Current mood:	happy
Current music:	Barenaked Ladies-- E2E album

shedding irony, chapter two
SHEDDING IRONY

CHAPTER SUMMARY: Jean-Paul talks to Shan, and hummus is eaten. Then Bobby talks to some other people, and soup is eaten. Finally, Bobby and Jean-Paul talk, but Twinkies are not eaten. Additionally, there's a plot.

This part is like the small print on the medicine bottle. You have every right to skip it and click the cut-link.

DISCLAIMER: First and foremost, the X-men and their groupies belong to Marvel Comics, and I, as an insignificant fan, have no claim on them whatsoever. I merely entertain myself by writing works of fanfiction, and ask for no monetary compensation. Though if Marvel wished to offer me a job I would have no objections. Song lyrics used to preface segments are also the property of their respective artists, and I hold no claim to them either. Finally, characters used from the fallen_chips RPG are property of their muns, and I am merely borrowing them. Thanks, guys.

AUDIENCE: The rating of this fic is PG-13 unless otherwise indicated. As I believe that age is mental, I'm not going to go Nazi about age limits, but one must make the decision as to whether or not they are mature enough to handle the subject matter on their own. Readers are to note that most fics involving Northstar include slash (that is, homosexuality) in one form or another, and those squicked by that idea shouldn't be reading about him in the first place. Also, as this story features grown-up superheroes, there may be violence and language. Now that I'm done bragging about the naughty things that make my fic interesting, I do hope you'll enjoy.


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Chapter Two
-A Little Work Done-

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Usually, Jean-Paul preferred to take his meals alone, and away from peak hours. The briefing, however, had left him no alternative but to eat when everyone else did, so instead of eating in the dining hall, he found himself in the kitchen. All the better, he decided. He'd seen the lasagna they were serving and most of what was left was the end pieces, the kind that had blackened at the edges after spending too much time in an aluminum baking pan. Besides, Jean-Paul was never really fond of the quickly made pseudo-Italian mess that Americans enjoyed so much anyway.

The kitchen was also extremely quiet, save for the fat Buddha of a refrigerator, which let out a meditative hum as it poised itself on the linoleum floor. Another might have been led into personifying the fridge as a being so peaceful it would have been a crime to desecrate it. But Jean-Paul, as usual, knew nothing sacred and threw open the door. He wasn't in the mood to make anything from scratch, so he surveyed the Tupperware in case there were any rare, welcoming gems among the leftovers. Some of the items were labled and therefore untouchable, such as a tub of Spaghetti-Os tersely Post-it Noted "MINE" in Bobby's handwriting, or a fancy piece of chocolate cheesecake accompanied by a brief epistle in Emma's refined cursive. Having no interest in junk food or desserts, Jean-Paul continued his search, eventually coming across an unlabled container of hummus. There was pita bread on top of the fridge to accompany it, so he decided that a small vegetarian meal wouldn't hurt, especially since it was only lunchtime.

He'd just gotten the butter knife out of its usual kitchen drawer when a greeting in French called him out of his thoughts-- not his own Quebecois French, but the foreign dialect of one of the former Southeast Asian colonies. When he looked up, he was unsurprised but not disappointed to see Karma, the former New Mutant and a fellow teacher at Xavier's. Jean-Paul found her company refreshing on the occasions where so much as seeing one of his teammates might force him into an act of violence. Of all the things Jean-Paul had in common with Shan, the best was probably their language, and the fact that they didn't have to resort to English while speaking.

< It's good to see that the hummus is not going to waste, > Shan commented. < I picked it up at the store a week ago in hopes that people would eat it. Are you well, Jean-Paul? >

< As much as can be expected, > he said in response. < The students-- they are anxious for another holiday break, and that of course makes them harder to teach. But all things considered, it's nothing unusual. >

< My French students are the same way. > Shan reached for the pita bread when Jean-Paul looked finished with it, intent on making her own sandwich. < They can't seem to get it through their heads that if they are going to learn a language, they're going to have to learn all of the tenses as well. Some of my students are putting up all kinds of uneccessary resistance to using their brains. >

