CATEGORY: Drama/Action
RATINGS/WARNINGS: This is now rated R,
but not for anything in the first four sections. They're fairly wholesome, as
fics go. Things get more and more disturbing, violent, and sexually explicit as
the story progresses however. Bear in mind, it's a story about a gay man, so
yes, that means "slash" at one point. It has it's function, so try and be open
minded, but consider yourself warned. And please, this is not a slashfic. SUMMARY: Jean-Paul finds himself the victim of a
strange mutant called Maya. Nightmares and insomnia plaguing him, he must find
a way to break free of her influence.
DISCLAIMER: I do not own Northstar. Pity. Nor do I own any of the other X-Men.
I'm not making any money. I swear.
NOTES: This is starting out fairly happy and all, but it gets quite dark before
it's over. Just another JP fic from your friendly neighborhood obsessee. Will
try and update a few times a week, until it's all over. And I've no idea how
long that will take, but I'm sure I will feel quite accomplished by the end.
Mad props go to Sue Penkivech who
once again braved my rough draft so no one else would have to. Worlds best beta.
Soundtrack provided by:
Air (Album: Moon Safari)
Oasis (Album: Standing on the Shoulder of Giants)
Coldplay (Album: Parachutes)
Ocean Colour Scene (Album: North Atlantic Drift)
où sont tes héros aux corps
d'athlètes
où sont tes idoles mal rasées, bien habillées
sexy boy, sexy boy...
dans leurs yeux des dollars
dans leurs sourires des diamants
moi aussi un jour je serai beau comme un dieu
Sexy boy, sexy boy...
apollon deux mille zéro défaut vingt et un an
c'est l'homme ideal charme au masculin
sexy boy, sexy boy...
-Air,
"Sexy Boy" [1]
Chapter One: Boy's Night Out
Jean-Paul sat, staring out his window, an expression of mild displeasure having settled onto his face so thoroughly that it seemed rather mask-like. Anyone who saw him, though no one would here in fortress, his beloved bedroom, might think he was, in fact, upset about something.
They would be wrong, actually. He just tended to look that way, all the time. Even when he was alone.
But eventually he shifted, waking himself from his reverie. And he wondered what on earth he'd been thinking of. He could not, for the life of him, remember.
This always disgusted him, and now his chiseled features twisted up into a very distinct expression of annoyance. He had better things to do than stare out the window like some sort of goddamned teenager. Perhaps he was spending too much time with the enfants in his charge. Perhaps.
He looked down at the papers on his desk, trying to recall what, exactly, he'd been planning on doing this evening. Last week's Wall Street Journal. This month's financial report from some tech company or another he'd be pulling out of within a week. A stack of blue books he'd be handing back, along with his trademark dirty looks, to one of his classes on Monday. A pile of old correspondence, in the corner, tattered and yellowed. Three large books on economic theory, all rejected as reading material for his class due to their highly… wordy nature.
It made him sigh. Was this what his life had come down to? Paper and books. Money and stocks.
He hated sighing. It was decidedly feminine. And he may have been many things, including a lover of men. But he was nothing if not masculine himself.
He swore in his native tongue, and stood to move to his dresser. He tugged it open impatiently and found what it was he was looking for. A crystal blue bottle with a white label. A picture of the queen. Bombay Sapphire. Just the thing to get rid of this restlessness that was holding his concentration hostage.
They said that drinking alone made you an alcoholic. Jean-Paul Beaubier wondered, as he started out the door and downstairs in search of a lime, if it was so even if you only did it once in a very great while. After all, even X-Men needed to relax, once in awhile.
Or forget.
"Guten Abend, mein Freund!" came the cheerful greeting from Kurt, sitting at the kitchen table, eating out of a carton of Oreo's and Crème.
Northstar nodded to him, "Bonsoir." And continued toward the refrigerator in search of the elusive green citrus fruit, and his stash of Tonic water.
"Do you like ice cream?"
Jean-Paul paused. "It's a little… sweet."
