Ma Soleil
Chapter Eleven: Southern Comfort
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.
And again, to anyone who's managed to read so far and understand what they're reading, I'm looking for a beta. Someone frank, someone unafraid to put a serious opinion into print, someone in between Simon Cowell and Mister Rogers, like Cowell in the sense that they're candid, but like Mister Rogers in the respect that they have SOME tact.
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.
XXX
Sam Guthrie was sitting at his laptop staring at the message his mother had sent him. Dear God. Caroline, his little Carrie, his baby sister, was mutating. She had been run over by a truck, and had come through unscathed. No one was really sure whether her skin had gone solid like Paige's or whether she'd just healed up quickly. Well, she'd be on her way to Xavier's Elementary soon enough. Now that mutants were coming up faster and younger than ever, there were now three schools; Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning, Xavier High School for the Gifted, and Xavier Elementary. "All foah the best, Ah suppose," he murmured, wondering how many more of his siblings would come into brand-new mutations over the years.
"And what would that be?" a female, slightly husky voice startled him, and he swiveled in his office chair. Rebecca laughed quietly, stepping out of the corner she'd been watching him form for the past few seconds. "You left the door open. I invited myself in." as her face came into the light, Sam could see her smeared make-up and the black mascara tear-streaks spread across her cheeks.
"Soleil! What happened?"
"I'm all right, Sammy. I just need a few minutes before I face anyone."
"Yoah facin' me."
She rolled her eyes, "Really, I should think that you'd know a needy woman when you see one, you being such a chival and all," she flopped down on his mattress.
"I wondah what Paige'd say if she saw yah here," he wondered idly.
Rebecca laughed again, but this time it sounded more genuine, less forced. "Remember that time we visited Generation X together? She had a damn cow! I mean, just the thought of us in the same car together for fourteen hours was enough to drive her up the wall!"
"Yeah, Ah remember." He put his computer to sleep and moved to sit beside her. "Those were the days, weren't they?"
"They sure were," she whispered, scooting into his body. His arms opened easily, and she slid into them, resting her head on his shoulder. "She just didn't get our relationship, did she?"
"Nah, Ah guess not." He shrugged. "What the hell, Ah nevah did, eithah."
"Oh?" she sat up straight, looked him in the eyes. "What didn't you get?"
"Why yah nevah fell head ovah face foah mah irresistible charms." The witticism was greeted by a deadened punch on the shoulder. "Seriously, Soleil, everythin' was jest so. . .simple foah yah. Yah nevah asked anythin' from me besides mah friendship an' emotional support."
"I don't like asking for anything more than that," she replied quickly. "But you know that."
"Yeah, Ah know. So how come yoah cryin'?"
"I can't say."
"Oh? Are yah on yoah tahme o' th' month?"
"No, it's not that I don't know what's wrong, it's that I can't tell you."
"Whahevah not?"
"Because. It's so silly and adolescent," she shrugged. "And besides, it'll have detrimental impact on the way you see me."
"The only impact it can have is meh seein' yah as a human bein' or a woman instead o' some driven, emotionless merc." Sam pulled her into his lap, licking his thumb and wiping streaks of mascara off her face.
"I suppose," she pursed her lips a little. "And if I should tell anyone, it would most certainly be you. . ."
"So?"
"I ran into Victor and Monet tonight at the Four Seasons,"
"Were yah alone?"
"No, I was with Guillaume. Do you remember him?"
"Guillaume l'Rivière?"
"Yes,"
"What were yah doin' with him? Ah thought yoah relationship with him ended a long tahme ago!"
"It was a purely platonic meeting. He's moving to the City, and wanted me to celebrate with him."
"Heh, all them Guilders think a nahght at some snooty restaurant classifies as celebratin'."
"No, the dinner wasn't the party. I'm going to his apartment this weekend for his housewarming shebang."
"If Gambit trained that boy rahght, there ain't gonna be no party. It's jest gonna be you, him, an' at least eighteen bottles o' wine."