< The teenage capacity for resisting brain use never ceases to amaze me, > said Jean-Paul cynically. He knew he wasn't one to talk; his teenage years were hardly typical ones, where he'd struggled to survive on the streets, dealt with his awakening identity as a gay mutant, and worked for the liberation of Quebec. However, he couldn't help being annoyed to find that the student in the back of the classroom had drifted off to sleep yet again, or that the two girls to his right were discussing nail polish and not the textbook reading as he had asked them to. < There are Friday afternoons where they ask far more silly questions than stimulating ones. > He lost his deadpan intonation as he mocked the tones of his students. < 'Mr. Beaubier, can we watch a video?' 'Mr. Beaubier, when are we going to have a field trip?' 'Mr. Beaubier, do you have to lecture today?' >

Shan let show a small half-smile and shook her head. She'd obviously experienced the exact same questions in the past, and couldn't help but add another that bothered her. < 'Mademoiselle Manh, do you have a girlfriend yet?' > She sighed. < It's not so much the question itself that's offensive as the lack of sincerity behind it. If circumstances were... different, they might not have such an interest in my personal affairs. You hardly see them pestering Warren Worthington about his dates with Paige Guthrie. >

< I can't say the equivalent has been asked of me, but I can see where it would become bothersome, > admitted Jean-Paul.

< What's your secret? >

< Being mean. > When Shan raised her eyebrow quizzically at Jean-Paul, he thought it necessary to explain himself further. < Fear inspires discipline more than love, or so I'm told. And at this point the students merely assume that I am unattached because I'm an arrogant bastard. > He paused, contemplating his previous statement with a wry smile. < They may be right, too. >

< I suppose you can be proud of that, if you wish. > Shan's voice hung somewhere in limbo between disturbed and amused as she assumed a seat at the kitchen table. < Your legendary arrogance made an appearance at today's meeting, if what I heard from Worthington in the hallway was true. >

Jean-Paul rolled his eyes. < Apparently, news doesn't even travel fast in this school; it just pops into the heads of those living here the instant it becomes news. >

Shan bit her lip, then answered. < Sorry, that was a bad lead-in. What I meant to say was, Warren told me that you weren't going on the Seattle mission, and he asked if I wanted to replace you. I told him I'd have to consider it, after hearing the details of the mission. He said you were concerned about the politics? >

< That's correct. I don't want the press thinking I'm pursuing my own agenda by leading this mission. >

< Which should hardly be an issue now that Bobby Drake's taken up leadership," said Shan. "I'll be honest, Jean-Paul. I think you should go. >

"Pourquoi?" Though he knew his inclination was illogical, something about hearing the argument in his native language made Jean-Paul more willing to listen to it. Perhaps it was the fact that French generally sounded more laid-back than American English, never venturing too far up and down the scale, or lending itself to as many sporadic outbursts. In addition, with the American dialect producing such ludicrous colloquialisms as "dude" and "whatever", it was hard to take any of its speakers seriously.

< To put it simply, they'll need you, > answered Shan. < It's just a matter of preparedness, like giving people first aid training. There's a risk of medical injury on any mission, so we train the students to deal with that. Likewise, this mission may deal with homophobic prejudices, so your knowledge might be of value to them. >

< My knowledge is in the field of business, > countered Jean-Paul. < That is, after all, what I came to teach. I did not sign on to the Xavier's faculty as a guidance counselor. >

< They're not asking you to become a guidance counselor, > said Shan. < They just want your experience. Correct me if I'm wrong, but didn't Xavier hire you because of what you've lived through, as well? >

Jean-Paul nodded stiffly, remembering the exchange between himself and the Professor a few months ago. Xavier's dream included a diverse teaching staff that would expose his students to all forms of lifestyles, including those labeled as "alternative." Though Jean-Paul had his suspicions that he never would have been offered the position at Xavier's if he were straight, it was Xavier's use of the phrase "role model" that caught his attention and eventually made him accept the job. Said phrase called up the memories of two people in particular-- Belmonde and Joanne. One, the man who changed Jean-Paul's own life so dramatically, and the other, a mere baby whose life Jean-Paul would have been willing to change, if he'd only had the chance.