"Ja, I believe that's the point," the fuzzy elf laughed.
This time, he turned to face the team leader, and leaned back on the fridge, crossing one leg over the other. In perfect-fitting khakis, a light blue button down, and a dark blue sweater, the man looked like he was ready to be photographed for the winter J. Crew catalogue.
And he knew it, of course.
He'd gotten in the habit of posing himself a long time ago, and did it now regardless of who might be watching. He did it when he was alone.
"I've never been a great proponent of dessert," he admitted, uncertain as to why he felt like engaging in this conversation. "The sweets… they make me sick to my stomach."
"You could use some sweets, nein?" The other man suggested, with a dashing grin and a flash of white fangs. "Might keep you from looking so sour all the time?"
He found himself smiling at that, albeit halfheartedly. Kurt's grin was rather infectious. "Oh? Am I looking sour this evening?"
Nightcrawler shrugged, and his tail started thrashing lazily about below him, on the linoleum, as he took another bite. "Ein bisschen. Just a bit."
Jean-Paul shook his head, still smiling a little, and opened up the fridge to commence his search for citrus. "Well then I suppose a lime wouldn't be of as much help as I'd originally hoped."
"Ach, I see. Something a little stronger than ice cream is required tonight?"
"Perhaps," Where had he seen a lime around here…?
A slight growl from the hallway, unmistakably the sound of a man called Wolverine, and he caught himself sighing again.
They'd never gotten along. Not that he'd ever gotten along with his other Canadian teammates all that well, either. Hell, he'd only gotten along with Aurora half the time. But Logan was… particularly irritating. Something about his voice… no, it was his clothes… no, no, it was that growl, definitely the growl…
"You gonna be stuck in that fridge all day, Speedy, or can I get myself a snack?"
Amazing how such a heavy man could move so silently when he chose. And why did he insist on calling everyone by ridiculous nicknames? "I'll try and speed the process up for you, mon ami," he answered dryly.
"Man can move fast enough when he's facing off with a super villain, but ask him to get his ass out of the fridge and he's not going anywhere," Wolverine rumbled, seeming to lose interest quickly enough. "What are you eatin', Elf?"
The two of them carried on a friendly conversation behind him as he grew more and more exasperated with his search. He knew he had seen a lime in here only yesterday…
"Gimme a bite of that. Damn, that's good."
"Ja, und I got to it fast enough that there's still nearly half of it left."
"There was, you mean. Amazin' you ain't the size of that Juggernaut, Kurt, the way you pack this shit away."
Northstar sighed again, closing the refrigerator door with obvious irritation.
"You done trying to air condition the whole kitchen yet, JP?" Logan half snarled, half joked.
He turned to face the shorter, hairy man, a look of supreme distaste on his face. "My name is Jean-Paul."
"Whatever you say, bub. Either way, you done?"
He moved aside, making a sweeping gesture with one hand, "Have your way with her, Wolverine."
"Always thought it was weird, the way you say that name…" he was rumbling as he moved to the refrigerator.
Logan may have been through much since he'd worked for Department H. But he was stunningly stable, for a man who was so utterly insane. Still bitching about the accent, after all these years.
"Kurt, if you know where there is a lime…" He was getting desperate.
Nightcrawler waved a blue hand vaguely at the other side of the room, "Try the basket under that cupboard, there were some oranges there earlier."
He could see them clearly, of course, on the counter and immediately went to dig through the pile, finally coming up with the coveted green fruit. "Merci, Dieu," he muttered, tonic water firmly in one hand, lime in the other. Now, a knife…
"Havin' a party?" Wolverine growled, now leaning on the fridge as he had been, but with infinitely less grace.
He knew better than to suppose the question was aimed at Nightcrawler. "Absolument pas," he shook his head, now digging through the silverware drawers. "Not a chance. Just trying to enjoy my Friday night."
"Why dontcha' spend it with us?"
He looked up, shocked. "Was that… a joke?" Astounding. The animal had a sense of humor.
