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eliyesHi there! This was just sort of a …thing I began. It’s really not as Nancy Drew as the title sounds, and it’s more about how paradigm colours perception of everyday events than anything else. Since I’m not familiar with how the current X-school works, I’m making it all up! Including the students, and the faculty, etc. etc. I home you don’t mind; consider it just another alternate reality. But I’m keeping the semi-crush Jean-Paul has on Bobby in …some book or other, mainly because I think it’s cute.
Another note, although it won’t be relevant in Part One: I don’t try to write accents. I’m not using “Ah” instead of “I” when Rogue speaks, for example. She means “I”, and that’s really good enough for me. However, if someone *coughJean-Paulcough* says something in a language other than English *coughFrenchcough*, I’m likely to keep it in that language unless it’s a long exchange that furthers the plot. I have no idea if that will come up, I’m just warning you.
And now, I present:
Jean-Paul Beaubier and the Mystery of the Velvet Shirt
Part One
“How can anyone get so excited about math?” asked a girl in the hallway outside Jean-Paul’s classroom. As he erased chalk from the board and put the homework assignments that had been handed in into his briefcase, he couldn’t help but overhear the students whose lockers were outside his door.
It had nothing to do with the fact that they were very likely talking about Robert Drake.
“I know! It’s, like, weird? But at least you don’t, like, fall asleep in his class. Because he’s just soooo enthusiastic, he keeps you awake!”
“Yeah! Good-bye third period naps.”
“Hello better grades, though.” Giggling.
“So what was with that shirt?”
“What, you mean that enormous velvet thing he was disappearing under?” More giggling.
With an act of will, Jean-Paul did not look towards the door.
“Oh my GOD! Wasn’t it just?”
“SO not his.”
“Unless he used to be really, really fat.”
The voices were getting fainter. The girls were walking away.
“Do you think, like, someone maybe left it in his room?”
“Oh god. No, but you could see through his pants. Back of the closet time?”
Jean-Paul snapped his briefcase shut. Half a second later, he was ‘casually walking by’ Bobby’s classroom.
Bobby Drake was too cute for his own good. He was certainly too cute for a man his age, and possibly too cute for a seasoned superhero, but the jury was still out on that last. The best thing was that he didn’t seem to know it.
Jean-Paul tried to avoid even using the word “cute” for anything other than baby animals. He preferred to think in terms of “boyishly attractive”. But today, Bobby was cute.
The girls had not been kidding. Bobby was wearing a velvety button-up shirt several sizes too large for him. The shoulders extended down his arms, the sleeves had to be rolled up to his wrist and were very wide. He’d tucked the tails in, but pulled it out enough so the deep wine-red fabric wouldn’t bunch up in his jeans; it billowed a bit when he moved.
And the jeans – the jeans had to be at least ten years old. Faded and frayed, worn thin at the knee, the thigh, the inner leg, around the back pockets and seam… Even his sneakers looked disreputable, although they weren’t quite falling apart. Yet.
And his hair was more tousled than usual.
And he had a grey t-shirt on under the velvet.
And he was wearing a silver thumb ring.
Jean-Paul catalogued all this with a glance. Having made covert-Bobby-watching something of at inadvertent hobby, spotting the little details was easy. Given that Bobby’s usual teaching attire was casual-dressy and he wasn’t given to more ornamentation that his watch, this was a definite change.
Currently, Bobby was engaged in that age-old classroom struggle: trying to get the overhead projector to co-operate. He was stacking books under the front and fiddling with the mirror, glancing over his right shoulder at every adjustment. The door Jean-Paul was now leaning in was to his left, and so Bobby did not realise he was being observed.
After another few seconds of watching the struggle, Jean-Paul decided to speak up.
“Would you like some help?”
Bobby barely spared him a glance, trying to swap out one textbook for a larger one.
“Yeah. Tell me when it looks alright,” he said distractedly. Jean-Paul felt vaguely insulted, but – since he’d asked – he watched the light on the screen rise and fall, gradually widening out at the bottom. Eventually he said “c’est bon.” Bobby looked, and then slapped on a colour transparency and played with the dials.
“There!” he exclaimed, holding up both hands towards the screen when finally the Great Pyramid was in focus.
“Interesting subject.”
“I’m trying to get them into spatial geometry this week,” Bobby replied with a sigh, clicking off the projector. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.
“I don’t think I ever took spatial geometry,” Jean-Paul commented. Granted, his education had been ‘non-standard’, to say the least…
“Really? It can be vital for a flier who doesn’t have innately sharp depth perception.” Bobby sat on one of the student desks, wiggling a bit to get settled. He had a faraway look in his eyes. But suddenly he looked at Jean-Paul and winked.