And so he felt Shan was right when she said, < There's an activist in you somewhere. Otherwise you never would have written Born Normal. > She stood, moving to wash her plate and glass in the sink. < Don't think of yourself as the token gay man, but just as someone with experiences that are useful for this particular mission. It would be the same if they asked you to work on a mission that involved the stock market. >

< I'm still considering it. > Jean-Paul stared down into the glass of ice water he'd poured himself, his cynicism and his idealism caught in a dialogue over what to do next.

< If you decide not to go after all, > began Shan. < I won't blame you. I understand why you took offense in the first place. However, I will volunteer myself to replace you. There is one condition, of course. You'll have to teach my French classes in my absence. > She ran a hand through her hair, musing aloud over the other minutiae of her hypothetical departure. < I'll still need a sitter for Nga and Leong though... Kitty Pryde's looked out for them in the past, but I don't know how available she'll be. Dani, perhaps... unless, Jean-Paul, you've suddenly developed an affinity for dealing with small, extremely inquisitive children. >

Shan's joke brought Jean-Paul's mental debate to a close. < You're right; perhaps it is best that I go on this mission after all. > In response to Shan's laugh, he pretended to assume a defensive tone. < I made this decision soundly and seriously. It wasn't just Leong and Nga that led me to my final conclusion, but also the prospect of having to teach your morning French classes. >

< Suit yourself, > said Shan. < You'll still have to put up with taking orders from Bobby Drake. >

Jean-Paul wondered for a moment if there was a hint of irony in Shan's voice, and was almost ready to track down Emma-- or more predictibly, Annie-- to see if either had let anything slip they weren't supposed to. Then, he mentally kicked himself. This paranoia had to stop; if anything, it would only reveal his... well, what? His trivial affection?

Trivial indeed.

-----

Though Jean-Paul could list a fair number of disadvantages that came with being in the X-men, he did have to admit that the private jet aspect was a perk. His experiences with commercial airlines-- though few, as flight was often provided by his mutation-- had not been pleasant. They'd been littered with the antics of screaming infants, extremely vocal born-again Christians, and other unpleasant types, including one teenage couple who seemed to be conducting experiments on just how far the male tongue could be shoved down the female esophagus without triggering the gag reflex.

To keep himself occupied, there were the New York Times crosswords, which were good mental exercise despite the fact that they made him feel just a bit too yuppiefied. Five hours later, they arrived in Seattle, where they were picked up by a man who introduced himself as Sandra McClellan's brother, Algernon.

"She's back at the shop," he explained to them. "It's closed because they don't want to risk another attack."

The drive to Java Superior was less pleasant than the jet ride, if only because traffic made it last longer than it should have. Jubilee seemed the most affected, to the point that she went through a whole pack of bubblegum and nearly paffed the lock off the car door. When they reached the coffee shop itself, Jean-Paul perceived that while it certainly wasn't in the best part of the city, the street it was on was cleaner than most. Java Superior itself would have appeared spic and span, were it not for the shattered window in the front. The remnants of glass left hinted that it had once been painted with brightly colored DNA strand designs. JAVA SUPERIOR: SERVING EVERY LINK ON THE EVOLUTIONARY CHAIN boasted the sign above the door. Below it hung a smaller, apologetic looking Closed.

In spite of that, the bell on the door gave a laughing little ding as Algernon unlocked it for the X-men and they made their way into the shop. A humming redheaded girl, who looked as if she contained the potential energy of a tiny rubber superball, swept up the last of the glass on the floor. While the dimpled smile that crossed her face did not look unaccustomed to being there-- indeed, she gave off such an air of one who smiled constantly-- it did look rather forced today, as if the girl were trying to distract herself from current affairs. Upon sensing the entry of newcomers into the shop, she raised her curly head and bounced to meet them in a fashion most akin to Winnie-the-Pooh's Tigger.