"Bullshit, Sammy. Guillaume isn't like that. He knows we're over. Completely over."
"So this ain't about Guillaume, then." Sam but his lower lip, and looked up suddenly. "It's about Creed, ain't it?"
"What?!" Rebecca's stormy blue eyes pierced up into his. "Where would you get THAT from?"
"Yoah obviously upset, Sol. That's pretty much th' only thing left foah me ta guess at, wouldn't yah say?"
"I guess so."
"So, yoah not ovah Creed, huh?"
"No, I'm not. And I don't know why! It's silly! Maybe my time of month IS coming along, and I'm just getting all emotional over nothing."
"That can't be rahght. Yoah nevah emotional on yoah tahme. Yoah jest homocidal's all."
"You're so supportive," she rolled her eyes, stood up, rammed her fingers through her hair. "I don't want to make him unhappy or indecisive. And if he's with Monet, and he's happy, that's fine. I'll just have to get over myself."
"Yoah gonna hurt yoahself even moah if yah do that,"
"I'm thirty-three, Sammy, I know that already."
He put his hands up in a gesture of submission. "Ah wasn't sayin' yoah stupid, Sol. Ah. . .Ah jest wanna help."
"I. . ." she hesitated, turned her eyes away from his. "I don't know that you can, Sammy, I don't think anyone can, not anymore."
"Maybe theah's some way. . .Ah could take yoah mahnd offa Creed," he whispered, rising to stand behind her. She turned, eyes wide and reprimanding. Sam shook his head and laughed. "Nah, Ah don't mean that, Sol. Ah jest meant. . .maybe instead o' talkin' it out, we should go watch a movie or somethin'. Ta take yoah mahnd offa. . .everythin' else." He sighed as she moved backward into his protective embrace.
"That'd be. . .wonderful temporary relief, Sammy. I'd love to take in a film with you," she turned in his arms, locked her hands behind his neck. "You know I would have gone and commiserated with Rogue over several bottles of scotch if you hadn't left your door unlocked?"
Sam blushed. "Yoah THAT torn up about this, huh?"
"Yeah."
"Hey, Ah've got an idea. How would yah feel about sharin' that scotch with me?" he brushed his thumb beneath her eye, wiping away more smudged eye-makeup.
"Sure. But ah. . .could I ask you a favor?"
"Of course,"
"I need to borrow your bathroom, a pair of boxers, and a wife beater."
The External grinned widely. "So yoah gonna take tah wearin' mah underclothes again?"
"Yeah, I guess I am. For southern comfort, you know?" she winked. "Go get the scotch and choose a film. Find something gruesome and lighthearted. With Bruce Willis in it. Oh! And make sure the chick in it is someone kick-arse, all right?" she backed away from the warmth of his body.
"Will do, Sol."
"Hey, Sammy?" she turned back just before stepping into the bathroom.
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
"Ah know, Sol. Ah love yah, too."
XXX
Victor Creed lay on his back with Monet snuggled up on top of him, basking in the afterglow of passion. "Monet, beautiful?"
"Yes, Victor?"
"I've got somethin' for ya."
"Oh, can it wait until morning?" she groaned. 'You've finally managed to exhaust me," she giggled quietly, stroking his chest lightly.
"Ya've got ta have it before midnight, or it ain't an anniversary gift no more."
Monet sat up straight. "You got me an anniversary gift?! B. . .but. . .I didn't get YOU anything!"
"Just promise ta wear it an we're even," Creed grinned lasciviously. Monet's eyebrows drew together.
"It's lingerie, isn't it?"
Creed laughed loudly, chest shuddering as he pealed out rich notes of hilarity. "No, beautiful, it ain't trashy underwear. Lemme jest get up an' find it." He rolled out of bed, and reached into his jacket pocket, tugging out the small black shagreen jewelry box. He hid it in his hand until Monet was again nestled on his chest. He pulled her in for a long, deep kiss, and slipped it into her hand. "Happy six-month anniversary, Monet St.Croix," he purred, and moved back to gauge her reaction.
