this needs a better title
Jun. 28th, 2008 10:06 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eliyesEver have one of those stories that doesn't quite fit any continuity anywhere, but it just won't leave you alone? This is one of mine. (I seem to love writing Bobby and Jean-Paul arguing...)
Stop Me If You've Heard This One
Two mutants walk into a coffeehouse...
"The best café-mocha in Manhattan," Bobby promised as he held open the door for Jean-Paul. "And sometimes they have buttermilk cupcakes."
"Yes, fine, cupcakes," Jean-Paul replied with a roll of his eyes. As if cupcakes could really explain why they had gone ten blocks out of their way, at normal speed, during rush hour. The fact that Bobby had spent most of those ten blocks making appeals with suspiciously wide brown eyes was a more accurate explanation of Jean-Paul's participation in this side-trip, but he would never admit it. That would ruin the fun. Instead, he lifted his eyebrow and pointed to the line snaking around tables and couches to the counter.
Bobby grinned.
"See? I told you we'd get here ahead of the rush."
"D'ac, but you, my friend, get to stand on the line."
"Sure." Bobby waved him off. "Look around, there's usually some nifty local art on... the..." He trailed off, eyes even wider and riveted to something over Jean-Paul's shoulder. He made a small gurgling noise.
Jean-Paul turned, half-expecting to see a supervillain attacking or something along those lines, but all he saw was the painting. His breath puffed out in a soft exclamation, and he stepped closer for a better look.
It was a window into an intimate moment. The upper torso, upper arms, shoulders, neck, and chin of a young man, bunched muscles gleaming with sweat. A bead of it dripped from his chin, and if the set of his mouth did not indicate clearly enough the nature of his exertion, the upwards-reaching arms of a woman, hands clenched on his shoulders, did the trick. It was by no means photo-realistic, painted with a sort of hazy glow, details picked out here and there -- but it looked so real, Jean-Paul half-expected the picture to begin moving.
He leaned forward to read the small card set underneath the painting. It told him the artist was Opal Tanaka, and the name of the piece: "View of a Lover".
A glance back showed Bobby already in line, several people away from the counter and chatting amiably with the couple behind him. A stroll through the coffeehouse to look at the rest of the art showed him no other works by the same painter, nor anything else that caught his attention the same way. He went back to look at the first one.
Something softly impacted against the back of his head. He spun, to discover Bobby settling down at a table, with two large mugs and two small plates. Jean-Paul felt the back of his head, looking down and spotting a balled-up paper napkin.
"You know," he said, sitting across from Bobby at the table, "my name? Gets my attention much better than throwing things at me."
Bobby looking up from peeling the wrapper off of his cupcake, face a study of perfect innocence.
Wordlessly, Jean-Paul unwrapped the napkin from around the sphere of ice that had lent it weight, setting this in the middle of the table.
Bobby winked, cracking into an impudent grin. Jean-Paul sighed, pretending not to be amused.
"I thought you were getting the coffee to go?"
"I changed my mind. Well? Try the mocha."
Jean-Paul sipped obediently, then licked his lips, considering. He blew on the drink and sipped again, conscious of Bobby's gaze on him.
"Very good," he admitted.
Bobby's answering smile was incandescent.
"Told you so," he said with satisfaction.
Jean-Paul to look away when Bobby began licking away at the cupcake icing. Having seen him eat one before, he knew it was better not to torture himself -- and there was much thicker icing on these. He picked up his mug and turned in his chair to look around the room...
...Just in time to see a young woman with lavishly spiky hair take down the painting.
Bobby saw where he was looking and threw another napkin past Jean-Paul's face before he could decide to get up. Bobby answered the glare this earned him with a very stern look.
"Eat your cupcake," he ordered, pointing to it.
"But she is -- "
"Oh, relax, she works here, she's not stealing it."
"Yes, I realise that, but why is she taking it away?" Jean-Paul turned in his chair to watch the painting be carried into a room marked "Staff Only". Bobby managed not to laugh at his forlorn expression. Much.