“Maybe you should sit in on my class.”
“Unfortunately, I have to monitor a study period.”
Bobby’s mouth twisted in sympathy – but he didn’t pout, thank God.
“Yeah, that’s never fun. I always tried to sneak comic books to mine.”
“As a student, or a teacher?” Jean-Paul asked. Bobby gave him another roguish wink.
Jean-Paul drifted closer, almost unconsciously. He indicated the pile of colour transparencies.
“What else are you showing them today?”
The question set Bobby off on a cheery ramble, and Jean-Paul reflected that the girls were right about his enthusiasm, too. Bobby didn’t try to get his students interested in math by pretending to like it, it really did interest him. Words like “elegant” and “beauty” and “symmetry” popped out of his mouth when he talked about it.
It was a little odd. But charming.
They were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Scott Summers, in a brown suit and his customary ruby glasses, stood there with a folder in one hand. As though the knock hadn’t gotten their attention, he cleared his throat before speaking.
“Bobby, could I interrupt for a moment?”
“Sure, I’m just yammering at JP about numbers. Probably boring him to tears.”
“Not really,” jean-Paul murmured.
“What’s up?” Bobby asked of Scott, hopping down off the desk.
Scott held up the folder.
“This is the assessment test results for a new student. We’ll likely place him in grade 8 for most of his classes, but I wanted your thoughts on his mathematical skills.” Scott’s voice was generally very even and calm, very controlled, but Jean-Paul thought he detected a hint of … amusement. He placed the folder in Bobby’s outstretched hand, then pinched some of the velvet and rubbed it between finger and thumb.
“Is this…?”
“Yep.” Bobby grinned.
“How?” Scott looked now, smiling.
“He said I could keep it, so I did.”
Scott made a noise suspiciously like a snort, and released Bobby’s sleeve. Jean-Paul had to cross his arms to keep from touching the shirt now, thanks to this brief interaction. He’d been successfully managing to not think about it until Scott did.
He was mildly surprised when Scott engaged him quietly in conversation. How was he finding the students? Did he need anything adjusted in his classroom? Did he think they should expand the book budget?
Eventually Bobby finished reading the test results, setting them down on one thigh (he’d sat down again) and drumming on them with a faraway expression. Scott and Jean-Paul looked at him.
“This kid’s 13?” he asked. Scott nodded, and Bobby sighed.
“Honestly, I think I could put him in my grade 10 class and he’d follow along fine. But you know with groups of kids this large, separating him into an older group part of the time might not be wise.
“And Tom Delaney is in your grade 10 math,” Scott supplied.
“A bad idea, then,” Jean-Paul said. He had that particular trouble-maker as well.
“Yeah. Plus, it will be stressful enough starting here mid-term. Not that lots of them don’t. He’ll be on slightly more even footing in terms of control with his age-mates.” He paused, frowning. “But in a grade 8 math class he’ll be bored, I guarantee it. Which might lead to misbehaviour, right? And failing to acknowledge his talent in this area – when he’s obviously either gotten advanced lessons or studied ahead on his own – could be damaging.”
“Solution?” Scott asked, raising an eyebrow and studiously ignoring the interesting look that Jean-Paul was giving Bobby.
“My grade 9 advanced class,” Bobby suggested. “The age gap will be less, it’s a much smaller, more one-on-one class, and I frequently give them personalized homework assignments.”
Scott nodded.
“We’ll see how that works out. After he’s settled in and we have a better feel for his personality, who knows? Maybe he can handle grade 10,” he said. And then reached out and pet Bobby’s arm. Bobby chuckled and held out both arms.
“Pet me! I’m soft and fuzzy!”
Scott smiled. Jean-Paul tentatively touched the shirt, and then gasped a little at the softness and gave Bobby’s arm a much firmer stroke. It was like betting a short-haired kitten.
With good biceps.
“This must be how Kurt feels, Bobby remarked. Scott mmed.
“I always liked this shirt. Why don’t you wear it more often?”
Bobby shrugged.
“Uh…” said a voice from the door, accompanied by a giggle. Two of Bobby’s students stood in the door, looking a bit perplexed.
Scott retrieved the folder from Bobby and used it to lightly tap Jean-Paul on the arm.
“Time. We’d better get in gear before The Irresistible Shirt makes us late for class.”
Jean-Paul was already making his exit at faster-than-human speed when he heard Bobby’s mock-outraged cry.
“The shirt?! I thought you loved me for me!”
Scott’s reply was a simple, “I do.” Jean-Paul paused to glace back, seeing Scott turning down the hall in the opposite direction while Bobby invited the kids in the hallway in with friendly inquiries about the homework he had assigned.