Her deep brown eyes were wide and wondering, with that sexy, curious sort of expression she'd had the first time they'd made love. It was getting increasingly difficult to put that particular look on her face, and Creed was reveling in every moment of it. Her long, aristocratic fingers first toyed with the box, then curved around it and lifted the top. "Oh, Victor!"
Nestled within the white, jewelry-shop cotton was a twisty, bejeweled golden choker, with alternating emeralds and amethysts, her favorite precious stones. Creed lifted it from the box and fastened it around her neck. It became her particularly. "That ain't all, beautiful," he pulled the layer of cotton from the box, and beneath was a set of matching earrings and a ring.
"You shouldn't have, mon amour!" she murmured, "Oh, I feel so guilty for not getting you anything!"
"I told ya, just wear 'em! An' only them. An' we're even." He smiled, watched her lovingly fasten the earrings on and slip the ring onto her right middle finger. As she leant in for a kiss, he brushed the jewelry box off the bed and slid his hands up her thighs, to her waist, and sat her on top of himself. "I love ya, Monet. I do," he whispered, his voice hoarse.
"Oh, Victor," she sighed. "I. . .I love you too, so much. So much. I'll never let go of you," she moved her hips against his, swallowing his moan of pleasure as their lips met again.
*Damned if that don't sound like a prison sentence,* Creed thought fleetingly, but quashed the notion before it was able to gain firm ground in his mind.
XXX
Jonothon Evan Starsmore crept into the living-room of Mansion X soundlessly. He'd overridden the outside codes without disturbing a soul, and was on his way up to his room, if he could still find it after having been away from home for so long. As he passed, he noted that the television was on. He shrugged. Someone or other had fallen asleep in front of the telly without bothering to turn it off. That was a common enough happening, as there were several demi-insomniacs within the ranks of both the X-Men and X-Cell.
He crept nearer to the sofa to verify the identity of the individual, or, in this case, individuals, as he could see two bodies in the darkness, limbs entwined in an ostensibly platonic posture. The male figure he easily identified as Sam Guthrie, External extraordinaire and brother to his ex-girlfriend, Paige, if the young farm-girl could have ever been called such. And the second. . .if Jonothon had been able to suck in his breath, he would have. The second figure was a woman, and wore a face from some of his sweetest dreams and most intense nightmares.
Rebecca.
She looked older, of course, and there were only the mildest of lines at the corners of her eyes. She aged slowly, he supposed. Perhaps it was because she smiled so rarely. Perhaps life had been harder on her than it had been on him. But she was beautiful, more so than he could ever have imagined.
She'd lost a lot of weight over the years; where once there were voluptuous curves was now only fine, pale skin stretched over stringy, rangy muscle. She was wearing Sam's clothes, and on her feet were his oversized socks. Jonothon felt his semi-rebuilt chest heave, not with breath or a sigh, but only because it seemed natural for it to do so. She was here. She was his sister. Oddly enough, he felt as though she should perhaps be Sam's, or someone else's. Hell, he hadn't spoken with her in over sixteen years!
But he loved her. So much.
Hefting his duffel bag, he headed toward the elevator, and as the doors closed, he thought perhaps he should take a few moments to notify Jubilee that he was home. She always liked to be woken up, these days, as her dreams were filled with horrific sights and psychic oppression due to her continual psionic development. But no, the last person he wanted to deal with was the last woman he'd dated regularly in three years, and if he went up to speak with her, they'd be up for hours, and he was tired. And if he fell asleep in her bed, the rumors would fly that they were back together, and he didn't want to admit to himself that he wouldn't mind that happening.
*To hell with it,* he twitched his lips, *I'll see both o' me gels in th' mornin'.* he really wanted to sigh, and considered trying to rebuild his lungs the way he considered it all the time; nonchalantly and rather objectively, as though it were to happen to someone else instead of to him.