"Are you the away team sent by the X-men?" she queried in a motherly tone that went up and down the scale. "Oh, you must be starved after that long plane ride. Do allow me to get you something to eat; Sandra told me to go on home but once I heard you were coming I simply insisted on staying here. I've been baking all day for you so there's got to be something you'll eat..." Her lip quivered all of a sudden, and she looked at them with wide, worried eyes. "Unless one of you has dietary restrictions I didn't know about. Oh, I should have called ahead and found out! What if one of you is lactose intolerant? I'll end up mortifying myself, in front of the X-men..."

Bobby, never one to turn down a damsel in distress, provided the appropriate chivalrous and courtly answer.

"Huh? Food? Yeah, Jubes and I'll take care of that." He waved a hand idly at his other associate. "Jean-Paul's got some dietary restrictions, though; he only eats the roasted flesh of his business students."

The redhead looked almost convinced, save for a slight twitch at the corner of her mouth. "Cannibalism, Mr. Beaubier? And you a world-renowned author and Olympic medalist..."

Jean-Paul decided to play along with the joke, however inane it might be. "...only the students who cheat on their exams."

"I take it they've finally shown up, Cordy?" spoke up a voice from the back of the room. It was a woman in her mid-thirties, sporting casual business attire that no wrinkle dared cross. Her posture, straight as a lightning rod, was also indicative of a professional nature. Only the dancing eyes and welcoming grin spoke of her friendliness, but these seemed sufficient enough to get the message across. She approached the X-men, meeting each with a firm handshake. "I'm Sandra McClellan. Thank you for showing up so promptly. It's... been quite a day."

There wasn't any doubt that relief crossed her voice in the last few words, but it was not the usual breathy cry for help that the one in the superhero vocation was used to. Ms. McClellan did not carry herself as a victim, and were it not for the broken glass on the floor, Jean-Paul might have assumed she merely wanted to make a social alliance with the X-men, and not a call for their aid. There was evidence of her telekinesis as four chairs slid out from under a table, one by one. "Have a seat," she said. "Cordy's very eager to get you refreshments, as she hasn't been able to serve customers all day."

"I do hope you all like alphabet soup," Cordy added as she ushered them into their seats. "It's not just for babies, you know."

When they were all situated around the table, there was a silent pause as the X-men exchanged glances. The silence was broken by another deliberate smack of Jubilee's gum. When Jean-Paul coughed discreetly in Bobby's direction, Bobby was reminded as to who exactly had volunteered to lead the mission, and oh yeah, that person was the one who made corny puns while freezing things and looking incredibly dashing in blue sunglasses, correct?

"So. Introductions," he began. "I'm Bobby Drake, this is Jean-Paul Beaubier, and she's--"

"Jubilee," interjected Jubes, never one to go by her given name.

"Right, Jubilee. Anyway," Bobby continued. "I know we only look like a small slice of the X-men pie for now, but that's because we're mainly in the investigative stage of the mission. If you feel we'll need more people for whatever reason-- acting as bodyguards, taking out anti-mutant groups, moving furniture-- I can call in for reinforcements at any time. For now, though, we're going to be... finding information, mostly."

Sandra nodded. "I understand. It's probably best that you keep a low profile anyway, so we don't become more of a target. Both for terrorist groups and the media."

Out of the corner of his eye, Bobby could see that Jean-Paul agreed by the way that his fingers twitched at the word "media." In all fairness, Jean-Paul had dealt with the press more than his fellow superheroes, especially now that he was both in free-speech worshipping America and out of the closet. Though Bobby had never been a favorite of the sensationalist newscasters himself, he knew from observing Hank and Warren's experiences that it wasn't pleasant.

"We're currently trying to think of organizations in the area that might be behind the incidents," said Bobby. "I'm sure you're aware of some yourself--"

"As a matter of fact, we anticipated you might ask that question," said Sandra, standing up to pull a packet of papers from a nearby counter. "Well, one of our employees, Robin, did. He's a bit of a 'net whiz, so he was on his laptop instantly, and put together print-outs from all the local anti-mutant groups' websites. Rode over on his yellow bike in the middle of the afternoon to deliver this when he heard you were coming. Not quite keeping the low profile I mentioned before, but very enthusiastic. Here's the information he collected, if you think you'll be needing it." Laughing, she handed the packet over to Bobby.

