More "A Gentleman Never Tells"
Aug. 11th, 2005 01:47 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
eliyesOnly about four pages, this time. Sloggy morning Jean-Paul perving on Bobby!
Jean-Paul woke up with a start, sitting up in bed. He could feel the pull of sleep still, blurring his vision and making him feel heavy, but he refused to go back to that dream. He stared at the clock for what felt like forever before the numbers came into focus.
Only fifteen minutes before the alarm went off. At least that meant he’d gotten a full night’s sleep.
Jean-Paul was not a morning person, a fact which might come as a surprise to those who saw him in the mornings. Yes, he usually became alert quickly, but that was because he could speed through the grogginess. In truth, he was cranky and had trouble thinking clearly when he woke up. It was worse this morning, because he’d had to fight his way to consciousness, had to escape the dream which still overlay his perceptions of reality, so that he was half-expecting there to be vicious Nordic monsters in a cold, stony cavern to be there when he opened his bedroom door.
Fortunately, there was only the lodge’s living room.
Bathroom. Coffee.
He was too muzzy to notice the light reflecting on tendrils of steam creeping out from under the bathroom door. He put his hand on the doorknob, turned it and pulled, already moving forward. It sprung open, pushed from the other side, and Jean-Paul collided heavily with somebody.
Instinct propelled him to move faster still, taking an inhumanly rapid step back. He stared at the man he’d run into. His brain provided him with an identification.
Robert Drake. Iceman. Bobby.
For what felt like a very long moment, he struggled to think of why Bobby would be in his bathroom , having obviously been in the shower. His light brown hair was wet, slicked back. He had a towel wrapped around his waist.
I didn’t --
Jean-Paul watched as Bobby reeled back in slow motion, face contorting into an expression of pain and surprise. He watched him taking a step back to steady himself, bring his arms up to grab the door frame.
He watched the towel slip towards the floor, like an agonizing striptease.
He was just awake enough to note a few of those scars he’d wondered about, and muse that there really was a world of difference between seeing Bobby clad in spandex or encased in ice, and seeing him nude.
Ah yes, he remembered, as the towel passed Bobby’s knees, and the American got a firm grip on the doorframe. We are on a ski trip.
With some regret, he switched to the same speed Bobby operated on, running a hand over his face and murmuring an apology.
“No problem,” Bobby said, rubbing his jaw and beginning to bend to retrieve his towel. Jean-Paul slipped back into watching him move in slow motion, admiring the way the early morning light sparkled in the droplets of water clinging to Bobby’s hair... and other things... It was too good an opportunity to pass up.
Besides, it was certainly helping him wake up.
...Although it wasn’t doing much for killing his attraction. He watched an expression of very mild embarrassment form on Bobby’s face, and idly wondered what the other man thought of having such boyish features. No wonder those college girls had thought him young enough to proposition.
He realised Bobby was speaking, and with another pang of regret, readjusted his speed to match him once more.
“-ope I didn’t wake you.”
Jean-Paul waved this concern away.
“Non. I would have woken. Je ne -- euh, pardon. I do not sleep well.”
“Oh?” Bobby looked like he wanted to pursue the matter, but Jean-Paul glanced past him into the bathroom with a pathetic look and a subtle jiggle. Bobby took pity and got out of the way.
* * *
By the time Bobby was dried, dressed, and stepping into the kitchen, Jean-Paul had also dressed and was making coffee.
Bobby leveled an evaluating gaze at him. He didn’t look tired, really, but his face had an ageless, unlined quality at the worst of times. Perhaps there was a touch more shadow around his eyes, a bit more tension in his pursed lips. In fact, he was suspiciously expressionless. He measured cream into a mug with steady hands.
Nope. Don’t buy it.
Bobby went for the fridge. It was his turn to cook today, so he might as well get started on breakfast.
“Omelettes okay?” he asked.
“Oui.”
“Anything you don’t like in your omelettes?”
“Fish.”
“Ew. Don’t worry. Toast, too?”
“Oui, merci - er. Yes, please.” Jean-Paul glanced at him. “I have a high metabolism. Make a lot.”
“Mm-hm.” Bobby bent over to inspect the contents of the fridge, starting to take things out and set them on the counter.
“How many sausages would you like?”