"It was sold," he explained.
"Sold?!" Jean-Paul looked scandalized.
"Yes, sold! Every piece of art in this place is for sale. A lot of local artists show here. It's cheaper than a gallery, and the coffeehouse gets ever-changing decoration." Bobby carefully tore a chunk off of his cupcake and dunked it in his drink before popping it in his mouth. Since Jean-Paul was still staring at him, he added, "It's a pretty common practice."
"How do you know so much about it?"
"Because I know artists. And so do you: does 'Piotr Rasputin' ring any bells?"
"Oh."
"Seriously, are you going to eat your cupcake? Because if you're not, give it here."
Jean-Paul pulled his plate closer, possessively, and they enjoyed the rest of their treat talking about other things. The coffee was gone and they were in the midst of an actual argument about pie crusts, of all things, when they were interrupted by the arrival of the girl with the spiky hair. She was carrying a large, square package, obviously well-padded and securely wrapped. Bobby stood and took it from her, and they exchanged a few friendly comments which Jean-Paul completely failed to take notice of due to his complete and utter shock. The girl whisked away their empty dishes, and then suddenly Bobby was waving his hand a few inches from Jean-Paul's face.
"Hello, Earth to Jean-Paul, come in Jean-Paul. Do you read, over."
"Stop that," Jean-Paul snapped, slapping the hand away.
"Well, are you ready to go?" Bobby punctuated the question by raising his eyebrows, shifting his grip on... the painting. It had to be.
"You bought it?"
"Yes," Bobby said defensively, ears reddening.
"Why did you -- why not just say so?" Jean-Paul demanded, but Bobby was somehow managing to make chivying motions at him despite having his hands full. Jean-Paul stood and followed him to the door, which Bobby hip-checked his way past, propping it open with his foot for Jean-Paul to precede him onto the sidewalk.
As soon as they were both outside, Jean-Paul blocked Bobby's route and crossed his arms. Bobby heaved a put-upon sigh.
"Look, Jean-Paul -- "
"Why did you buy that painting?"
"Because I want it!" Bobby maneuvered past him, but Jean-Paul dogged his steps.
"You want a painting of a young man in a moment of passion?"
Bobby flushed darkly. "Yes! Okay? Yes."
"Just where do you intend to hang such a thing, eh? In your rooms at the school? In the staff room?" The questions held and uncalled-for amount of acid, but Jean-Paul was miffed at the perceived deception and this uncharacteristic-seeming behaviour.
"I'm going to hang it in the furnace if you don't quit interrogating me," Bobby warned.
Jean-Paul actually stopped walking mid-stride. Bobby kept on, unafraid of losing him in the crowd. A man who could not only move faster than the eye could follow but also fly was not going to have trouble catching up. He'd only passed a few storefronts when Jean-Paul was there, red-faced with simmering anger. He walked backwards in front of Bobby.
"You cannot destroy it!"
"It's not like it's a passport, Jean-Paul."
"It is a work of art!" A particularly agitated gesture accompanied this pronouncement and nearly hit a passing woman in the face. She cursed Jean-Paul in muttered Polish as she dodged by.
"Look, it's mine," Bobby said firmly. "I can do with it what I want -- which does not necessarily mean damaging it."
"Sell it to me."
"What? No!"
"What, yes! I do not trust you with it! How much did you pay for it?"
"None of your business!" Bobby retorted, turning sharply down another street. Jean-Paul darted in front of him again, stopping him with a hand on his chest. Bobby rolled his eyes and sighed.
"How much?" Jean-Paul demanded insistently.
"Nine hundred bucks."
Jean-Paul's mouth gaped, and Bobby ducked his head sheepishly.
"Yeah, I know, ridiculous, right?" He started walking again and Jean-Paul trailed after him. "I mean, Opal never sold a painting for more than three hundred or so, and actually I figure she just -- "
"Halt! Wait, stop, arrêt." Now Jean-Paul was waving one hand and pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. "Opal? The artist who painted that?"
"What other Opal could I mean?" Bobby asked impatiently.