Before Bobby could utter a "Thanks", Jubilee snatched a few of the pages from his hands and read them aloud in a tone mocking infomercials. "'Kids; here's how you tell if your friend is a mutant. One. Do they have an unusual hair color such as purple, blue, or green?'" She switched back to her normal voice, toying with a pink plastic earring. "You know, that could just mean that Hot Topic is making far too much money off your friend. And this comment about animalistic characteristics, further down the list? Maybe your friend is just some desperate anime fan who tries to look like their favorite character by wearing cat-ear headbands all the time." When no one was able to contemplate her teen mallrat English, she threw her hands in the air. "What can I say? I don't rule out the other options."

Jean-Paul, as always, moved the conversation back in a sane direction. "Do we expect to question the employees, Drake?"

"Yeah, Warren wanted me to do that," replied Bobby. "We'd need to know who was present this morning, and at the concert..."

Cordy, coming in with the soup, was the one who supplied a (perhaps too) helpful answer this time. "Oh, I was there this morning, and at the concert last night. Ben and I were selling the band's T-shirts and CDs. That's right, you'll have to meet Ben, I mean not only is he an Unfashionable DNA groupie like me but he's Jake's boyfriend and they are simply adorable. You'll want to talk to the other band members too, I suppose, Fran and Kris and Austin and Jimmy. Jamie-- that's Jimmy's little sister-- she was with me and Ben, so you might want to speak with her. And then there's those of us on the morning shift. That's me-- I practically live here. And the Jays, who are twins named Jules and Julia, which is why we call them the Jays if that makes any sense. If I remember correctly, Ed was there too... Ed might seem mean at first but I can assure you that she must be an absolute dear somewhere under that stormy exterior. She's a poet, you know, so she must have a sensitive side, I'm sure of it."

"All these details aside," said Jean-Paul a bit condescendingly, when he was able to get a word in edgewise. "Should we wait to speak with them in the shop, or would it be best to reach them at their home addresses?"

"I can provide you with their contact information, if you need it," offered Sandra. "I'm sure they won't mind, as they mostly know you're here."

"That'll be just fine." As the leader, Bobby was the one with ultimate decision power. "Are you planning on opening the shop tomorrow morning?"

"I think I'll keep it closed for another day, to be safe," Sandra mused. "But not for any longer than that. I don't want the Philistines that did this to think their brutal little tactics worked. We've had threats in the past and overcome them before. I am not moving this shop again."

"Oh!" Cordy gave out a small cry. "Oh I nearly forgot! That one boy-- the one from the college who's always here, oh who did he say he was--" She snapped her fingers, and finally came up with a name. "Brentom! That's it. Well he sits over there at that table very often, studying his biology, likes the things with a lot of sugar. And he always engages in such pleasant conversation with the loveliest jokes. He's here so often that you should really talk to him too. It might be a good idea anyway, to at least meet him. If you can find him."

After they'd established their agenda, Cordy brought a plate of cookies out and the conversation transformed itself into a combination of small-talk and the history of Java Superior. Despite the fact that the coffee shop's story was not as grand and exciting as that of the Xavier Institute, Sandra's eagerness to explain her business made up for the lack of world-saving and monster-battling.

She'd actually started her first coffee shop near Xavier's itself, in the heart of New York City. What had brought her down that particular time was not so much a fear of mutants, but competition from other businesses. The anti-mutant sentiment manifested when she tried to set up shop in a suburb of Atlanta. Besides that, as a Massachusetts native, Sandra confessed to feeling like an out-of-place Yankee when down South. The third Java Superior was situated smack down in the middle of the East Coast, in Baltimore, Maryland, but milder combinations of the factors that had caused the previous two shops to fail led it to the same fate.

Her brother Algernon was the one who suggested she move to Seattle, and just two years ago Sandra established the fourth and final Java Superior next door to his printing business. The number of high school- and college-aged mutants in the area provided a good labor base, and finally Sandra's dream was realized.

Later on that evening, Bobby wondered about his own circumstances. Were things different, he might have become a coffee-serving mutant himself. However, he reminded himself, it was too late to wish for normalcy now.