But Logan shrugged his brawny shoulders, and seemed, for the moment, to be utterly guileless. "Why would it be? We can go get a few drinks. Can't have any fun 'round here, with all the kids."
"Are you suggesting that we go and imbibe mass quantities of liquor, mein Freund?" This from Kurt.
Logan nodded, now with a toothy grin at his friend.
"Mein Gott. A good idea!" He stood up and put the lid back on the ice cream. "Give me ten minutes, I'll be ready."
They both turned to look at him, then.
Jean-Paul found himself at a loss. "Yes, well… alright."
"Great," Wolverine was already on his way out, "I'll meet you two out front in ten. Gonna' go see if anyone else is up for it."
Kurt smiled winningly at him, "Sure you don't want some ice cream before we go? The look on your face is less than sweet."
Jean-Paul arched one upswept eyebrow dangerously, noticing that the furry man before him seemed to have forgotten that he'd been eating out of that carton only moments ago. "Just… tell me you aren't planning on putting that back in the freezer."
A quiet night. That was really all he was he'd been asking for.
And here he was instead with Kurt, Logan, and Bobby, in the middle of this smoky pool hall, cradling a glass of Molson and listening to the laughter of his teammates.
And really, it wasn't so bad. At least Logan had won the toss and picked the beer. Bobby and Kurt had filed their complaints, of course, but Jean-Paul certainly preferred Canadian beer to German or American. Though, to his credit, Bobby had at least wanted a red beer. Better than that nightmare that was Budweiser.
"I'm still fucking pissed that Warren didn't come. Jesus Christ, the man needs to relax,"
Bobby was soliloquizing on every person who'd ever passed the threshold of the
X-Mansion at that point. "I mean seriously, I know Paige is cute, and we're all
real happy she might make him happy, but Jesus Christ. We haven't gotten to
hang out, just the guys, in ages.
Jealousy was an ugly
thing, Jean-Paul mused. He wondered if Bobby realized that he was, in fact,
displaying an abnormal amount of jealousy over Warren's budding relationship with Paige. But he decided not
to mention it. God knew he was finally starting to feel more comfortable around
the man. No need to light a fire under him.
Comfortable… but no less attracted.
Of course, he'd known for a long time that god hated him, so that really came as no surprise.
He took another long drink, and caught himself smiling. Eh, who needed god anyhow? The man hadn't done much for him thus far, let him hate.
"What are you grinnin' about?" Wolverine was sitting back, chewing a cigar, smiling his big lazy smile.
Northstar felt himself start to grin wider, "Nothing, just watching the fellow at the bar trying to pick up the bartender."
They all turned to look as one, and he shook his head. Subtle.
"Whoa, she's hot. Goddamn, I'm getting the next pitcher," Bobby said, rather too loudly.
"Maybe," Jean-Paul assented, taking another drink, "But he's hotter. Shame he's trying to pick her up, or I'd be picking him up."
All eyes returned to him.
"What? Great hair, great ass, nice face. What more could you ask for?"
And they dissolved into laughter.
And it surprised him. He hadn't meant that second part, the part about trying to pick the man up, to come out aloud. Not that he was afraid, and not that he wasn't open, simply that they were having fun, and he didn't want to create awkwardness. But he'd had a few, in fact, and really hadn't thought it through before he'd spoken. And that really wasn't the reaction he had been expecting. Awkward silence, yes, but not exactly friendly laughter and a hint that they didn't all think of him as the odd man out for being "the gay one."
Perhaps, Jean-Paul, he told himself, you underestimate your teammates.
"Yeah," Bobby was still laughing as well, "You're right, that's a great ass!"
Kurt shook his head, "Nein, it's just his jeans! That brand, it is cut to make him look good!"
Alright. Now he was astounded. Who the hell were they and what had they done with the X-Men? Aliens. Always with the goddamned aliens. Oh lovely, so was he the only one in the house still in possession of his real body? What about the Professor, the children—?