"Do you know her?"
Bobby was the one to stop walking this time, and so Jean-Paul also stopped. Eventually he got tired of being stared at.
"Well?" he demanded, feeling vaguely relieved when Bobby blinked several times in rapid succession, since his eyes and begun to itch in sympathy.
"You mean -- You mean, you really don't know?"
"Know what?"
"I thought you knew!" Bobby began to look a little wild-eyed. "I thought you spent all that time looking at it because you recognized me!"
Jean-Paul choked such that it was a struggle to force out the words, "You mean you -- are --?"
"The guy in the painting. Yeah."
They stared at each other for a moment, processing, and then Bobby wordlessly turned and started walking down the sidewalk again.
"And I would know this, how?" Jean-Paul asked crossly. "It is not as though I have ever seen you from such an angle!"
"And whose fault is that?" Bobby shot back.
"What? What does that mean?"
Bobby was saved from having to answer that by a loud, "Oh, thank God!" and then Alison Blaire was walking with them. "You guys know where we're all meeting Warren, right?" she asked hopefully.
"It is close," Jean-Paul told her.
"Alison!" Bobby exclaimed admiringly. "Nice!" His gaze was directed at her hair, currently short and bright pink.
"Thanks!" She beamed, the waved a hand at what Bobby was carrying. "What's that?"
"A painting of Robert having sex," Jean-Paul said blandly.
"Ooohkay," Alison said as she and Bobby followed after him. She shot a look at Bobby. "So, what is it really?"
"That's what it really is," Bobby admitted with a squirm and a grimace of embarrassment.
Alison raised her eyebrows.
"Kinky. Where'd you get that?"
"Do you remember when I was dating Opal Tanaka?"
"Uh, was that the chick whose grandpa turned out to be a Yakuza boss?"
"Yeah," Bobby confirmed.
"Nope."
"What?" Bobby gave her a confused look as they caught up to where Jean-Paul was waiting outside the entrance of their destination building. "But -- oh, whatever. She was an artist, and she did this painting," he explained as he hit the button to open the door and motioned them through, continuing as they crossed the lobby, "I didn't even know she'd finished it, and then we walked into a coffeehouse, and there it was on the wall."
The three of them showed the receptionist their IDs and were issued building passes that would let them access the penthouse via the express elevator. Jean-Paul cast a rueful glance at the stairwell doors as they passed them -- it would be much swifter for him to take those, but pointless without the right key.
"So, you bought it?" Alison asked, picking up the conversation as they stepped into the elevator.
"Like I was gonna leave it there for anyone to see!" Bobby scoffed.
They fell silent as the ground fell away. Alison and Bobby watched out the glass wall as they zipped up, while Jean-Paul held his tongue simply because he'd learned more listening them than he had asking for himself. The elevator car slowed, and Alison turned a puckish smile on Bobby.
"So, where you gonna hang that, anyway?" she asked, wagging her eyebrows. There was as soft "ding!" and the doors opened.
Bobby rolled his eyes. "Don't you start," he told her, hitching the painting up and striking out into the hallway beyond. "Follow me, I know where the meeting room is." He led the way, juggling the painting to swipe his card and hold open doors. Alison was stifling giggles by the time they ran into Warren Worthington III and Natasha Romanova.
"Bobby!" said the latter, warmly, opening her arms to embrace him. He quickly set down the painting to accept the hug -- a hug which turned into an efficient frisking complete with hand-held scanner as she checked him for listening devices. Warren was doing the same with the other two, but it was Bobby who set the little machine off. He blinked in surprise as Natasha snipped off a button from his shirt and crushed it beneath her heel.
"He bugged me?" he asked as she ran another pass over him.
"I warned you," Warren said with a grin. "I hope that package isn't his present."
"It's not, believe me," Bobby said. Natasha patted his shoulder affectionately.
"You're clean now. Go on in. The only one left to arrive is Simon."
"Actually, Warren," Bobby hefted the painting again, "is there someplace I could stow this until the meeting's done?"