When he didn’t get an answer, Bobby peeked over the top of the fridge door. Jean-Paul was staring at him with a puzzled frown. Bobby raised his eyebrows.
“Jean-Paul?”
“Oh! Seven or eight.”
“Are you alright?”
“Yes. I am fine.”
“Still not quite awake, huh?”
“Oui, c’est ça.”
Bobby watched him pause, and then open his mouth to translate again. He held up a hand to forestall him.
“It’s okay, I understand French.”
“You do?” Jean-Paul’s eyebrows shot up, and he blinked a few times in rapid succession.
Surprised him three times in one morning. He must have had a helluva night.
“Yeah, Early on, the professor put a few languages in our heads he thought would be useful.”
“And you let him?” Incredulous look.
Bobby shrugged. “Beats Mrs. Clarretty’s fourth grade Spanish class.”
“Hn. Well, so long as you did not learn from Lebeau. Coffee?”
“Yes, please.” Bobby began cutting veggies, and stuck the sausages in the microwave to thaw.
“I have picked up a few colourful phrases from Remy, I’m sure. Mostly I understand French better than I can speak it.”
Jean-Paul set a mug of coffee by Bobby’s elbow, and he flashed Jean-Paul a grateful smile, which seemed to surprise him again. Bobby watched him out of corner of his eye, as he sat at the table, sipping his coffee and watching Bobby make breakfast.
“I hope it wasn’t me snoring that made it hard to sleep.”
“I had the walls sound-proofed.”
“My reputation precedes me!” He chuckled.
“Mm? No, I have sensitive hearing.”
Jean-Paul woke up with a start, sitting up in bed. He could feel the pull of sleep still, blurring his vision and making him feel heavy, but he refused to go back to that dream. He stared at the clock for what felt like forever before the numbers came into focus.
Only fifteen minutes before the alarm went off. At least that meant he’d gotten a full night’s sleep.
Jean-Paul was not a morning person, a fact which might come as a surprise to those who saw him in the mornings. Yes, he usually became alert quickly, but that was because he could speed through the grogginess. In truth, he was cranky and had trouble thinking clearly when he woke up. It was worse this morning, because he’d had to fight his way to consciousness, had to escape the dream which still overlay his perceptions of reality, so that he was half-expecting there to be vicious Nordic monsters in a cold, stony cavern to be there when he opened his bedroom door.
Fortunately, there was only the lodge’s living room.
Bathroom. Coffee.
He was too muzzy to notice the light reflecting on tendrils of steam creeping out from under the bathroom door. He put his hand on the doorknob, turned it and pulled, already moving forward. It sprung open, pushed from the other side, and Jean-Paul collided heavily with somebody.
Instinct propelled him to move faster still, taking an inhumanly rapid step back. He stared at the man he’d run into. His brain provided him with an identification.
Robert Drake. Iceman. Bobby.
For what felt like a very long moment, he struggled to think of why Bobby would be in his bathroom , having obviously been in the shower. His light brown hair was wet, slicked back. He had a towel wrapped around his waist.
I didn’t --
Jean-Paul watched as Bobby reeled back in slow motion, face contorting into an expression of pain and surprise. He watched him taking a step back to steady himself, bring his arms up to grab the door frame.
He watched the towel slip towards the floor, like an agonizing striptease.
He was just awake enough to note a few of those scars he’d wondered about, and muse that there really was a world of difference between seeing Bobby clad in spandex or encased in ice, and seeing him nude.
Ah yes, he remembered, as the towel passed Bobby’s knees, and the American got a firm grip on the doorframe. We are on a ski trip.
With some regret, he switched to the same speed Bobby operated on, running a hand over his face and murmuring an apology.
“No problem,” Bobby said, rubbing his jaw and beginning to bend to retrieve his towel. Jean-Paul slipped back into watching him move in slow motion, admiring the way the early morning light sparkled in the droplets of water clinging to Bobby’s hair... and other things... It was too good an opportunity to pass up.
Besides, it was certainly helping him wake up.
...Although it wasn’t doing much for killing his attraction. He watched an expression of very mild embarrassment form on Bobby’s face, and idly wondered what the other man thought of having such boyish features. No wonder those college girls had thought him young enough to proposition.
He realised Bobby was speaking, and with another pang of regret, readjusted his speed to match him once more.
“-ope I didn’t wake you.”
Jean-Paul waved this concern away.
