Part Nine

A/N: Just finished this chapter today. It's a bit shorter than some of he othes, but there's a limit as to how much Bobby you can write in one go.

Bobby's claims to Emma about being hangover free were quite true, which made him rather unpopular with the rest of the overindulgent part-goers the next morning. One switch to ice, force everything that wasn't water out, and then back to human fully detoxed. He was up and about long before most of his friends, and didn't feel particularly inclined to wake any of them up.

He pinned a note to his door, to the effect of: 'I'm playing with my new toys, don't expect me back til late and don't call in case I crash my motorbike and my gruesome death is all your fault.' He grinned, grabbed Jean Paul's jacket - he'd barely taken it off since he'd opened the package - and snatched the helmet he'd found waiting in his room when he'd got home from it's icicle stand.

This was going to be great. He hadn't done this since university, really. That was where he'd learnt and past his test, to impress girls.

It hadn't worked. He'd had almost no sex at university.

But now he had a motorbike and he could ride it, so stuff them. Stupid prissy girls. The sun was still rising as he walked the motorbike onto the drive. Dew was seeping up his trousers, and he bent to duck them into his boots before he mounted the bike. No use taking stupid risks, even if he did look like a bit of a twit. He didn't care. Everyone else was asleep.

This was great. He was grinning like a maniac at absolutely no one. Motorbike!

He zipped up the jacket Jean Paul had given him. He wished it was black leather, old and wrinkled, but smart and brown and new leather. It suited him, he knew, and even though it wasn't quite right with the helmet and the boots and the worn jeans, it still looked damn good. It even smelt pretty nice.

Bobby paused for a moment, one foot still hovering to knock the kickstand up and set off. He ran one hand along him opposite arm, caressing the jacket. He could remember Jean Paul putting a very similar jacket around his shoulders, just over a week ago. He could remember an arm across his shoulders, warm and reassuring. He could remember a kiss so brief it had barely happened that had left his head spinning right up until another kiss.

Bobby stared across the lawn, unseeing. Inside the helmet he was working his lips, licking them and biting them. He felt dizzy. Perhaps now wasn't a good time to test the bike out. He could go back inside, back to bed, and try and get some more sleep.

Bobby lifted the visor of the helmet and swallowed deep breaths of fresh air. Sleep wasn't going to help him forget; he'd just lie in bed and worry. At least at first his mind would be taken up with remembering how to drive this thing, concentration consumed. Sure, spending the day alone would leave him far too much time to think, but at least there'd be space to, outside of the claustrophobic confines of the Institute. He could find a café somewhere to stop for lunch and maybe spend some time riding by the sea.

Jean Paul was awake to watch Bobby leave from his bedroom window. His metabolism had worked off the mild hangover he'd given himself, but he hadn't exactly been drunk. Bobby had, though. Annie's predictions had come true for the party, and he wondered if his own would as well. He was beginning to harbour some suspicions about Bobby's sexuality, though the confidence with which Bobby would reject the mere suggestion he might be attracted to men still left Jean Paul doubting. Bobby might just be one of those rare straight men so confident in their sexuality that fooling around with a guy was just amusing, not threatening. He'd said last night, or implied, or something, that Jean Paul was a good kisser. Jean Paul already knew that, but now he was wondering if that was the only reason Bobby flirted.

He listened as the purr of the bike faded into the distance. He had to stop this. He'd watched Bobby around other platonic friends, and noticed him flirting with them as well. Jean Paul couldn't be Jubilee, he couldn't have Bobby so close and so comfortable around him. It was time to push their friendship back again to those stiff and slightly awkward times. He couldn't live like this any longer without fulfilling his own prophecy.

Bobby sat on the grass between the road and the cliff, bike drawn up nearby. He took a swallow of water from the canteen that strapped to the bike and lay back, marvelling at the sheer blue of the sky. This was perfect. This was the birthday present he was giving himself.

The single cloud was a shining, startling white. The sun was somewhere over the sea, and occasionally the reflection from the waves would make Bobby blink. He could hear seabirds. He could smell salt. He could smell the oil of his bike. He could still smell the new leather smell of his jacket.

Bobby sighed and peeled the offending article of clothing off, draping it over the seat of his bike. Jean Paul wasn't here. He shouldn't have to think about him. There was nothing to remind him of Jean Paul except the jacket, which really was just a jacket and had no associations with the man other than being a gift from him. Road trips had other associations for Bobby, like Rogue and arguments with his father.

