Fanfic: "Unsaid" by eliyes

[eliyes]

Title: Unsaid
Author: eliyes
Slash Y/N?: Pre-slash, I think.
Warning: ANGST. There are TEARS. I don't usually write this st-- okay, actually, I write it all the time, I just almost never post it. But this time I am. Uh, sorry? ^^;
Author's notes: Fic takes place after this.



Jean-Paul found an empty room, turned on the television, and abused the remote until he figured out how to get a Quebec news station on the satellite. With that as background noise, he opened his book to where he'd left off and tried to read. It was, as he'd known it would be, not at all easy. He kept remembering --

But the point was to not think about it. Thinking about it would upset him, and getting too upset would make him want to throw his hands in the air and leave, and that would be breaking a promise. He could do so much good with the X-Men, and so long as the hurt did not outweigh that potential, he should stay.

But oh, it did hurt so very much. Perhaps someone else could take the pain of having the object of his unrequited love threaten to kill him and use it in turn to kill that inconvenient attachment. The mere fact that the words had been said should surely make a wiser man run, but Jean-Paul was not that man. All that he could hope to do was distract himself until it faded enough for him to face it again.

Perhaps it would have been easier to lose himself in company, but he was not good company right now. He wanted some time to himself, until he could hide his heart. The soft sounds of someone pausing in the hallway outside the door were entirely unwelcome. He silently cursed himself for leaving the door open and concentrated fiercely on his book. Perhaps if he ignored whoever it was, they would take the hint and leave him alone.

* * *
Bobby lurked at the doorway, looking in at where Jean-Paul was curled up on a couch. He could see the back of his neck, the edge of one ear, the dark head bent in a way that didn't make sense until he heard a page turn. He wondered if the French spilling rapidly from the TV was comforting. He wanted to understand Jean-Paul -- but more than that, right now he wished Jean-Paul could understand him. It would make apologising so much easier, and he knew he needed to apologise. The longer he waited, the harder it would be, and the less good it would do.

He was having trouble finding the words. It wasn't a lack of them; Bobby was naturally talkative. Right now that was working against him. He had too many words, and he wanted the right ones.

He couldn't say, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. He might not know Jean-Paul very well, but he trusted him to be able to tell when he was being lied to. Bobby had meant it, at the time. Jean-Paul had known it, had seen it in his face or heard it in his voice, and that was what really needed apologising for. Not just the threat, but meaning it. How could Jean-Paul trust him after that, as a teammate?

How did you apologise for something like that?

He knew what he would say if he could be guaranteed that Jean-Paul would listen to it all. Maybe if he were a telepath he could just put the understanding in Jean-Paul's mind. It would be the wrong way to do it, he knew. He just wished it could be that easy, because as it was, he didn't know how to make him understand.

I wish I knew what you think when you look at me, he thought at Jean-Paul. When you look at us, all of us, but especially the original five X-Men. What do you see? Do you see that we're a family? You were obeying orders -- and you were on a team formed by your government, so maybe that's what you're used to. But that's only a part of the story with us. Jean once told me that the Professor made us into warriors, but I never saw it that way.

Warren has been a part of my life since I was fourteen. He and Hank and I -- we were the Three Musketeers. No, we were Peter Pan and two Lost Boys. Warren was older, and he always had the best ideas for fun stuff to do. I was so happy that someone so cool would even include me, and the two of us were aces at talking Hank into letting loose now and then, even if he was trying to be the sensible one. Never suited him anyway.

But you see, that's just it: Warren's not some kind of war chief. He's not Scott or Storm. He's a leader, yeah, but not the kind you seem to think. He's the boy that always knows a fun game, the guy who can throw a great party.

I've never been on a single team without him. He's been my leader, yeah, but I know from years of experience that sometimes he's a little reckless, and proud, and bites off more than he can chew. Warren would lift the world on his shoulders and never let on his back was breaking. He's that kind of guy. So it's my job, it's our job as the ones along for the ride to make sure we know when to jump in and rescue him when he's in over his head.

But you don't know that. You don't know him like I do. And you don't know me like I know he does -- I know he expects a rescue if things go bad, that I'll have his back. He trusts me. You don't.

And now I've given you a really good reason not to.