It was turning into a strange day.
And just what was up with that shirt?
Another note, although it won’t be relevant in Part One: I don’t try to write accents. I’m not using “Ah” instead of “I” when Rogue speaks, for example. She means “I”, and that’s really good enough for me. However, if someone *coughJean-Paulcough* says something in a language other than English *coughFrenchcough*, I’m likely to keep it in that language unless it’s a long exchange that furthers the plot. I have no idea if that will come up, I’m just warning you.
And now, I present:
Jean-Paul Beaubier and the Mystery of the Velvet Shirt
Part One
“How can anyone get so excited about math?” asked a girl in the hallway outside Jean-Paul’s classroom. As he erased chalk from the board and put the homework assignments that had been handed in into his briefcase, he couldn’t help but overhear the students whose lockers were outside his door.
It had nothing to do with the fact that they were very likely talking about Robert Drake.
“I know! It’s, like, weird? But at least you don’t, like, fall asleep in his class. Because he’s just soooo enthusiastic, he keeps you awake!”
“Yeah! Good-bye third period naps.”
“Hello better grades, though.” Giggling.
“So what was with that shirt?”
“What, you mean that enormous velvet thing he was disappearing under?” More giggling.
With an act of will, Jean-Paul did not look towards the door.
“Oh my GOD! Wasn’t it just?”
“SO not his.”
“Unless he used to be really, really fat.”
The voices were getting fainter. The girls were walking away.
“Do you think, like, someone maybe left it in his room?”
“Oh god. No, but you could see through his pants. Back of the closet time?”
Jean-Paul snapped his briefcase shut. Half a second later, he was ‘casually walking by’ Bobby’s classroom.
Bobby Drake was too cute for his own good. He was certainly too cute for a man his age, and possibly too cute for a seasoned superhero, but the jury was still out on that last. The best thing was that he didn’t seem to know it.
Jean-Paul tried to avoid even using the word “cute” for anything other than baby animals. He preferred to think in terms of “boyishly attractive”. But today, Bobby was cute.
The girls had not been kidding. Bobby was wearing a velvety button-up shirt several sizes too large for him. The shoulders extended down his arms, the sleeves had to be rolled up to his wrist and were very wide. He’d tucked the tails in, but pulled it out enough so the deep wine-red fabric wouldn’t bunch up in his jeans; it billowed a bit when he moved.
And the jeans – the jeans had to be at least ten years old. Faded and frayed, worn thin at the knee, the thigh, the inner leg, around the back pockets and seam… Even his sneakers looked disreputable, although they weren’t quite falling apart. Yet.
And his hair was more tousled than usual.
And he had a grey t-shirt on under the velvet.
And he was wearing a silver thumb ring.
Jean-Paul catalogued all this with a glance. Having made covert-Bobby-watching something of at inadvertent hobby, spotting the little details was easy. Given that Bobby’s usual teaching attire was casual-dressy and he wasn’t given to more ornamentation that his watch, this was a definite change.
Currently, Bobby was engaged in that age-old classroom struggle: trying to get the overhead projector to co-operate. He was stacking books under the front and fiddling with the mirror, glancing over his right shoulder at every adjustment. The door Jean-Paul was now leaning in was to his left, and so Bobby did not realise he was being observed.
After another few seconds of watching the struggle, Jean-Paul decided to speak up.
“Would you like some help?”
Bobby barely spared him a glance, trying to swap out one textbook for a larger one.
“Yeah. Tell me when it looks alright,” he said distractedly. Jean-Paul felt vaguely insulted, but – since he’d asked – he watched the light on the screen rise and fall, gradually widening out at the bottom. Eventually he said “c’est bon.” Bobby looked, and then slapped on a colour transparency and played with the dials.
“There!” he exclaimed, holding up both hands towards the screen when finally the Great Pyramid was in focus.
“Interesting subject.”
“I’m trying to get them into spatial geometry this week,” Bobby replied with a sigh, clicking off the projector. He rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms.
“I don’t think I ever took spatial geometry,” Jean-Paul commented. Granted, his education had been ‘non-standard’, to say the least…
“Really? It can be vital for a flier who doesn’t have innately sharp depth perception.” Bobby sat on one of the student desks, wiggling a bit to get settled. He had a faraway look in his eyes. But suddenly he looked at Jean-Paul and winked.
“Maybe you should sit in on my class.”
“Unfortunately, I have to monitor a study period.”
Bobby’s mouth twisted in sympathy – but he didn’t pout, thank God.
“Yeah, that’s never fun. I always tried to sneak comic books to mine.”
“As a student, or a teacher?” Jean-Paul asked. Bobby gave him another roguish wink.