-----

It was a well-known fact around Xavier's that Mr. Drake's student advisory meetings included pizza, and many of the other adult staff members theorized that it had something to do with his ability to manipulate funds in his position as school accountant. They couldn't be more wrong; not only were Bobby's pizza parties funded by his own income and a sprinkling of student donations, but his accounting only gave him insight as to where money was going, and not influence over it. When it came to money for missions, it was ultimately Warren who decided how that budget worked, and despite his grandiose personal spending he was less willing to splurge on his away team. As Bobby filed the accounts on his laptop, he wondered if paying for an extra hotel room would be all that much of a dent in their finances.

All things considered, there were probably worse roommates than Jean-Paul. He was neat within his own space and not so picky about Bobby's corner of the room. And though he prefaced the following with a sarcastic jab about Bobby's mental age, he did let him take the bed closest to the television set and the window. The shaky part of the whole affair, Bobby decided, was not that Jean-Paul would annoy him but that he would annoy Jean-Paul. The disdainful look from the latter when Bobby placed his Star Wars toothbrush on the bathroom counter was enough to make his blood run colder than usual. Bobby had explained that the item was a gag gift from Hank, forgetting that bringing up his best friend in the presence of Jean-Paul was also a no-no.

There was always something intense about the steely blue of Jean-Paul's eyes, giving them a look of quiet but limited tolerance. At some point, this tolerance would run out, and then, Bobby suspected, would Jean-Paul snap and exact his vengeance. That's why he'd insisted that Bobby take the bed nearest the window, right? When the Star Wars toothbrush got to be too much, it would be far easier for Jean-Paul to toss him down twelve stories onto the concrete. Bobby imagined he'd make a splat sort of noise as he hit the ground and pancaked into a paper-thin mess, like one of Bugs Bunny's fallen adversaries.

Cartooned visions of his untimely death aside, Bobby knew the real reason that his rooming assignment was making him anxious. The memory of Annie's declaration, though clouded slightly by the haze of alcohol and loneliness that had absorbed Bobby at the time, illustrated the issue all too clearly. Northstar is gay, didn't you know?

There was no better way to drill it into Bobby's brain than hearing it from Annie. She had a voice like one of those dubbed-over Japanimation girls, high-pitched and not always pleasant but perfect for reinforcing that kind of information. So Northstar was gay, what now? Was it supposed to change things? All Bobby could conclude was that it gave him an uneasy twist in his stomach-- figurative caterpillars, perhaps, if one could assume that the proverbial stomach butterflies had any young to speak of.

He didn't want it to be homophobia, because the last thing he wanted was to become his dad. If William Drake wasn't criticizing the latest of Bobby's girlfriends, he was suspicious as to just why Bobby hadn't found a girl to settle down with yet. He'd raised Bobby to be a man, he said, why wouldn't Bobby act like one and throw away the faggoty sunglasses?

Homophobia. It was so irrational, anyway. Bobby had no fear that Jean-Paul would crawl into his bed in the middle of the night-- hell, Jean-Paul not only had a sense of dignity, but there was no indication that he was even attracted to Bobby in that way. The feeling in Bobby's stomach wasn't fear, it was just... caterpillars.

"Are you quite finished?" As if the thought could summon the man, Jean-Paul was at Bobby's shoulder, focused on the laptop screen in front of him. Column after column of dollars and cents together formed the Xavier's budget. All the numbers were beginning to exhaust Bobby, and he raised his hand to rub his now heavy eyelids.

"As much as I can be. Good god, it's after midnight on the East Coast, isn't it?" His other hand flew up to cover a yawn, and he was suddenly very conscious of his outward appearance. A good five minutes had gone by in which he hadn't even been moving the mouse. That must have been when he was spacing out about... had Jean-Paul caught on? Was that what had caused him to speak up? The very idea was absurd, as Jean-Paul was no telepath, and Bobby was ready to bang his head against the table for thinking such a thing. He knew, however, that this would only look more suspicious.

If Jean-Paul did suspect, he didn't show it. "You still need to set up an agenda for tomorrow, don't you?"