Bobby rolled onto his stomach and picked at the grass. It was late morning and he was hungry, but he'd come rather farther than he thought he would and so the place where he wanted to have lunch was rather closer than it should have been. He'd decided he'd spend an hour here, watching the sea, before going on for something to eat. The sea was meant to be good for stress, right? Soothing repetitive noises and the like. The Great Outdoors. Zen.

Why had Jean Paul left? Hank had just said the guy wasn't in the mood any more, which had upset Bobby so much he'd been sick again.

He wasn't thinking about this. He wasn't thinking about Jean Paul.

So, what would he have for lunch? Something really greasy. Sausages were a must, and bacon, and definitely eggs. Maybe mashed potatoes. Bobby supposed he ought to have some kind of vegetable, and settled on peas. And, because he was treating himself and there was no one around to bitch about fat or calories or cholesterol, he was definitely having that extra large banana split. And a cup of really sweet black coffee.

He wondered why, when left to himself, he'd have that high sugar high caffeine concoction, but with Jean Paul he always bought something with an Italian sounding name with four 'c's and five syrups. Was he trying to impress Jean Paul, or was he a victim of the Starbucks generation?

Not thinking about Jean Paul.

After lunch, after lunch he would keep riding, obviously. Further down the coast. Maybe go hunting for a beach or cove. Lie on the beach and tan (shirt on, of course, to hide his still growing patch of ice) and maybe even go for a swim. Skinny dipping, naturally.

God, imagine skinny dipping with Jean Paul. Bobby would be out there, in the sea, just swimming. Night, it would happen at night. Jean Paul wouldn't see him at first, just the clothes on the beach. Jean Paul would decide to swim. He'd know someone was there, and once he was a little way out he'd call out, trying to find whoever it was. And Bobby would panic for a second, because he was naked, and then remind himself that it was dark and he was mostly underwater and Jean Paul would never know, not until they got out and he could cross that bridge when he came to it. So he'd swim over, and say hi, and ask what Jean Paul was doing all the way out here. And Jean Paul… Jean Paul would say he was worried about Bobby. He hadn't seen him all day. And they'd talk, and Bobby would… Bobby would get this idea in his head about how funny it would be if he yanked down Jean Paul's trunks. No, Jean Paul would wear a Speedo. Jean Paul could carry that off, and besides, he was gay. And Bobby would dive down just as a big wave came over, and he'd find it hard to see, and he'd reach up and Jean Paul would be skinny dipping as well and Bobby would find himself with a handful of erect dick and

Bobby almost rolled off the cliff in an attempt to get away from his own mind. He lay on his back, panting, staring at that single white cloud in utter horror. One hand crept down and yes, he was hard.

Bobby sat up slowly and stared out over the cliff, focusing on the horizon, trying to pinpoint the exact line between blue sea and blue sky. He let his mind clear of both fantasy and fear until he felt himself again.

How long had this been going on? He'd started dreaming about Jean Paul after their date. No, if he was honest with himself, he'd been dreaming about Jean Paul before that, though the sexual overtones were subtler. Jean Paul had just started turning up everywhere in his dreams. When Bobby had had wet dreams, he'd been there, but he hadn't been the object of Bobby's desire. Even Bobby's subconscious knew what he could and couldn't take in terms of imagery.

The first wet dream about Jean Paul? The night of the date. He'd woken up to find it was barely midnight, and he hadn't slept again. He'd just sat in bed and rationalised it. He'd even found some lesbian porn to distract himself. Over and over he'd told himself that it was normal, it was fine. It was just related to the day's events. It didn't mean anything. He was a normal guy with normal sexual urges, but lacking any particular female figure he'd simply supplied the face of someone he'd spent a lot of time with. And enjoying a blow job hardly made him gay.

By the third wet dream in as many nights Bobby was beginning to suspect his body was trying to make a point. Spending so much time around Jean Paul seemed to leave him permanently half hard. He kept trying to brush against Jean Paul, or encourage casual touching. He'd had him search for twenty minutes for a bump Bobby had made up, just to feel fingers on skin. He'd worked really hard to keep things warm and friendly and casual between them.

Bobby picked grass out of his hair and put his jacket back on. Why was he still bothering with this? He'd said, last night, out loud, that he had a crush on Jean Paul. He had a crush on Jean Paul. A crush on Jean Paul. Jean Paul.