"Hey," Bobby threw a companionable arm around him suddenly, scooting closer to him, the length of his thigh suddenly against his own. Alarming, how cold he was sometimes. "We're just joking man, you know that," he laughed and grinned at Logan and Kurt now, who were still chuckling.
He turned, stunned and starting to feel a bit warm in the face, to see his fellow X-Man smiling at him cherubically.
Had he looked upset?
"Of course, Bobby, sorry if I looked confused. I just… didn't expect that reaction."
Bobby burst into peals of laughter again and gave his shoulders a companionable squeeze, "Well neither did we. Damn, you ought to let that sense of humor out of its cage more often. I mean, you know, when it's not ripping one of us a new asshole."
Jean-Paul knew he looked totally calm and in control again. He raised an eyebrow at Iceman, then turned to look at Wolverine and Nightcrawler across the table. "I might, if you keep bringing pitchers."
"A Canadian knows how to drink!" Logan announced, sweeping up the empty pitcher and heading back to the bar.
"Hey, it's my turn!" came Bobby's protest, as he slid away from Jean-Paul and put his arm back to use lifting his own glass to his mouth.
This was quickly cut into by Kurt with something in German that sounded vaguely threatening. The only world Northstar understood was "bier."
He assumed that the blue elf, though he was decidedly flesh colored at the moment due to his image inducer, and the Wolverine had been through this argument repeatedly.
But he found it entertaining, somehow.
"So I told the guy I was from up north, and he says—" Logan was ranting on and on about something, drawing amused smiles and nodding heads from the other three men.
Jean-Paul included. But he really wasn't paying much attention, if the truth were to be told. He was trying to figure out how many pitchers that had been. Sometimes, the enhanced metabolism that came with his other gifts was a blessing. He wouldn't be drunk all night.
But damn, if he hadn't gotten there fast.
Of course, the others were feeling the same. At least, Bobby, pink-cheeked and grinning had to be. Kurt was laughing constantly, which was good to see considering his recent angst spurt. And Logan was simply… growling less.
Jean-Paul knew, of course, that he could snap into growler mode at the drop of a hat, and it would be all the more feral for the amount of alcohol he had in his blood stream. But it had to take an awful amount for the man to be truly drunk.
"This kind of shit doesn't happen enough," Bobby was positively glowing beside him. "Seriously man, has anyone else noticed how piss poor our team dynamic is these days? Jesus, I don't even know most of these guys! We gotta fix this, it's fucking sad."
"Ja, I agree Bobby," Kurt was shaking his head. "I am used to being amongst friends, but lately I feel as if every conversation is strained. It was never like this in Excalibur, or in the old days with the X-Men."
"That's what I'm saying," the younger man nodded emphatically, dragging his arm across his mouth to get rid of a little foam that had attached to his upper lip. "I mean, I know I'm never gonna be best friends with Alex, but god I don't hate the man, we could at least be friendly—"
"You sissies," Wolverine was laughing harshly now, "if ya wanna make nice, make nice. Ya sit around and wait for someone to talk to ya, and you're the ones who ought to go do it if you're bothered. Instead you cry inta your beer about it. Ya feelin' estranged from Warren, Frosty, go talk to him. Ya wanna get to know Jean-Paul, you ask him to have a beer with ya. I know I'm not the master of interpersonal dynamics over here, but Jesus Christ."
Bobby just stared at him for a minute. "Interpersonal dynamics, Wolverine... Wow. That's a mouthful."
"Yeah well, I been talkin' ta Hank lately."
"Ohhh," the other seemed to understand now.
He had a point, though. Not Bobby (thought it was quite a mouthful, that much was true,) but Logan. It seemed that lately, everyone at the X-Mansion spent all their time being… sorry for themselves. He hadn't thought of it, of course, because it happened to be one of his favorite activities when he wasn't being irritated by something, but still… it was hardly healthy. And considering the inhabitants of the house, they really ought to be far more concerned about mental health.
The conversation had moved on though, by the time he came back to it, and he found it was focused on him.