"Tomorrow?" Bobby let his voice follow the sporadic patterns of his thoughts. "Tomorrow can wait until... tomorrow. Or at least I used to think so in high school, when I did my English homework in the school library right before class. I liked that, because there was this girl there that I used to have a crush on. She had really shiny hair, like on a shampoo commercial, but when I told her that, her boyfriend beat me up and took my lunch money..."

"So would you rather I sell this embarrassing secret on eBay, or just stay quiet?" Jean-Paul said before Bobby could utter another word.

"eBay's a good place; I got my MP3 player there," Bobby stopped, and shook his head as if it would unscramble the contents of his brain. The last thing he wanted was to blurt out some odd paragraph born of his lack of sleep and his heterosexual male defense mechanisms, if it wasn't already too late. "What the hell did I just say?"

"Do I have to use small words, Drake?" Jean-Paul's palm met his forehead. "What are we going to do tomorrow?"

"Sorry, my attention span's been--" Bobby paused, suddenly overcome by the need for a Twinkie. There was nothing like the taste of fake sponge cake and over-sugary frosting to... totally drag one's mind from the matter at hand. "--nonexistent. Anyway, tomorrow? We begin questioning in the morning while Jubilee looks at the anti-mutant activity information and watches over the shop. We'll meet back at Java Superior around one or two in the afternoon and see if we can put together who's responsible for the attacks. From there, we'll pursue the best course of action to neutralize the threat. Then we go home. The formula's simple-- find, slay, party. It worked for Buffy and it's going to work for us."

"I'm thrilled."

"Yes, Jean-Paul, we all know of your amazing love for the world and its human beings."

"I express it daily, in show-stopping musical numbers."

"While tap-dancing?"

"Precisely." Jean-Paul moved to the other side of the room, unplugging his own laptop and replacing it with the charger for his cell phone. "Drake, go to bed. I fear your stupidity may be catching."

Bobby closed his accounting program, only to find that one of his e-mail files was still open. All that paperwork... even superheroing had become a bureaucracy. "I've still got to send this report off to Warren. He told me that if he didn't find it in his inbox by tomorrow morning he'd torch all of my Barenaked Ladies CDs."

"Punishment and reward," observed Jean-Paul. "You'd think Worthington was training a dog."

"'m used to it." Bobby closed off the subject before it could evolve. Jean-Paul was probably accustomed to Bobby's role as the comic relief by now; it was no use throwing down the laughing mask in favor of a more serious one. In the silence that followed, though, Bobby could see that the damage had already been done. He'd made his way into that lonely, attention-starved mood where he was prone to doing stupid things. Here he was, slowly beginning to manifest his bitter side, and he was stuck with the man contending for the title of Planet's Most Unsympathetic.

Between face-stretching yawns, he struggled to think of the final sentences for his report. Formal writing had never been Bobby's strong point, and conclusions were his Achilles heel. Anything he tacked onto the end of the paper seemed to be carbon-copied from the top in a trite mockery of his topic sentence. Finally, as the intervals between the words grew greater, he placed his head in his hands. Nights were never a good time for him anyway, especially when it came to working. "Damn it all. I need sleep."

The comment wasn't directed towards Jean-Paul, more towards a Warren that was peacefully slumbering on the other side of the country, but Jean-Paul was the only one present to respond. "Is another paragraph really going to be such a problem?"

"At this rate, if I try and write it, it's going to end up being about snack food or Jubes's Gameboy." Bobby raised his head and looked back over his shoulder in the direction of his temporary roommate. "Remind me again why I volunteered to lead this mission?"

The irritation in Jean-Paul's tone was expected; the words themselves, however, were not. "I'll finish it."

Bobby tried his best to prevent himself from doing the dumb, slack-jawed stare. "...You're kidding."

"I'm serious," stated Jean-Paul. "Warren needs the report. If you stay up any later, putting up with you in the morning is going to be hell. While you might not have to deal with yourself, the rest of us will. I am doing this for the sake of the majority."

Bobby couldn't help noticing that Jean-Paul was venturing off into Vulcan territory again. "The needs of the many outweigh the needs of the few," he quoted, feeling himself grinning. "I get it."