The elevator stopped at his floor, and as he stepped out, he nearly collided with someone else. Jubilee!
Hey, Starsmore, she flashed him one of her trademark perky smiles, uncommonly brilliant for the late/early hour. It's great to see you home.
It's great ter BE 'ome, luv, he schooled his lips into a smile as opposed to merely crinkling his eyes, the way he was accustomed to. Wot're yer doin' up?
I've been up all night. I had a long nap. It's all right. When you called at nine, I figured I should stay up and wait for you.
Wot?
Hey, I like to be thought of as a good team leader. After all, Cyke would do the same.
Not if 'e knew that I 'ad an escort from the airport, me own limo, an' th' option o' gettin' an 'otel room if I so desired, 'e wouln't.
"Whatever, Starsmore," she muttered audibly. He caught her arm in his free hand.
'Ow come yer never call me Jono anymore?
Don't I?
Not since we broke up.
"I'm too tired to have this conversation, Starsmore."
See? There yer go again.
"How about this: Goodnight, Jono. I'll see you in the morning."
Hey, I know wot'd make it a REALLY good night!
"I'm not looking for casual sex, Jon." She retorted, sleep-deprived eyes flashing in a startlingly good rendition of her mentor.
Neither'm I. But we could get a coupl'a photographs o' Sammy'n Soleil cuddlin' on th' couch. I thought yer were well-trained in practical jokes by th' Iceman 'imself!
Oh! In THAT case. . . Jubilee's smile turned so evil it nearly frightened Jono out of his pants.
Damn, but yer looked diabolical just there, luv!
"Would you have me any other way?"
Most certainly not, he grinned, and scrambled to fetch his camera.
XXX
Chapter Eleven: Southern Comfort
Disclaimer: All Marvel Characters are the property of Marvel. This is a work of fanfiction, not an attempt to infringe on Stan Lee's personal arsenal of hotties. I can wish all I like, but Sabes is never gonna show up to collect me, and that's that. Oh, yeah, I'm making zero profit off this and if you want Beck, just ask.
And again, to anyone who's managed to read so far and understand what they're reading, I'm looking for a beta. Someone frank, someone unafraid to put a serious opinion into print, someone in between Simon Cowell and Mister Rogers, like Cowell in the sense that they're candid, but like Mister Rogers in the respect that they have SOME tact.
As always, the lifeblood of the fanfiction author is reviews. I will respect constructive criticism, but flames are sincerely unappreciated. My e-mail address is seraph_taurus@thekeyz.com. Thanks for your time and God bless.
XXX
Sam Guthrie was sitting at his laptop staring at the message his mother had sent him. Dear God. Caroline, his little Carrie, his baby sister, was mutating. She had been run over by a truck, and had come through unscathed. No one was really sure whether her skin had gone solid like Paige's or whether she'd just healed up quickly. Well, she'd be on her way to Xavier's Elementary soon enough. Now that mutants were coming up faster and younger than ever, there were now three schools; Xavier's Institute for Higher Learning, Xavier High School for the Gifted, and Xavier Elementary. "All foah the best, Ah suppose," he murmured, wondering how many more of his siblings would come into brand-new mutations over the years.
"And what would that be?" a female, slightly husky voice startled him, and he swiveled in his office chair. Rebecca laughed quietly, stepping out of the corner she'd been watching him form for the past few seconds. "You left the door open. I invited myself in." as her face came into the light, Sam could see her smeared make-up and the black mascara tear-streaks spread across her cheeks.
"Soleil! What happened?"
"I'm all right, Sammy. I just need a few minutes before I face anyone."
"Yoah facin' me."
She rolled her eyes, "Really, I should think that you'd know a needy woman when you see one, you being such a chival and all," she flopped down on his mattress.
"I wondah what Paige'd say if she saw yah here," he wondered idly.
