face, the way he was hesitating. It was almost as if he wanted to talk, somehow.
But then, he knew it was safer not to. "Try not to get into any trouble. I believe you've already used your get out of jail free card for jealous husbands, non?"
A smile now, but it was more sad than anything else, "Warren will keep me straight, don't worry."
The blackness in his chest suddenly began to ache.
Bamf!
And Nightcrawler was standing beside Bobby. "Guten Abend," he grinned at them.
"Hey Kurt," Bobby gave the man a pat on the back, "fancy meeting you here."
Nightcrawler only raised one eyebrow at him, and then looked back to where Jean-Paul sat, pretending to eat his dinner. "Herr Professor has sent for us, Northstar."
Well, he thought to himself, strapping into the pilot's seat, at least he'd managed to get that shower he'd wanted after his workout with Kurt, even if dinner hadn't gone exactly as planned..
Unidentified mutant activity, somewhere in West Virginia. Wherever the hell that was. And they were causing quite a disturbance, apparently. Some sort of projective empath, a charmer, and another with short range control over the speed of his motion.
In other words, a mutant with some version of his own powers. He could move fast, too fast for any of the others to contain. Only Northstar could catch him.
Kurt strapped himself into the co-pilot's seat, still smiling, even though he couldn't have had more than the quick bite to eat he himself had managed to grab before the summons from the Professor. "Ready to go?"
Jean-Paul nodded his assent, silently thankful that Kurt had been chosen for the mission instead of one of the others. He did not feel as if the pressure to converse jovially would sit particularly well on him at this moment in time. The shower had relaxed his tensed muscles considerably, but the short, tense conversation with Bobby had brought back some of the pressure. It was a good way to feel, for a mission. Alert, but not jumpy. But he felt that the bumbling "chit-chat" of his American teammates would have something of a disastrous effect on the rare balance of it.
In the air, things moving smoothly along, he looked over at the demonic co-pilot. He was not smiling anymore. In fact, he seemed not to realize where he was at all. His thoughts seemed to be bent inward entirely, and his glowing yellow eyes had a strangely glazed look to them. He looked comfortable, his hands hanging limply off the arm rests, chest moving evenly up and down with almost sleep like regularity under the form-fitting costume.
He had a strange sort of beauty, really. Half swashbuckler, half priest. Half savior, half demon.
"What about you, Nightcrawler?" He heard himself ask, suddenly.
Kurt looked at him now, eyes focusing clearly on his face in the glow of the cockpit.
"Are you happy here?" He elaborated, still uncertain as to what compelled him to ask the question at all.
In an almost boyish gesture, the other man raised one hand to his head, and scratched at it thoughtfully, displacing some of the dark mop there. "Yes," came the reply after a moment, "I believe I am happy here, doing this."
Jean-Paul turned back to his controls, checking a few things absentmindedly, suddenly almost sorry he had interrupted the man's meditations. "You didn't look happy, for a moment. You smile often."
"I suppose," the other gave a slight shrug, "that even I cannot smile all the time. Too much thought, it is bad for one's happiness. I was thinking of my childhood."
Childhood. As far as he could remember, Northstar really hadn't had much of one. Orphaned twice, finally taken in by Belmonde… so long ago. "You were in the circus?"
"Ja," the other answered, now smiling again, "as were you, I believe. In France? We share some similarities."
Funny thing to say, he thought to himself. A tall, athletic French Canadian ex-medallist. A fuzzy, blue elf of an ex-priest. "I suppose everyone does, in the end."
"Sometimes, I wish things could be the way they were."
A vague statement, to say the least. But somehow, he thought he understood. "Sometimes, I feel the same," Jean-Paul whispered.
If Kurt heard him, he gave no sign. "I was accepted there. My strange appearance, it didn't matter. It was a clever costume, something of interest. But being accepted for the truth, by those who know what I really am, that is something I would never wish away. I am not ungrateful. I just remember a time when the world was black and white, when my path was clear."
Something in him was touched by how personal the things Kurt was saying just then were. It displayed quite a measure of trust in him. And Jean-Paul could appreciate that.
"Those days are far away, in my memories," he made himself reply. "But I have been thinking about it a lot lately. I'm not always spending my hours before sleep coming up with ways to insult Americans, you know."
A snide remark. He couldn't help himself. It was getting too close in here. Human claustrophobia.
His companion only smiled, this time without the fangs, "No, I did not think so, mein freund."
It didn't need to go any further, of course. Some things, Jean-Paul had always thought, didn't really need to be said. Saying them would only cheapen the effect. Words rarely captured emotion to his satisfaction.
If he let himself be honest, he liked it. The feeling that he might be understood. Something in him had long been begging for it. Of course, every fiber in his being rebelled against that word. Beg. He had been orphaned, deserted, lied to, crushed, and injured more times than he cared to remember. But he had never begged. And he never would.
But for just a moment, the hole in him seemed less threatening. Mein freund. Perhaps he was. Perhaps he was.