"Sure, give it here. I'll stick it in my office." Bobby handed it over, and Warren flicked a wing towards a double set of wooded doors. "Conference room's in there. I'll be back in a sec."
Jean-Paul had his arms crossed and was shaking his head both at the security for this meeting and the evidence that it was necessary. Alison was watching them both with a sort of suppressed evil glee.
"Right," Bobby said, clapping his hands together as he approached the doors. "Shall we?"
"Aww!" Alison cooed. "That's so cute, Bobby. Will you pull out his chair, too?"
Bobby hissed at her wordlessly, face reddening.
"What?" Jean-Paul looked between them, confused.
"Oh, nothing," Alison said airily. "I just think it's sweet the way he always holds the door open for you." She took the door in question from Bobby and slipped into the room beyond, leaving the two men standing outside in awkward silence.
Jean-Paul cast his mind back, realising that yes, now that it had been pointed out, it was strange that Bobby had consistently held open the door even when he had his hands full; he'd been doing it before he bought the painting, and in fact, thinking back, for a number of days at the very least. From the flush and the guilty way he was looking anywhere but at Jean-Paul, it was obviously deliberate.
"I do not need you to hold the door for me, Robert," Jean-Paul said. It came out sounding a bit stiff.
"I know," Bobby replied quietly, "but, you want me to." At Jean-Paul's incredulous noise, he elaborated: "You're definitely fast enough to get in front of me if you wanna do it for yourself, but you haven't, so... I figured you must like it."
Jean-Paul couldn't think of anything to say to this, so he changed the topic.
"I... I must apologise for my behaviour, regarding the painting..."
"It's okay."
"I was very rude --"
"It's cool, Jean-Paul. Really, consider it forgotten." Bobby smiled hopefully.
Jean-Paul smiled back. Then he held open the door for Bobby.
Inside the conference room, full of faces both familiar and not, Alison had somehow arranged for there to be two seats available together. Bobby shot her a wicked smile, and then ostentatiously seated Jean-Paul, eliciting a few chuckles. Moments later, Warren and Natasha returned with Simon Williams, and the First Planning Meeting for the Organization of Henry McCoy's Birthday Bash was called to order.
If Bobby was wondering if he could get away with giving the painting to Jean-Paul as a gift, well, it was only natural to be thinking ahead.
Con-crit, comments, and spelling corrections welcome. Cross-posted to![[livejournal.com profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/external/lj-community.gif)
speedsicle.
Two mutants walk into a coffeehouse...
"The best café-mocha in Manhattan," Bobby promised as he held open the door for Jean-Paul. "And sometimes they have buttermilk cupcakes."
"Yes, fine, cupcakes," Jean-Paul replied with a roll of his eyes. As if cupcakes could really explain why they had gone ten blocks out of their way, at normal speed, during rush hour. The fact that Bobby had spent most of those ten blocks making appeals with suspiciously wide brown eyes was a more accurate explanation of Jean-Paul's participation in this side-trip, but he would never admit it. That would ruin the fun. Instead, he lifted his eyebrow and pointed to the line snaking around tables and couches to the counter.
Bobby grinned.
"See? I told you we'd get here ahead of the rush."
"D'ac, but you, my friend, get to stand on the line."
"Sure." Bobby waved him off. "Look around, there's usually some nifty local art on... the..." He trailed off, eyes even wider and riveted to something over Jean-Paul's shoulder. He made a small gurgling noise.
Jean-Paul turned, half-expecting to see a supervillain attacking or something along those lines, but all he saw was the painting. His breath puffed out in a soft exclamation, and he stepped closer for a better look.
It was a window into an intimate moment. The upper torso, upper arms, shoulders, neck, and chin of a young man, bunched muscles gleaming with sweat. A bead of it dripped from his chin, and if the set of his mouth did not indicate clearly enough the nature of his exertion, the upwards-reaching arms of a woman, hands clenched on his shoulders, did the trick. It was by no means photo-realistic, painted with a sort of hazy glow, details picked out here and there -- but it looked so real, Jean-Paul half-expected the picture to begin moving.