“Non. I would have woken. Je ne -- euh, pardon. I do not sleep well.”
“Oh?” Bobby looked like he wanted to pursue the matter, but Jean-Paul glanced past him into the bathroom with a pathetic look and a subtle jiggle. Bobby took pity and got out of the way.
* * *
By the time Bobby was dried, dressed, and stepping into the kitchen, Jean-Paul had also dressed and was making coffee.
Bobby leveled an evaluating gaze at him. He didn’t look tired, really, but his face had an ageless, unlined quality at the worst of times. Perhaps there was a touch more shadow around his eyes, a bit more tension in his pursed lips. In fact, he was suspiciously expressionless. He measured cream into a mug with steady hands.
Nope. Don’t buy it.
Bobby went for the fridge. It was his turn to cook today, so he might as well get started on breakfast.
“Omelettes okay?” he asked.
“Oui.”
“Anything you don’t like in your omelettes?”
“Fish.”
“Ew. Don’t worry. Toast, too?”
“Oui, merci - er. Yes, please.” Jean-Paul glanced at him. “I have a high metabolism. Make a lot.”
“Mm-hm.” Bobby bent over to inspect the contents of the fridge, starting to take things out and set them on the counter.
“How many sausages would you like?”
When he didn’t get an answer, Bobby peeked over the top of the fridge door. Jean-Paul was staring at him with a puzzled frown. Bobby raised his eyebrows.
“Jean-Paul?”
“Oh! Seven or eight.”
“Are you alright?”
“Yes. I am fine.”
“Still not quite awake, huh?”
“Oui, c’est ça.”
Bobby watched him pause, and then open his mouth to translate again. He held up a hand to forestall him.
“It’s okay, I understand French.”
“You do?” Jean-Paul’s eyebrows shot up, and he blinked a few times in rapid succession.
Surprised him three times in one morning. He must have had a helluva night.
“Yeah, Early on, the professor put a few languages in our heads he thought would be useful.”
“And you let him?” Incredulous look.
Bobby shrugged. “Beats Mrs. Clarretty’s fourth grade Spanish class.”
“Hn. Well, so long as you did not learn from Lebeau. Coffee?”
“Yes, please.” Bobby began cutting veggies, and stuck the sausages in the microwave to thaw.
“I have picked up a few colourful phrases from Remy, I’m sure. Mostly I understand French better than I can speak it.”
Jean-Paul set a mug of coffee by Bobby’s elbow, and he flashed Jean-Paul a grateful smile, which seemed to surprise him again. Bobby watched him out of corner of his eye, as he sat at the table, sipping his coffee and watching Bobby make breakfast.
“I hope it wasn’t me snoring that made it hard to sleep.”
“I had the walls sound-proofed.”
“My reputation precedes me!” He chuckled.
“Mm? No, I have sensitive hearing.”
![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-07 10:29 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-07 10:57 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-07 10:58 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-07 11:07 pm (UTC)----------------
Suddenly, Jean-Paul sat up straighter with an astonished expression on his face. He stabbed his fork into a sausage and tossed his napkin on the table, all while pinning Bobby with a look that bordered on accusing. Bobby slowed his chewing, confused and curious.
"You!" Jean-Paul said, propping his fists on his hips on the other side of the kitchen island. "That is a bullet scar on your arm!"
----------------
...which would be fine, except that Bobby got that particular wound in a timeline that was later made not to have happened. This is what happens when I work from information on the internet instead of the actual comics.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-07 11:08 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-07 11:27 pm (UTC)I can't believe I made the mistake of having steam, when in the previous section I mentioned twice that Bobby doesn't do the hot water thing. *multiple headwallings*
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-07 11:28 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-07 11:31 pm (UTC)...Interesting logic. I dunno. I think a nice cold soak invigorates him, really. Maybe it's a different kind of steam, because the air outside the bathroom is warmer. I'll figure it out.
The reason why I didn't post past this, other than realising that I wanted rework it, is that I didn't know how to get them from breakfast to the next scene I knew would happen, which is dinner out.
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-07 11:32 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-07 11:49 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-07 11:50 pm (UTC)(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-08 12:59 am (UTC)Come on, get vague
Let your body move without thinking
Come on, get vague
Let your IQ drop while you bop
(no subject)
Date: 2008-06-08 12:59 am (UTC)