"I have a crush on Jean Paul," Bobby said to the empty world.

It wasn't any easier, saying it out loud. It cleared nothing up for him, it settled no doubts. It didn't even make it any more real. He found it hard to believe his own words. 'Crush'. 'Crush' wasn't right. He found Jean Paul physically attractive. They were both adults, 'crush' was a word for teenagers. He enjoyed Jean Paul's company as a friend. He wasn't obsessed with Jean Paul, or infatuated with him. He just… he just wanted to be with him, and, preferably, to have sex with him.

If Bobby had been a little less confused, he might have found another word for his feelings for Jean Paul, one he would have found even harder to accept. Oddly enough, it hadn't even crossed his mind yet. It wouldn't for a while to come.

"I want… I want to be intimate with Jean Paul," Bobby tried out loud. It was better than 'crush', though it did sound like a line from a period romance. He didn't mean it like that. Sure, he did want that kind of intimacy and all its associated perks, but mostly what he wanted from Jean Paul was someone to be close with.

Bobby climbed to his feet and walked the bike back to the edge of the road. He'd go and have lunch now, before his head exploded, and if he got hungry later on he'd just find somewhere to get a snack. He'd go and seek out some entertainment to keep his mind off Jean Paul. He wouldn't fret, he wouldn't fantasise. He was out for a good time and damn it, he was going to have a good time.

Bobby ran his tongue around the outside of his ice cream, catching the drips, and wandered through the small seaside town. The wind was what people called 'bracing', and he tightened his jacket around him. He didn't really feel the cold, but the jacket helped keep out the wind as well. His motorbike was safely tucked away in a quiet car park, and his helmet was dangling from his belt. Thing were good. Lunch had been every bit as greasy and starchy and fatty as he'd hoped. The waitress had taken his mind completely off Jean Paul, and he grinned at the thought of the napkin tucked in his pocket, number carefully scrawled across it. He'd never call, but he liked knowing he could.

He stopped by an old stone wall, or old for the United States; after Bobby's global exploit's a hundred years seemed barely minutes old. It was weird. He was weird. He'd travelled the world, travelled in time, and now he was turning to ice.

Leaning on the wall, Bobby laughed. Things like this tended to put problems like that into perspective. There was absolutely nothing wrong with wanting some intimacy in his life, especially right now. Jean Paul could provide that for him. Sometimes, Bobby wondered if Jean Paul didn't want to provide it for him, and to have the same in return.

Bobby squashed the thought that his desires might be mutual. He'd managed to get a reaction out of Jean Paul a few times, but Jean Paul had been single for a long time. He stuck his tongue into the centre of his ice cream as he pushed painful memories away. Finding Jean Paul gone last night…

Of course, Jean Paul was hardly the sociable type, and Warren's abrupt departure had probably given him the impression that people were leaving.

Not thinking about Warren.

Bobby grimaced. As confusing as the Jean Paul issue was, it could never be as upsetting as the look on his best friend's face. He shouldn't have come out today, he should have faced him. Apologised, explained, and made up. Instead he was miles away, worrying about whether his attraction to Jean Paul was mutual.

But it did bother Bobby, what Jean Paul thought of him. The attraction just made the whole thing worse. If he hadn't been attracted to Jean Paul he'd have confided in him by now. Say, he had a crush on Scott: he'd have told Jean Paul and asked about coping and dealing and how you know for certain and maybe even how to flirt with him. Instead, he was forced to puzzle it all out on his own, in case in telling Jean Paul the older man worked it out.

He could talk to Karma, he supposed. She seemed nice, and was certainly far less threatening than Jean Paul. But he barely knew her.

He barely knew a lot of people, it sometimes seemed. The students he was fine with, but all these members of staff who'd barely done a month's active service with the X-men before going off, and now they were back and acting like they'd been there all along. He could hardly claim that he was the most constant X-man, but he knew that no matter what he did or which team he joined, he was one. He'd worked with most people now, most people that had stuck around for any length of time and been involved in any major event. He couldn't count the number of times he'd faced Magneto and the Brotherhood. Hell, were the Brotherhood even around still? The original members seemed as dispersed as the original X-men. Everyone off in different teams doing different things. It was strange to realise he still thought of Kurt and Logan and Ororo and everyone as the New X-men.