He leaned forward to read the small card set underneath the painting. It told him the artist was Opal Tanaka, and the name of the piece: "View of a Lover".
A glance back showed Bobby already in line, several people away from the counter and chatting amiably with the couple behind him. A stroll through the coffeehouse to look at the rest of the art showed him no other works by the same painter, nor anything else that caught his attention the same way. He went back to look at the first one.
Something softly impacted against the back of his head. He spun, to discover Bobby settling down at a table, with two large mugs and two small plates. Jean-Paul felt the back of his head, looking down and spotting a balled-up paper napkin.
"You know," he said, sitting across from Bobby at the table, "my name? Gets my attention much better than throwing things at me."
Bobby looking up from peeling the wrapper off of his cupcake, face a study of perfect innocence.
Wordlessly, Jean-Paul unwrapped the napkin from around the sphere of ice that had lent it weight, setting this in the middle of the table.
Bobby winked, cracking into an impudent grin. Jean-Paul sighed, pretending not to be amused.
"I thought you were getting the coffee to go?"
"I changed my mind. Well? Try the mocha."
Jean-Paul sipped obediently, then licked his lips, considering. He blew on the drink and sipped again, conscious of Bobby's gaze on him.
"Very good," he admitted.
Bobby's answering smile was incandescent.
"Told you so," he said with satisfaction.
Jean-Paul to look away when Bobby began licking away at the cupcake icing. Having seen him eat one before, he knew it was better not to torture himself -- and there was much thicker icing on these. He picked up his mug and turned in his chair to look around the room...
...Just in time to see a young woman with lavishly spiky hair take down the painting.
Bobby saw where he was looking and threw another napkin past Jean-Paul's face before he could decide to get up. Bobby answered the glare this earned him with a very stern look.
"Eat your cupcake," he ordered, pointing to it.
"But she is -- "
"Oh, relax, she works here, she's not stealing it."
"Yes, I realise that, but why is she taking it away?" Jean-Paul turned in his chair to watch the painting be carried into a room marked "Staff Only". Bobby managed not to laugh at his forlorn expression. Much.
"It was sold," he explained.
"Sold?!" Jean-Paul looked scandalized.
"Yes, sold! Every piece of art in this place is for sale. A lot of local artists show here. It's cheaper than a gallery, and the coffeehouse gets ever-changing decoration." Bobby carefully tore a chunk off of his cupcake and dunked it in his drink before popping it in his mouth. Since Jean-Paul was still staring at him, he added, "It's a pretty common practice."
"How do you know so much about it?"
"Because I know artists. And so do you: does 'Piotr Rasputin' ring any bells?"
"Oh."
"Seriously, are you going to eat your cupcake? Because if you're not, give it here."
Jean-Paul pulled his plate closer, possessively, and they enjoyed the rest of their treat talking about other things. The coffee was gone and they were in the midst of an actual argument about pie crusts, of all things, when they were interrupted by the arrival of the girl with the spiky hair. She was carrying a large, square package, obviously well-padded and securely wrapped. Bobby stood and took it from her, and they exchanged a few friendly comments which Jean-Paul completely failed to take notice of due to his complete and utter shock. The girl whisked away their empty dishes, and then suddenly Bobby was waving his hand a few inches from Jean-Paul's face.
"Hello, Earth to Jean-Paul, come in Jean-Paul. Do you read, over."
"Stop that," Jean-Paul snapped, slapping the hand away.
"Well, are you ready to go?" Bobby punctuated the question by raising his eyebrows, shifting his grip on... the painting. It had to be.
"You bought it?"
"Yes," Bobby said defensively, ears reddening.
"Why did you -- why not just say so?" Jean-Paul demanded, but Bobby was somehow managing to make chivying motions at him despite having his hands full. Jean-Paul stood and followed him to the door, which Bobby hip-checked his way past, propping it open with his foot for Jean-Paul to precede him onto the sidewalk.
As soon as they were both outside, Jean-Paul blocked Bobby's route and crossed his arms. Bobby heaved a put-upon sigh.