Rebecca laughed again, but this time it sounded more genuine, less forced. "Remember that time we visited Generation X together? She had a damn cow! I mean, just the thought of us in the same car together for fourteen hours was enough to drive her up the wall!"
"Yeah, Ah remember." He put his computer to sleep and moved to sit beside her. "Those were the days, weren't they?"
"They sure were," she whispered, scooting into his body. His arms opened easily, and she slid into them, resting her head on his shoulder. "She just didn't get our relationship, did she?"
"Nah, Ah guess not." He shrugged. "What the hell, Ah nevah did, eithah."
"Oh?" she sat up straight, looked him in the eyes. "What didn't you get?"
"Why yah nevah fell head ovah face foah mah irresistible charms." The witticism was greeted by a deadened punch on the shoulder. "Seriously, Soleil, everythin' was jest so. . .simple foah yah. Yah nevah asked anythin' from me besides mah friendship an' emotional support."
"I don't like asking for anything more than that," she replied quickly. "But you know that."
"Yeah, Ah know. So how come yoah cryin'?"
"I can't say."
"Oh? Are yah on yoah tahme o' th' month?"
"No, it's not that I don't know what's wrong, it's that I can't tell you."
"Whahevah not?"
"Because. It's so silly and adolescent," she shrugged. "And besides, it'll have detrimental impact on the way you see me."
"The only impact it can have is meh seein' yah as a human bein' or a woman instead o' some driven, emotionless merc." Sam pulled her into his lap, licking his thumb and wiping streaks of mascara off her face.
"I suppose," she pursed her lips a little. "And if I should tell anyone, it would most certainly be you. . ."
"So?"
"I ran into Victor and Monet tonight at the Four Seasons,"
"Were yah alone?"
"No, I was with Guillaume. Do you remember him?"
"Guillaume l'Rivière?"
"Yes,"
"What were yah doin' with him? Ah thought yoah relationship with him ended a long tahme ago!"
"It was a purely platonic meeting. He's moving to the City, and wanted me to celebrate with him."
"Heh, all them Guilders think a nahght at some snooty restaurant classifies as celebratin'."
"No, the dinner wasn't the party. I'm going to his apartment this weekend for his housewarming shebang."
"If Gambit trained that boy rahght, there ain't gonna be no party. It's jest gonna be you, him, an' at least eighteen bottles o' wine."
"Bullshit, Sammy. Guillaume isn't like that. He knows we're over. Completely over."
"So this ain't about Guillaume, then." Sam but his lower lip, and looked up suddenly. "It's about Creed, ain't it?"
"What?!" Rebecca's stormy blue eyes pierced up into his. "Where would you get THAT from?"
"Yoah obviously upset, Sol. That's pretty much th' only thing left foah me ta guess at, wouldn't yah say?"
"I guess so."
"So, yoah not ovah Creed, huh?"
"No, I'm not. And I don't know why! It's silly! Maybe my time of month IS coming along, and I'm just getting all emotional over nothing."
"That can't be rahght. Yoah nevah emotional on yoah tahme. Yoah jest homocidal's all."
"You're so supportive," she rolled her eyes, stood up, rammed her fingers through her hair. "I don't want to make him unhappy or indecisive. And if he's with Monet, and he's happy, that's fine. I'll just have to get over myself."
"Yoah gonna hurt yoahself even moah if yah do that,"
"I'm thirty-three, Sammy, I know that already."
He put his hands up in a gesture of submission. "Ah wasn't sayin' yoah stupid, Sol. Ah. . .Ah jest wanna help."
"I. . ." she hesitated, turned her eyes away from his. "I don't know that you can, Sammy, I don't think anyone can, not anymore."
"Maybe theah's some way. . .Ah could take yoah mahnd offa Creed," he whispered, rising to stand behind her. She turned, eyes wide and reprimanding. Sam shook his head and laughed. "Nah, Ah don't mean that, Sol. Ah jest meant. . .maybe instead o' talkin' it out, we should go watch a movie or somethin'. Ta take yoah mahnd offa. . .everythin' else." He sighed as she moved backward into his protective embrace.