Jean-Paul drifted closer, almost unconsciously. He indicated the pile of colour transparencies.
“What else are you showing them today?”
The question set Bobby off on a cheery ramble, and Jean-Paul reflected that the girls were right about his enthusiasm, too. Bobby didn’t try to get his students interested in math by pretending to like it, it really did interest him. Words like “elegant” and “beauty” and “symmetry” popped out of his mouth when he talked about it.
It was a little odd. But charming.
They were interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Scott Summers, in a brown suit and his customary ruby glasses, stood there with a folder in one hand. As though the knock hadn’t gotten their attention, he cleared his throat before speaking.
“Bobby, could I interrupt for a moment?”
“Sure, I’m just yammering at JP about numbers. Probably boring him to tears.”
“Not really,” jean-Paul murmured.
“What’s up?” Bobby asked of Scott, hopping down off the desk.
Scott held up the folder.
“This is the assessment test results for a new student. We’ll likely place him in grade 8 for most of his classes, but I wanted your thoughts on his mathematical skills.” Scott’s voice was generally very even and calm, very controlled, but Jean-Paul thought he detected a hint of … amusement. He placed the folder in Bobby’s outstretched hand, then pinched some of the velvet and rubbed it between finger and thumb.
“Is this…?”
“Yep.” Bobby grinned.
“How?” Scott looked now, smiling.
“He said I could keep it, so I did.”
Scott made a noise suspiciously like a snort, and released Bobby’s sleeve. Jean-Paul had to cross his arms to keep from touching the shirt now, thanks to this brief interaction. He’d been successfully managing to not think about it until Scott did.
He was mildly surprised when Scott engaged him quietly in conversation. How was he finding the students? Did he need anything adjusted in his classroom? Did he think they should expand the book budget?
Eventually Bobby finished reading the test results, setting them down on one thigh (he’d sat down again) and drumming on them with a faraway expression. Scott and Jean-Paul looked at him.
“This kid’s 13?” he asked. Scott nodded, and Bobby sighed.
“Honestly, I think I could put him in my grade 10 class and he’d follow along fine. But you know with groups of kids this large, separating him into an older group part of the time might not be wise.
“And Tom Delaney is in your grade 10 math,” Scott supplied.
“A bad idea, then,” Jean-Paul said. He had that particular trouble-maker as well.
“Yeah. Plus, it will be stressful enough starting here mid-term. Not that lots of them don’t. He’ll be on slightly more even footing in terms of control with his age-mates.” He paused, frowning. “But in a grade 8 math class he’ll be bored, I guarantee it. Which might lead to misbehaviour, right? And failing to acknowledge his talent in this area – when he’s obviously either gotten advanced lessons or studied ahead on his own – could be damaging.”
“Solution?” Scott asked, raising an eyebrow and studiously ignoring the interesting look that Jean-Paul was giving Bobby.
“My grade 9 advanced class,” Bobby suggested. “The age gap will be less, it’s a much smaller, more one-on-one class, and I frequently give them personalized homework assignments.”
Scott nodded.
“We’ll see how that works out. After he’s settled in and we have a better feel for his personality, who knows? Maybe he can handle grade 10,” he said. And then reached out and pet Bobby’s arm. Bobby chuckled and held out both arms.
“Pet me! I’m soft and fuzzy!”
Scott smiled. Jean-Paul tentatively touched the shirt, and then gasped a little at the softness and gave Bobby’s arm a much firmer stroke. It was like betting a short-haired kitten.
With good biceps.
“This must be how Kurt feels, Bobby remarked. Scott mmed.
“I always liked this shirt. Why don’t you wear it more often?”
Bobby shrugged.
“Uh…” said a voice from the door, accompanied by a giggle. Two of Bobby’s students stood in the door, looking a bit perplexed.
Scott retrieved the folder from Bobby and used it to lightly tap Jean-Paul on the arm.
“Time. We’d better get in gear before The Irresistible Shirt makes us late for class.”
Jean-Paul was already making his exit at faster-than-human speed when he heard Bobby’s mock-outraged cry.
“The shirt?! I thought you loved me for me!”
Scott’s reply was a simple, “I do.” Jean-Paul paused to glace back, seeing Scott turning down the hall in the opposite direction while Bobby invited the kids in the hallway in with friendly inquiries about the homework he had assigned.
It was turning into a strange day.
And just what was up with that shirt?
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-14 11:15 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-15 04:34 am (UTC)Sure is! Just add a category for 'My Fics' or somesuch. You're allowed to add as many memories to a category as you want.
(no subject)
Date: 2005-11-15 03:01 pm (UTC)