"Look, Jean-Paul -- "
"Why did you buy that painting?"
"Because I want it!" Bobby maneuvered past him, but Jean-Paul dogged his steps.
"You want a painting of a young man in a moment of passion?"
Bobby flushed darkly. "Yes! Okay? Yes."
"Just where do you intend to hang such a thing, eh? In your rooms at the school? In the staff room?" The questions held and uncalled-for amount of acid, but Jean-Paul was miffed at the perceived deception and this uncharacteristic-seeming behaviour.
"I'm going to hang it in the furnace if you don't quit interrogating me," Bobby warned.
Jean-Paul actually stopped walking mid-stride. Bobby kept on, unafraid of losing him in the crowd. A man who could not only move faster than the eye could follow but also fly was not going to have trouble catching up. He'd only passed a few storefronts when Jean-Paul was there, red-faced with simmering anger. He walked backwards in front of Bobby.
"You cannot destroy it!"
"It's not like it's a passport, Jean-Paul."
"It is a work of art!" A particularly agitated gesture accompanied this pronouncement and nearly hit a passing woman in the face. She cursed Jean-Paul in muttered Polish as she dodged by.
"Look, it's mine," Bobby said firmly. "I can do with it what I want -- which does not necessarily mean damaging it."
"Sell it to me."
"What? No!"
"What, yes! I do not trust you with it! How much did you pay for it?"
"None of your business!" Bobby retorted, turning sharply down another street. Jean-Paul darted in front of him again, stopping him with a hand on his chest. Bobby rolled his eyes and sighed.
"How much?" Jean-Paul demanded insistently.
"Nine hundred bucks."
Jean-Paul's mouth gaped, and Bobby ducked his head sheepishly.
"Yeah, I know, ridiculous, right?" He started walking again and Jean-Paul trailed after him. "I mean, Opal never sold a painting for more than three hundred or so, and actually I figure she just -- "
"Halt! Wait, stop, arrêt." Now Jean-Paul was waving one hand and pinching the bridge of his nose with the other. "Opal? The artist who painted that?"
"What other Opal could I mean?" Bobby asked impatiently.
"Do you know her?"
Bobby was the one to stop walking this time, and so Jean-Paul also stopped. Eventually he got tired of being stared at.
"Well?" he demanded, feeling vaguely relieved when Bobby blinked several times in rapid succession, since his eyes and begun to itch in sympathy.
"You mean -- You mean, you really don't know?"
"Know what?"
"I thought you knew!" Bobby began to look a little wild-eyed. "I thought you spent all that time looking at it because you recognized me!"
Jean-Paul choked such that it was a struggle to force out the words, "You mean you -- are --?"
"The guy in the painting. Yeah."
They stared at each other for a moment, processing, and then Bobby wordlessly turned and started walking down the sidewalk again.
"And I would know this, how?" Jean-Paul asked crossly. "It is not as though I have ever seen you from such an angle!"
"And whose fault is that?" Bobby shot back.
"What? What does that mean?"
Bobby was saved from having to answer that by a loud, "Oh, thank God!" and then Alison Blaire was walking with them. "You guys know where we're all meeting Warren, right?" she asked hopefully.
"It is close," Jean-Paul told her.
"Alison!" Bobby exclaimed admiringly. "Nice!" His gaze was directed at her hair, currently short and bright pink.
"Thanks!" She beamed, the waved a hand at what Bobby was carrying. "What's that?"
"A painting of Robert having sex," Jean-Paul said blandly.
"Ooohkay," Alison said as she and Bobby followed after him. She shot a look at Bobby. "So, what is it really?"
"That's what it really is," Bobby admitted with a squirm and a grimace of embarrassment.
Alison raised her eyebrows.
"Kinky. Where'd you get that?"
"Do you remember when I was dating Opal Tanaka?"
"Uh, was that the chick whose grandpa turned out to be a Yakuza boss?"
"Yeah," Bobby confirmed.
"Nope."