I'm sorry I said it, and if I could take it back, I would. I love him way too much to lose him again, and would rather die than not try to save him. You don't know how close it's been. Two of the worst moments of my life --

I just don't want to go to another funeral for Warren. The first one was bad enough. Here I'd been kidnapped and rescued by Thor, and I get dropped off and everyone's wearing black. I didn't believe them when they told me Warren was dead, especially not that he'd killed himself. It was only starting to sink in when they'd already bundled me into a suit and took me to the service. Then Trish shoved a mic in my face and I freaked out at her. I lost it, and she might've been a popsicle if Leech hadn't been there.

And then what Apocalypse did to him, what Hodge did -- We got him back, but next thing I know, we're on an alien planet and I'm trying to kill him. Coming back from a month's worth of telepathically-induced amnesia, trying to kill Warren.

Two of the worst moments of my life.

* * *
Jean-Paul's gambit had resulted in genuine absorption in his reading. He had forgotten he was ignoring someone, so the pained sound behind him took him by surprise. When he looked, he caught Bobby just beginning to turn away, and his face --

His face was something Jean-Paul had been helplessly, reflexively memorizing since they met. Formed of flesh or ice, it was a handsome face, well-suited to humour and happy smiles. Now that Jean-Paul had seen that face angry and frantic with worry, he had thought that perhaps he would find it less attractive, but at this moment, what he saw in Bobby's face stole his breath like a kick to the gut.

Bobby had been standing in the doorway, looking at Jean-Paul with the look of a man in agony. There were tears beginning to roll down his cheeks, and even as he turned he lifted a hand to wipe them away.

Jean-Paul was there before Bobby could complete the motion, grabbing his wrist.

"Are you still so angry with me, then?" he asked in a low voice. He was terrified of what the answer might be, of what he might give away, but would be damned to Hell if he was the cause of that pain and did nothing to ease it.

"No!" Bobby dashed away the tears with his other hand; more followed. He certainly sounded angry. "I'm mad at myself!"

Jean-Paul found his grip on Bobby's wrist broken with a deft twist, and then Bobby held his hand between both of his own and gazed up at him with an intensity only matched by that moment when he had issued his threat. There was a different quality, now, a different urgency. The light of the one lamp in the room lit Bobby's face unevenly, and his dark eyes seemed to pin Jean-Paul in place.

"I am very, very sorry, Jean-Paul," Bobby told him in a thick voice. "I shouldn't have said it. I wish I hadn't --" Another tear was running down his face, and Jean-Paul wiped it away with a stroke of his thumb. When Bobby stopped speaking, Jean-Paul belatedly realised he probably shouldn't have done that.

Trying for casual, he brushed the moisture away before clasping his hand over Bobby's. Perhaps they looked strange, standing with all their hands together, but he did not care. For once in his life, Jean-Paul's instincts were leading him away from lashing out at a person who had hurt him.

He cleared his throat.

"You are not the only one standing here who has said things in anger he later regretted, Robert," he said softly.

"I went too far."

"Yes. But, I know what it is, to fear for a loved friend. I will find a way to forgive you, I think." Jean-Paul realised as he said it that it was true. He had, after all, learned to forgive his sister for many things. He would not have thought it in his nature, but perhaps he had changed.

"You understand?" Bobby asked him, a strange note in his voice. It almost sounded like hope.

"I suppose I do."

Bobby smiled up at him so shyly that he wanted to kiss him until they were both too old for adventures that could result in anger and tears. He swayed forward as Bobby's gaze dropped -- and snapped out of it when Bobby slid his hands free.

Jean-Paul took a step back, sticking his hands in his pockets so he would not reach out and pull Bobby closer. His heart hammered with adrenaline when he grasped how close he had just come to making a mistake. This was dangerous. This was even worse than with Walter; at least then he had had the constant reminder of his sister's relationship with the man to keep him in line.

Damn it! Why did he keep falling for straight men?

Bobby gestured at the couch.

"I should let you, uh --"

"Yes, I should --"

"Well. I'll talk to you later."

"Good night, Robert."

Bobby walked away, and it took every ounce of Jean-Paul's will not to stand there mooning after him like the lovesick schoolboy he had somehow turned into in the past ten minutes. He flopped down on the couch and told himself his guard was down because of his already touchy emotional state.

He hoped it was true. If this happened much more often, he was going to have a very hard time keeping how he felt behind his teeth.