another Bobby/Jean-Paul fic to be beta-ed

[eliyes]

I am un-locking this, because it has been posted to speedsicle, the Northstar/Iceman comm.

Title: Faux Pas


Nobody in the mansion actually witnessed it when the fight started, because it started at a restaurant in Manhattan. However, the general gist of things was soon apparent to those who noticed Jean-Paul arrive back alone and lurk inside the doors, because the fight picked up again as soon as Bobby walked in. First, he gave Jean-Paul a disbelieving and somewhat murderous look. Then he slammed the door loud enough that people started poking their heads out to see what was going on.

“I cannot believe you,” Bobby said through clenched teeth.

Jean-Paul threw his arms wide.

“What did I do?” he demanded. “Why are you so angry? I've done nothing wrong!”

Bobby pinched the bridge of his nose with a short, humourless laugh, his other hand in a fist on his hip.

“Nothing wrong. Nothing wrong? Jean-Paul, you got the waiter's number while I was paying the bill!” He flung his hand as though tossing this bit of evidence on the floor.

“He was attractive!” Jean-Paul protested. “And is it not like I asked for it!”

“You took it! I don't care if he's a freakin' Adonis, you don't accept a guy's number when you're there with me! God, what a slimeball thing to do!”

“Well, it's not a though we were on a date,” Jean-Paul said testily, crossing his arms.

Bobby's response to this statement was to stare at Jean-Paul in incredulous silence. The various onlookers could see the moment Jean-Paul realised that yes, they had, in fact, been on a date. It showed in the way his spine straightened and his arms slackened. Bobby – the only one positioned to actually see Jean-Paul's face – recognised it, too, prompting him to windmill his arms and practically dance in a circle. This display vented enough of his emotion to allow him to speak, which he did with heavy sarcasm.

“No, Jean-Paul, of course it wasn't a date. I buy my friends expensive dinners at trendy date restaurants because I'm such a swell guy. You asshole.”

Someone up in the balcony let loose a low whistle (quickly shushed); it wasn't often Bobby actually swore. Faced with this completely unexpected revelation, Jean-Paul could only come up with one defense: the terrible truth.

“I thought... that you are straight?”

This time Bobby's incredulous look was at least as resigned as it was angry.

“Yeah. Right.” He walked past Jean-Paul and started up the stairs. He paused when Jean-Paul called after him, but didn't look back.

“No. Just – stop. I don't want to talk to you right now,” he said, and continued up at a jog. Jean-Paul stared after him, confused, as the various spectators made their exits.

So it stood.

For about five minutes.

Those five minutes were all Jean-Paul needed to recover and restoke the fire of his indignation with this new fuel. He was being unfairly accused, here, and in the space of a blink, he was upstairs, pounding on Bobby's door.

“Bobby! Bobby!”

“Go. Away.” A creak of springs as Bobby threw himself down onto his bed.

“Bobby, I must talk with you. Please let me in.”

Silence.

“No? Fine, I will say this to the door,” he said, a little too sharply. Swallowing back his wounded pride, he continued in a more contrite tone.

“I apologise for my behaviour at the restaurant. Had I known you considered it to be a date, I would never have accepted the waiter's phone number.” He couldn't help it, he banged his fist again on the door in frustration. “But you must believe me, I didn't know!”

“That's bull, that's bull, that's a load of crap and you know it!” Bobby shouted. Jean-Paul could hear him get up and charge at the door – but it remained closed.

“I'm telling the truth!” Jean-Paul shouted back. “You never asked me for a date, you just – ”

“I asked, 'Can I take you out to dinner'! That is asking you for a date!”

“I didn't realise! I thought you had no interest in me!”

When the door opened, Jean-Paul was unprepared. He'd expected it to happen, but not so soon, and he's expected Bobby to stand there and holler at him some more, not throw a snowball at him and slam the door shut. Bobby's aim was good and the face full of snow yanked an undignified noise of outrage from Jean-Paul.

Silence fell over them like a shroud. Jean-Paul wiped the melting mass from his face with deliberate care, trying to rein in his temper lest he carry out one of the luridly gory scenarios occurring to him, the very next time that accursed door opened. He slicked back his hair, brushed off his shirt front, and drew himself to his full height with an insulted sniff. His face tingled from the cold.

He heard the thud as Bobby leaned against the door, and then the voice from the other side.

“You know, I'm really pissed off in here. I don't care about the frigging waiter, not when you can say you didn't think I was interested and sound like you mean it.”