"That'd be. . .wonderful temporary relief, Sammy. I'd love to take in a film with you," she turned in his arms, locked her hands behind his neck. "You know I would have gone and commiserated with Rogue over several bottles of scotch if you hadn't left your door unlocked?"
Sam blushed. "Yoah THAT torn up about this, huh?"
"Yeah."
"Hey, Ah've got an idea. How would yah feel about sharin' that scotch with me?" he brushed his thumb beneath her eye, wiping away more smudged eye-makeup.
"Sure. But ah. . .could I ask you a favor?"
"Of course,"
"I need to borrow your bathroom, a pair of boxers, and a wife beater."
The External grinned widely. "So yoah gonna take tah wearin' mah underclothes again?"
"Yeah, I guess I am. For southern comfort, you know?" she winked. "Go get the scotch and choose a film. Find something gruesome and lighthearted. With Bruce Willis in it. Oh! And make sure the chick in it is someone kick-arse, all right?" she backed away from the warmth of his body.
"Will do, Sol."
"Hey, Sammy?" she turned back just before stepping into the bathroom.
"Yeah?"
"I love you."
"Ah know, Sol. Ah love yah, too."
XXX
Victor Creed lay on his back with Monet snuggled up on top of him, basking in the afterglow of passion. "Monet, beautiful?"
"Yes, Victor?"
"I've got somethin' for ya."
"Oh, can it wait until morning?" she groaned. 'You've finally managed to exhaust me," she giggled quietly, stroking his chest lightly.
"Ya've got ta have it before midnight, or it ain't an anniversary gift no more."
Monet sat up straight. "You got me an anniversary gift?! B. . .but. . .I didn't get YOU anything!"
"Just promise ta wear it an we're even," Creed grinned lasciviously. Monet's eyebrows drew together.
"It's lingerie, isn't it?"
Creed laughed loudly, chest shuddering as he pealed out rich notes of hilarity. "No, beautiful, it ain't trashy underwear. Lemme jest get up an' find it." He rolled out of bed, and reached into his jacket pocket, tugging out the small black shagreen jewelry box. He hid it in his hand until Monet was again nestled on his chest. He pulled her in for a long, deep kiss, and slipped it into her hand. "Happy six-month anniversary, Monet St.Croix," he purred, and moved back to gauge her reaction.
Her deep brown eyes were wide and wondering, with that sexy, curious sort of expression she'd had the first time they'd made love. It was getting increasingly difficult to put that particular look on her face, and Creed was reveling in every moment of it. Her long, aristocratic fingers first toyed with the box, then curved around it and lifted the top. "Oh, Victor!"
Nestled within the white, jewelry-shop cotton was a twisty, bejeweled golden choker, with alternating emeralds and amethysts, her favorite precious stones. Creed lifted it from the box and fastened it around her neck. It became her particularly. "That ain't all, beautiful," he pulled the layer of cotton from the box, and beneath was a set of matching earrings and a ring.
"You shouldn't have, mon amour!" she murmured, "Oh, I feel so guilty for not getting you anything!"
"I told ya, just wear 'em! An' only them. An' we're even." He smiled, watched her lovingly fasten the earrings on and slip the ring onto her right middle finger. As she leant in for a kiss, he brushed the jewelry box off the bed and slid his hands up her thighs, to her waist, and sat her on top of himself. "I love ya, Monet. I do," he whispered, his voice hoarse.
"Oh, Victor," she sighed. "I. . .I love you too, so much. So much. I'll never let go of you," she moved her hips against his, swallowing his moan of pleasure as their lips met again.
*Damned if that don't sound like a prison sentence,* Creed thought fleetingly, but quashed the notion before it was able to gain firm ground in his mind.
