This is a pretty old fic. I just went back and (finally!) revised some of my old, awkward French. Thanks to Protege-Moi, for her (long, long, long ago) help with it.
Qu'as-tu dit?
Jean-Paul was in the rec room reading a book, when Bobby Drake walked in. Jean-Paul glanced up, and then returned to his book.
"Hey J.P," said Bobby, "whatcha got there?"
"Un roman." Jean-Paul replied absentmindedly.
"That French for fuck off?" asked Bobby.
"Non, c'est francais pour 'niques-moi,'" the Canadian muttered. With an exasperated sigh, he replied in a more audible tone. "What now?"
"Gonna watch TV. Give me the remote, will ya?"
"Je te donnerai quelque chose," Jean-Paul answered, "It's over on the bookshelf."
"Ah, thanks." The brown-haired mutant dropped the cushion he had been looking under.
"No problem, mon bel homme."
Bobby paused. "What did you say?" he asked.
"Nothing you'd understand."
"Well, if you're going to speak in French, then expect me to not understand."
Jean-Paul merely smiled, and buried himself in his book again. Bobby clicked on the TV, and flopped down on the couch. After a few seconds spent channel surfing, Bobby settled for watching a King of Queens rerun. Jean-Paul couldn't resist commenting,
"This is what passes for entertainment in America?"
"Don't mock it till you've tried it, J.P."
"Mon bon ami, je ne veux pas regarder ce programme, je veux te regarder. Mais tu es trop stupid. C'est impossible. Alors regarde ton programme, et je te regarderai."
Bobby gaped, "What? Say that again."
"D'accord. Mon bon ami-"
"In English, you dope!"
Jean-Paul turned the page, "Learn French, Bobby-boy." "Learn manners, ya stuck-up prick." Bobby shot back.
"Si tu es nu, je serai 'stuck-up.' Anyways, I was only talking about how bad your hair looks today."
Bobby nervously ran a hand through his hair. "Me? Look bad? Well, we can't all compete with the loveliness that is you, I suppose."
"True, true.'" Jean-Paul grinned. Shaking his head, Bobby turned back to the TV. "Aw, now it's commercial break. Thanks a lot, J.P."
"You're welcome."
Bobby threw a pillow at the smirking man, which Jean-Paul promptly caught. "Better luck next time, mon petit chou."
"Did you just call me a shoe? What kind of freaky Canadian expression is that?"
"'Shoe' would be soulier, Bobby. Although I'm sure it's pretty much impossible to hope you'll bother to learn any French- c'est la raison pour laquelle je puisse flirter avec toi."
Bobby raised an eyebrow at him. "Hey, I know some French."
"Sure you do. And I can read minds."
"Oh no, all my secrets are exposed!" laughed Bobby, "Seriously, I can speak a little French."
"Vraiment, dis-le-moi. Parce que tes secrets n'ont pas tout ce qui est je voudrais voir exposé."
"What?"
Jean-Paul rolled his eyes. "I said, let's hear it."
"Okayy-" Bobby thought quickly, "How about, 'je ma pelle Bobby?"
"You have just said 'I, my shovel, Bobby."
"Whatever." He shrugged, turning his attention back to the TV.
"Bored much?" asked Jean-Paul several minutes later, putting down his book.
"What? Oh, no." Bobby said dazedly. Jean-Paul arched an eyebrow,
"I only ask because I don't think normal people find detergent commercials to be of such… interest."
Bobby laughed, and tore his eyes from the television,
"Normal? Who's normal here?"
"I," said Jean-Paul, "Am better than normal."
This made Bobby laugh even harder.