"I have no idea what you're talking about," said Jean-Paul. "And don't think you can always get out of work like this. I refuse to help you again, especially since you spent most of the time this evening playing computer solitaire."

Still completely taken aback by Jean-Paul's offer to be... yes, helpful, Bobby stood, leaving his laptop on the desk. "Just remember to shut down the computer," he instructed, making his way back to his bed. He was already wearing the old clothes he slept in regularly, so kicking off his shoes and diving under the covers took no extra effort. "And is there any chance you could turn the light off?"

"As someone who is decidedly not your mother, I won't insist on a 'please'." Jean-Paul reached up to flick the light switch, and the room was covered in darkness. Now the only illumination came from the laptop screen, in front of which Jean-Paul was poised and completely focused on the report. For a moment, Jean-Paul's pale skin seemed to reflect back the laptop light, and glow faintly. It reminded Bobby of the phosphorescent star stickers his six-year-old self had placed on his bedroom ceiling after a visit to the planetarium.

Bobby thought for a moment that if he knew anything about photography, he might be able to explain what he saw. Right at that moment, Jean-Paul's form relied entirely on the interplay of light and shadow, stark contrasts to be captured on the stillness of film. In his traditional role as the fool, though, Bobby tried to make his points through contrasting serious thought and laughter. He couldn't deny that he'd had laughs at Jean-Paul's expense, couldn't even deny that more often now their laughter could be a shared activity-- but in that single instant it hit him that Jean-Paul could also inspire thought. Here was a man creating more questions than answers, more curiosity than apathy. Despite his past railing against newcomers, Bobby suddenly-- just as suddenly as he'd been overcome by his desire for a Twinkie, but with more of a serious slant-- wanted to know just what made Jean-Paul Beaubier tick.

He couldn't quite justify this desire, and told himself it had something to do with the darkness. You noticed things more in the dark, maybe because you mostly couldn't see them clearly. Shapes that you assumed were there during the day became bigger, or more jagged, or slipperier in texture so that they'd be all too easy to lose. You could take things for granted in the light; you could take them to different levels in the darkness.

Before he could get lost in a sea of questions, it occurred to him that he had an obligation to at least be polite to Jean-Paul for finishing his work. "Thanks," he uttered, muffled somewhat by his pillow. The only response he got was a machine-gun barrage of typing, courtesy of Jean-Paul's superspeed.

The sound wasn't all that loud, but it was sharp and consistent enough that Bobby blamed it for keeping him awake. When the typing subsided and Jean-Paul shut down the laptop, he was still staring into his pillow, newer feelings of nervous insomnia combating his ultimate need for sleep. The latter won over the former in the end, though, and pure exhaustion suppressed his autonomic nervous system enough to allow him a few hours of rest.

After that, he was able to wake in the morning with a cleared mind, as well as a fresh sampling of stupid jokes with which to annoy the rest of the world. In their eyes, at least, he couldn't stay bitter for long.


ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Once again, a special thanks to my lovely betas-- that's th3newblack on continuity, strangepowers on grammar and spelling, and alfirin_kirinki on general t00by goodness. But I think strangepowers deserves a special mention this time around, as not only did she put up with my communist inability to capitalize brand names, but she also so graciously let me use Cordy, who's her baby in reality.

Thanks to my readers, but most especially thoughtthestars and whambamglambam, whose perfect balance of nagging and patience forced me to get this chapter up before the next ice age. Also, to ladyjaida, who... well, damn, she's practically my muse.

A big thanks to the twin_one community, whose constant insight regarding the character of Northstar is always a super help.

On the scale of more famous entities, I'd like to thank Rufus Wainwright, the Barenaked Ladies, and soundtrack writer Rachel Portman for providing the background music that I always use for writing. I also would like to thank Marvel Comics, who regularly put out such Absolute Crap that it inspires me to go the other route, and provide my fellow fans with stories involving characterization, conflict, and just the tiniest bit of adorable manlove. Yes, Marvel, that's right. Thanks for making me look better.

And now if you'll excuse me, I have to gush over the fact that I'm going to Rufus's concert tonight.