XXX
Jonothon Evan Starsmore crept into the living-room of Mansion X soundlessly. He'd overridden the outside codes without disturbing a soul, and was on his way up to his room, if he could still find it after having been away from home for so long. As he passed, he noted that the television was on. He shrugged. Someone or other had fallen asleep in front of the telly without bothering to turn it off. That was a common enough happening, as there were several demi-insomniacs within the ranks of both the X-Men and X-Cell.
He crept nearer to the sofa to verify the identity of the individual, or, in this case, individuals, as he could see two bodies in the darkness, limbs entwined in an ostensibly platonic posture. The male figure he easily identified as Sam Guthrie, External extraordinaire and brother to his ex-girlfriend, Paige, if the young farm-girl could have ever been called such. And the second. . .if Jonothon had been able to suck in his breath, he would have. The second figure was a woman, and wore a face from some of his sweetest dreams and most intense nightmares.
Rebecca.
She looked older, of course, and there were only the mildest of lines at the corners of her eyes. She aged slowly, he supposed. Perhaps it was because she smiled so rarely. Perhaps life had been harder on her than it had been on him. But she was beautiful, more so than he could ever have imagined.
She'd lost a lot of weight over the years; where once there were voluptuous curves was now only fine, pale skin stretched over stringy, rangy muscle. She was wearing Sam's clothes, and on her feet were his oversized socks. Jonothon felt his semi-rebuilt chest heave, not with breath or a sigh, but only because it seemed natural for it to do so. She was here. She was his sister. Oddly enough, he felt as though she should perhaps be Sam's, or someone else's. Hell, he hadn't spoken with her in over sixteen years!
But he loved her. So much.
Hefting his duffel bag, he headed toward the elevator, and as the doors closed, he thought perhaps he should take a few moments to notify Jubilee that he was home. She always liked to be woken up, these days, as her dreams were filled with horrific sights and psychic oppression due to her continual psionic development. But no, the last person he wanted to deal with was the last woman he'd dated regularly in three years, and if he went up to speak with her, they'd be up for hours, and he was tired. And if he fell asleep in her bed, the rumors would fly that they were back together, and he didn't want to admit to himself that he wouldn't mind that happening.
*To hell with it,* he twitched his lips, *I'll see both o' me gels in th' mornin'.* he really wanted to sigh, and considered trying to rebuild his lungs the way he considered it all the time; nonchalantly and rather objectively, as though it were to happen to someone else instead of to him.
The elevator stopped at his floor, and as he stepped out, he nearly collided with someone else. Jubilee!
Hey, Starsmore, she flashed him one of her trademark perky smiles, uncommonly brilliant for the late/early hour. It's great to see you home.
It's great ter BE 'ome, luv, he schooled his lips into a smile as opposed to merely crinkling his eyes, the way he was accustomed to. Wot're yer doin' up?
I've been up all night. I had a long nap. It's all right. When you called at nine, I figured I should stay up and wait for you.
Wot?
Hey, I like to be thought of as a good team leader. After all, Cyke would do the same.
Not if 'e knew that I 'ad an escort from the airport, me own limo, an' th' option o' gettin' an 'otel room if I so desired, 'e wouln't.
"Whatever, Starsmore," she muttered audibly. He caught her arm in his free hand.
'Ow come yer never call me Jono anymore?
Don't I?
Not since we broke up.
"I'm too tired to have this conversation, Starsmore."
See? There yer go again.
"How about this: Goodnight, Jono. I'll see you in the morning."
Hey, I know wot'd make it a REALLY good night!
"I'm not looking for casual sex, Jon." She retorted, sleep-deprived eyes flashing in a startlingly good rendition of her mentor.
Neither'm I. But we could get a coupl'a photographs o' Sammy'n Soleil cuddlin' on th' couch. I thought yer were well-trained in practical jokes by th' Iceman 'imself!
Oh! In THAT case. . . Jubilee's smile turned so evil it nearly frightened Jono out of his pants.
Damn, but yer looked diabolical just there, luv!
"Would you have me any other way?"
Most certainly not, he grinned, and scrambled to fetch his camera.
XXX