“I mean it,” Jean-Paul muttered.

“How could you not know?” Bobby asked, distress and confusion flooding his voice. “Where did I go wrong here? Explain that to me. I mean, I've been flirting with you since you got here. You flirted back some, so I asked you out, you said yes. I thought. Where did our signals get crossed?”

Jean-Paul felt his anger start to slip away. He sighed, stepped forward, and leaned against the door. He imagined he could feel Bobby there, just on the other side of a few centimeters of wood, leaning into him.

“Je ne sais pas,” he sighed. “Every time I thought I got a sign that you might be attracted to me, I got a countersign.”

“Such as...?”

“You seem to flirt indiscriminately, for one. I thought it was just... banter. I've gotten the two confused before, in the other direction, to my sorrow.”

“Don't compare me to Langkowski,” Bobby said, and Jean-Paul lifted his head momentarily, surprised to be so quickly understood.

“I'll try not to. You have very little in common, really.”

“Trust me, most straight guys don't call other guys 'sexy' or 'handsome' as much as I do you. What I don't get is, even if you thought I wasn't interested in you, how did you not see that I like guys? Heck, most of my friends knew before I did – most people guess when they meet me! – so I figure I must be pretty obvious.”

“My gaydar is broken.”

“Oh, please,” he said with a snort, clearly unimpressed with this argument.

“Annie suggested that you might just not know you liked men.”

“Not know? She thought I could get to my age and not know?”

“Others have done it,” Jean-Paul pointed out dryly. “I myself have always known, but my foster father, Raymonde, had two children before he realised his inclination.”

“Before he admitted it to himself, you mean.” Bobby's voice was bitter with knowledge. “Yeah, well, I'll just be telling Miss Annie a thing or two.” he paused. “She was telling you to go for it?”

“ 'Go for it' may even be an exact quote.”

“And you didn't because...?”

“I was erroneously convinced of your heterosexuality.”

“Huh. And here I thought you were an intelligent guy. You know, in addition to looking like sex on a stick.”

“Can we start over?” Jean-Paul asked impulsively. “If I hadn't been so blind, I would have asked you out ages ago.”

“That depends,” Bobby said, after a pause.

“On?”

“On whether or not you'll concede to some ground rules. First: serial monogamy is my thing. If we're a thing, we're exclusive. Period.”

“Fine. I really wouldn't have taken his phone number, you know.”

“Good. Second: no friends or relatives of mine try to kill you, and none of yours try to off me.”

“Why in the name of God – ”

“It's come up.”

“Fine, yes. ...Er. The last time I saw me sister, she tried to kill me. I will try to stop her, but...”

“Okay, fair enough. At least I'm forewarned.”

“If I may? Third: don't turn into a woman on me.”

“Amen. I have this ex – well anyway, it seems unlikely. Why is only our first rule at all normal?”

“I imagine we'll come up with more later.”

“Probably.”

“So, Bobby...”

A pause for a heartbeat, and then Bobby smiled at the tone of Jean-Paul's voice.

“Yeah, handsome?”

Jean-Paul smiled into the door.

“Would you go out on a date with me?”

“Sure. When?”

“When is good for you?”

“Hmm. Friday? Or Saturday. I have Sunday dinner with my folks this week, barring emergencies.” He rapped his knuckles on the door for luck.

“What would you like to do? See a movie?”

“Oh yes, because sitting in the dark not talking is exactly what we need to do. No. Dancing.”

“Dancing?” Jean-Paul tried to picture that.

“At a jazz club. Live jazz. Dinner first.”

“I can see I have some homework to do. Find a jazz club for dancing,” he pretended to write on the door as he spoke. “And a nice restaurant where the waiters don't try to steal customers' dates.”

Bobby chuckled.

“It really won't be that hard in NYC. I promise.”

“Good. So, will that be our first date, or was this?” He waited while Bobby considered the matter.

“I'm not sure,” the answer came at last. “Why?”

Jean-Paul shifted, moving closer to the doorknob.

“Well, you see, I am a strong believer in ending dates in the traditional way.”

A shorter pause, and then the door opened just enough to show Bobby's hopeful face peering up at him.

“You'd better mean what I think you mean.”

“Un baiser du 'bon nuit',” Jean-Paul murmured, leaning in. “A good-night kiss.”

Bobby opened the door a little wider.

“I suppose this could be our first date.”

As their lips met, a muted cheer arose from just around the corner of the hall, and Bobby smiled against Jean-Paul's mouth and pulled him closer.