So what did that make Jean Paul? It occurred to Bobby that he still had his friend tagged as an Alpha Flight loan, even though Jean Paul's ties with that team had always been sketchy at best. He only fought because of his sister, and now his sister was…

Bobby frowned. What had happened to Jeanne Marie? Jean Paul had said his migraine was related to her. Bobby knew they shared a psychic link, Jean Paul had brought it up once, but it was odd that, as far as he knew, Jean Paul hadn't even called her to ask about the pain. Logan had known both of them once, but when Bobby had brought it up with him he'd found an excuse and left. He'd put it down to Jeanne Marie being yet another girl Logan had loved, once upon a time.

He'd ask, Bobby decided. He'd ask Jean Paul and he'd get a straight answer out of him. Jean Paul never gave anything but. Perhaps Jeanne Marie was working undercover for the Professor. Maybe that's why Jean Paul hadn't tried to find out what was wrong with her. And if Jeanne Marie was working for the Professor, it would explain why Jean Paul was there.

Though it wouldn't explain why Jean Paul had suggested that he thought Xavier had used his telepathy to convince him to stay.

Odd.

Bobby shook the thoughts out of his head and sighed at his ice cream, which was now little more than a soggy cone full of milky vanilla. He found a trash can to chuck it in and sucked his fingers clean.

Within a few hours he was one his way back home, trying to ignore the urge to turn back and just camp out by the sea. It would be late when he got back anyway, so he could put off talking to people until the next day, but that didn't comfort him. Perhaps it was just the sheer volume of shit that had happened to him since he returned to active duty, but he was really beginning to associate living at the Institute with dreading the future.

Bobby felt his stomach cramp as he rode, and grimaced inside the helmet. He knew he'd overindulged, but sometimes he rebelled not only against other people but against himself, against what his body and his common sense told him. In the same way he would find himself short of breath for no apparent reason, or he'd get headaches and various cramps from lack of blood, sometimes he had terrible stomach aches after eating. He knew why.

Bobby took one hand off the bike to rub his stomach. He'd have to talk to Hank about this. It was something to do with the ice, he was certain, but he wasn't sure he'd like any suggestions Hank might have. In his ice form he didn't need to breath or eat. But in his ice form he couldn't be close to people. He didn't know how long he might have left before the ice was permanent, and he didn't want to waste it.

And it all came back to that, didn't it? His own innate desire to be close to people, and the ever increasing threat that he might never be able to get close again. It made him a little reckless emotionally. He wondered if he'd scared Jubilee last night, or if she'd been too drunk to worry. He was certain he'd concerned Jean Paul. Worse, he didn't know what Hank had said to him afterwards. He trusted Hank not to discuss Bobby's feelings for the older man with him, but what if he'd brought up Warren? Hank knew no more than Jean Paul. They might have puzzled together.

Bobby almost forced the Warren issue from his mind, but since he seemed to be facing worries head on today he chose not to let himself. He could admit to himself that he wanted more intimacy with Jean Paul, the kind the came with a relationship, and he could damn well admit to himself that once upon a time he'd wanted the same from Warren. He just prayed that it didn't go the same way with Jean Paul as it had with his old friend. It…shouldn't. Circumstances were very different. But if Jean Paul wasn't interested, then, well, it might. Friends would be the best he could hope for, but he wasn't sure if he could put himself through those months of torture again until he got over the attraction. It would get awkward, and one of them would probably leave.

Bobby could see the edge of the grounds just on the horizon. Why was he worrying about what might happen, when he knew what would happen? He'd turn to ice and that would be that. No chance of a romantic relationship at all.

Faced with those prospects, it occurred to Bobby that he'd probably leave anyway. He could go somewhere lonely, or full of ugly people. No need to torture himself if he didn't have to. He was the Iceman, he belonged somewhere like the North Pole. He could save the world like no one else. He could die having accomplished something. No one would have to worry about melting icecaps again, because Bobby was on the job. Cold, alone, unappreciated, but doing something worthwhile.

Bobby had to stop again and take of his helmet when the lights coming from the mansion began to blur dangerously. He told himself he hadn't had enough sleep, that he was getting melodramatic and overemotional. He sniffed and stared at the mansion, scrubbing at his eyes with a balled fist. He couldn't let go now, not yet. Just had to be strong a little longer. Had to survive. Even if, right now, he really didn't want to.