"What?" Bobby gave her a confused look as they caught up to where Jean-Paul was waiting outside the entrance of their destination building. "But -- oh, whatever. She was an artist, and she did this painting," he explained as he hit the button to open the door and motioned them through, continuing as they crossed the lobby, "I didn't even know she'd finished it, and then we walked into a coffeehouse, and there it was on the wall."
The three of them showed the receptionist their IDs and were issued building passes that would let them access the penthouse via the express elevator. Jean-Paul cast a rueful glance at the stairwell doors as they passed them -- it would be much swifter for him to take those, but pointless without the right key.
"So, you bought it?" Alison asked, picking up the conversation as they stepped into the elevator.
"Like I was gonna leave it there for anyone to see!" Bobby scoffed.
They fell silent as the ground fell away. Alison and Bobby watched out the glass wall as they zipped up, while Jean-Paul held his tongue simply because he'd learned more listening them than he had asking for himself. The elevator car slowed, and Alison turned a puckish smile on Bobby.
"So, where you gonna hang that, anyway?" she asked, wagging her eyebrows. There was as soft "ding!" and the doors opened.
Bobby rolled his eyes. "Don't you start," he told her, hitching the painting up and striking out into the hallway beyond. "Follow me, I know where the meeting room is." He led the way, juggling the painting to swipe his card and hold open doors. Alison was stifling giggles by the time they ran into Warren Worthington III and Natasha Romanova.
"Bobby!" said the latter, warmly, opening her arms to embrace him. He quickly set down the painting to accept the hug -- a hug which turned into an efficient frisking complete with hand-held scanner as she checked him for listening devices. Warren was doing the same with the other two, but it was Bobby who set the little machine off. He blinked in surprise as Natasha snipped off a button from his shirt and crushed it beneath her heel.
"He bugged me?" he asked as she ran another pass over him.
"I warned you," Warren said with a grin. "I hope that package isn't his present."
"It's not, believe me," Bobby said. Natasha patted his shoulder affectionately.
"You're clean now. Go on in. The only one left to arrive is Simon."
"Actually, Warren," Bobby hefted the painting again, "is there someplace I could stow this until the meeting's done?"
"Sure, give it here. I'll stick it in my office." Bobby handed it over, and Warren flicked a wing towards a double set of wooded doors. "Conference room's in there. I'll be back in a sec."
Jean-Paul had his arms crossed and was shaking his head both at the security for this meeting and the evidence that it was necessary. Alison was watching them both with a sort of suppressed evil glee.
"Right," Bobby said, clapping his hands together as he approached the doors. "Shall we?"
"Aww!" Alison cooed. "That's so cute, Bobby. Will you pull out his chair, too?"
Bobby hissed at her wordlessly, face reddening.
"What?" Jean-Paul looked between them, confused.
"Oh, nothing," Alison said airily. "I just think it's sweet the way he always holds the door open for you." She took the door in question from Bobby and slipped into the room beyond, leaving the two men standing outside in awkward silence.
Jean-Paul cast his mind back, realising that yes, now that it had been pointed out, it was strange that Bobby had consistently held open the door even when he had his hands full; he'd been doing it before he bought the painting, and in fact, thinking back, for a number of days at the very least. From the flush and the guilty way he was looking anywhere but at Jean-Paul, it was obviously deliberate.
"I do not need you to hold the door for me, Robert," Jean-Paul said. It came out sounding a bit stiff.
"I know," Bobby replied quietly, "but, you want me to." At Jean-Paul's incredulous noise, he elaborated: "You're definitely fast enough to get in front of me if you wanna do it for yourself, but you haven't, so... I figured you must like it."
Jean-Paul couldn't think of anything to say to this, so he changed the topic.
"I... I must apologise for my behaviour, regarding the painting..."
"It's okay."
"I was very rude --"
"It's cool, Jean-Paul. Really, consider it forgotten." Bobby smiled hopefully.
Jean-Paul smiled back. Then he held open the door for Bobby.