"Earth to Jean-Paul," Bobby elbowed him. "You with us, man?"
"Yes, sorry, what did I miss?"
Kurt turned to look at the bar again, "that man has been gone for an hour, what are you staring at?"
Jean-Paul flashed his brilliant smile at his teammate, "Just staring, really."
"Had a few too many?" Logan laughed, scratching at his mutton-chops and almost leering.
"Or not enough," he shrugged, still smiling winningly.
Mon dieu, how did it even happen?
One moment, they were all laughing, happy, discussing completely innocuous subjects and, as Logan had said, "Makin' nice," and the next there was a woman pointing a gun at the bartender.
The place had nearly cleared out, it was well past closing time. The four X-Men sat in their booth, all facing the bar. Two men in the corner were wrapping up a game of pool. The smoke hung thick and low all around them. A woman sat at the bar, paralyzed with fear, next to a man who had his head resting on his crossed arms on the bar as if asleep. The lights flickered.
Wolverine stood, slowly moving toward the bar.
The bartender, the beautiful redhead with the tight t-shirt, was crying silently, her face pink, her arm held tight by the other woman. A tall, gorgeous woman with long, purely black hair, beautiful golden skin, and strange violet doll-eyes. She wore all black, and her fingernails were a dark, gothic purple. Northstar noticed this because they were digging into the soft flesh of the bartender's arm, causing a strange contrast against her white skin. And thick, red blood was coming from under the nails.
"Ya picked the wrong bar, on the wrong night…" the short, stocky Canadian was growling.
"No, Logan wait," Kurt said quickly, with enough authority to make the man stop.
The dark haired woman, who obviously had not bothered to notice them in the corner before, darted her glance to the four men quickly. She looked them over with a practiced eye, and then looked back to her quarry, obviously thinking four unarmed men no threat to her. There was something about her… something that said she'd done this before. The way she held the gun, the way she was standing, feet shoulder length apart, shoulders back, eyes all over the place. Confidence. Pure confidence oozed from her.
Jean-Paul disliked her even more now.
"Northstar," the mention of his code name attracted his attention, from Kurt, "can you take care of it?"
He nodded once, though he knew moving so fast when he was so intoxicated was about to make him a very motion sick mutant, and was on the dark woman in a flash. Before anyone could see what had happened, he had grabbed the woman, taken her gun, and dropped the ammunition onto the ground. He slowed down then, jerking the woman toward him, and threw the harmless gun to Kurt.
Well, at least he didn't feel as if he'd be throwing up. The contents of his stomach were shifting a bit restlessly, but it was nothing he couldn't handle.
And, to his great shock, the woman wasn't fighting him. She let him pull her off the bartender, who collapsed into a heap immediately, and allowed herself to be moved near to the exit, where he assumed they would be taking her next. He watched carefully, holding her by the arm, though not nearly as roughly as she had held the redheaded woman, as the two men playing pool in the corner and the woman still sitting, thunderstruck, at the bar eyed him suspiciously, and Kurt vaulted over the bar to check on the bartender. In a moment, he stood, woman in arms, and appeared to be talking to her.
Jean-Paul looked down at his charge, and found her staring up at him. He narrowed his eyes reflexively. She had this look to her. Sharp angles on her face, piercing violet in her eyes. The contrast with her copper skin was astounding, really.
And he began to panic. Because he couldn't look away.
Heart, in his throat. Thumping. Every muscle in his body, tight. Pounding. Caught. Claustrophobic.
Her hand, her long purple nails. She reached up to his face…
There was a flash. And then, Jean-Paul Beaubier saw nothing but darkness
[1] Where are
your heroes with bodies like athletes
Where are your rough shaven, well dressed idols
Sexy Boy Sexy Boy
Dollars in their eyes
Diamonds in their smiles
One day I too will be beautiful like a god
Sexy Boy Sexy Boy
Apollo, perfect x 2000, 21 years old
The ideal man, masculine charm
Sexy Boy Sexy Boy