Inside the conference room, full of faces both familiar and not, Alison had somehow arranged for there to be two seats available together. Bobby shot her a wicked smile, and then ostentatiously seated Jean-Paul, eliciting a few chuckles. Moments later, Warren and Natasha returned with Simon Williams, and the First Planning Meeting for the Organization of Henry McCoy's Birthday Bash was called to order.
If Bobby was wondering if he could get away with giving the painting to Jean-Paul as a gift, well, it was only natural to be thinking ahead.
Con-crit, comments, and spelling corrections welcome. Cross-posted to
speedsicle.![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-29 12:22 pm (UTC)Hmmm... interesting point about Jean-Paul being able to get to the door first, yet not doing so. Bobby is very good at observing people, when he bothers to pay attention.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-29 09:08 pm (UTC)Bobby has no intention of letting him see that painting.
Bobby is better at observing people when he cares about them, for the most part. He's usually pretty swift when it comes to Hank, for example*, and he knew Jean liked Scott before Scott knew. Also, while it's possible that his insistence that he could tell Darkstar returned his attraction was the result of wishful thinking, it actually reads more likely to me that she was attracted, but wasn't emotionally ready for a new relationship. </pet theory>
So he'd observe Jean-Paul if he was, y'know, observing him for other reasons. ;3
* completely ignoring the completely daft storyline where Beast was replaced by his AoA counterpart who, yes, dyed his fur to better match, but that shouldn't have worked because he was older than him. He was thrown back at least a decade from the equivalent time in the main continuity when he arrived, frex Emma met him when she was sixteen. I'd really like to think people would notice that. B| *mutters at Marvel*
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-29 11:04 pm (UTC)Hank had been acting pretty weird and obsessive in the weeks before the replacement, so Dark Beast's mistakes were taken as Hank going off the rails from overwork...
and there is some evidence that Hank is going to age *very* slowly. Even with the 20-year age difference, it might not have been noticeable with clues like fine wrinkles hidden under fur.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-29 11:26 pm (UTC)Very good point about wrinkles being hard to spot on him, but aging slowly... Hm. That won't be pleasant if most of his friends don't enjoy the same benefit, although I suppose he can always hang out with Simon (who is apparently immortal now, poor guy).
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-30 12:44 am (UTC)Well, the Here Comes Tomorrow storyline was set something like 150 years in the future. Wolverine wasn't visible that different from himself in the present, but Hank (well, possessed!Hank) had turned white from age. He was still physically hale, because he could fight hand-to-hand, but it was visible aging -- his healing factor is of a lesser strength than Wolverine's, but he was pretty damned athletic for someone in his 180s...
Of course, Here Comes Tomorrow is another point in the "we do not ever want Hank McCoy to become a supervillian" chart. Dark Beast is bad enough but at least you can deal with him by giving him unlimited lab space. Sublime/The Beast was about succeed at destroying all higher lifeforms on the planet -- with 'higher' being anything other than bacteria.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-30 12:57 am (UTC)I have never heard of Here Comes Tomorrow before. O.O But yeah -- Hank as a bad guy is a bad bad thing.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-30 01:26 am (UTC)Here Comes Tomorrow (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Here_Comes_Tomorrow) was the last four issues of Morrison's run on X-men. There were parts of it that were cracktastically bad, but mostly it was a flash-forward to a world where Hank had become possessed by Sublime, the sentient bacterial lifeform that *hates* just about every other lifeform on the planet.
The plot involved possessed!Hank and his hideous clone army (clones mixed from other X-men, so you had clones that could teleport, shoot eye-beams *and* duplicated themselves all at the same time) trying to find the Phoenix Egg while the current X-men (Wolverine, the Cuckoos, some others) tried to find it before he did. Most of the X-men died horribly at the end when the Beast arrived on the battlefield and started slaughtering them *himself*, instead of letting his clone army do it. In the end, it came down to the Phoenix, and the humanity of Jean Grey.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-07-01 10:41 am (UTC)I think you've just nailed down one of his key character points there.
Oyyyy... I am never reading Here Comes Tomorrow.