DISCLAIMER: Marvel. Yo.
NOTES: This is all about Lise. 'Cause, jeez, I still haven't answered her very sweet letter-- but here is this.
This is a sequel to the story "Sunrise", which can be found-- I don't know, somewhere.
DATE: April, 2000.
Du Jour
Things change. Yeah.
Everything changes. Jobs change, faces change, names change. Even that pie cart that used to sit next to the window has moved to the other side of the register, and that damn lemon meringue never tastes the same way twice. People change. Situations change. Duties. Socks. Feelings. They all twist and subvert.
Rather, they rotate, like the earth. Except, we're so close to it, we don't feel the change until we look up and the sky is nothing we recognize. Or until it stops rotating, with a bone-jarring crack, maybe in some out-of-the-way diner, in some out-of-the-way booth-- and some out-of-the-way Cajun roiling smokily over out-of-the-way metaphors while perusing the beat-up menu. But that'll change, too. Years of ducking and running and repenting, coalescing into confusion and frustration and X-Men in space-- might as well be the soup of the day. Beef onion today. Guild leader tomorrow. Whatever.
And suddenly, something else changes. Something slides into the booth across from me, snatching the menu from in front of me and holding its hand up to forestall any kind of dramatic reaction it thinks I might have.
Some Pete Wisdom thing.
I open my mouth, but he cuts me off. "Yeah, we're suprised, let's move on."
A wry smile twists my lips. I slip off the sunglasses, just to make sure that it's not a trick of the light-- the sunshine reflecting off the table surface in the pattern of a bored-looking Englishman in a careless black suit. Sure enough, no trick-- he's there, sprawled across the seat, looking around at the small diner with what might be a grimace or a smirk, or both.
I ask, "How'd you know I'd be here?"
He shakes his head, glancing down disinterestedly at the menu. "Didn't. But, you know what they say-- hang around in a cafe in New York long enough, yeh'll wind up meeting every American."
"Try de club melt," I say, nodding at the beat-up piece of lamentation in his hands. "Do dey really say dat?"
"How the fuck do I know what they say? Hey." He signals at the waitress walking by. "I'll take a club melt." She gives him a dirty look, but turns to me anyway. "De same f'me, t'anks."
As the waitress bustles away, he looks at me. He says mildly, "Your hair's shorter."
"T'ings change."
Now, that, there . . that's definitely a grimace. "Indeed."
I push my glass of coke across the table to him, and the ice inside clinks musically. He takes a slow draw from the straw... we sit in relative silence. It stretches across the minutes, but we're both seasoned at acting casual in any situation, and it feels comfortable.
Finally, though, he lets his hand fall onto the table with a loud clap. "Fine, then," he huffs, irritated, "I'll ask. How are things?"
"T'ings?" I ask innocently.
"Yeah. Things." He looks at me hard for a long moment, and then his eyes narrow. "How's Kitty?"
I shrug. "She's good. Went t'ru some space ordeal, or somet'in' . . but she's good. An' so're Nightcrawler and Colossus-- if y'interested, Pete."
Something crosses over his eyes then, a minute suprise, or even disappointment, before hardening. His sweet smile doesn't reach his eyes, and isn't meant to look sincere. "Good. How's Rogue?"
I think for a moment here. It doesn't make any sense for me to be angry at him, but I am. I'm angry because he looks just the same, sounds just the same, holds his cigarette just the same-- and how dare he, when he has undoubtedly changed as much as everything else has. And come here, just to rub my face in it. I open my mouth to say something saccharine and hurtful.
"Two melts, sweetie."That's not what I say. That's what the waitress says as the plops two plates in front of me, along with another coke. I push one of the plates over to Pete.
And, suddenly, I'm just tired. I think, let him change. Let them change. Let pie change. Just right now, I'm not in the damn mood to do so myself, and I'm not going to. I sigh.
"I wouldn' know. She won' talk t'me."
His unsmile falls away. "Why?"
"Not sure," I shrug, as I prod my sandwich sulkily with my fork, "she t'inks I'm ignorin' my responsibilities t'de X-Men. She's a leader o'de X-Men now, did y'hear 'bout dat?"
He shakes his head, making an admirable effort to hide his smirk.
"Yeah," I say, "So'm I."
He fails, then, and his face splits into a laugh. He holds up his hands apologetically. "I'm sorry, mate . . but that's rather a jump, isn't it, from Cyclops to you?" He drops his hands and his face quiets. "Unless things've changed."
Unless I've changed, he means to say. I grin. "Nah. Not really."
Pete takes a bite of his sandwich, hiding his smile. I likewise take a bite of mine, not hiding anything in particular. I swallow, and begin again. "About Kitty . . " He looks up. "She really is doin' fine. She's goin' back t'school." He continues chewing. "M'not sure what she's studyin' . . but she seems t'have a plan for herself." I take a sip from my coke. "She's been talkin' 'bout--"
"Whatever. You want a blow job?"
Oddly enough, I don't choke on my drink. I swallow it hard, and look slowly up into his face, which is deceptively mild, with amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Dat's romantic."
"Well," he shrugs, and smiles a charming smile I didn't know he was capable of, "Either you do or you don't." He tilts his head and leans forward, like he's going to kiss me; but of course he doesn't. Instead he murmurs, "So do you?"
Across the room, I signal for the check.
Outside, it's cold. It's cold, like nighttime on a balcony in Scotland. I feel the thrill of familiarity-- or the familiar thrill, whatever-- and so does he, but we say nothing. I turn at the edge of the building into a long alley, and I hear him snicker behind me. I stop and look up at the slit of night sky between the looming brick surrounding us.
His arms come around me from behind, zeroing in on my belt and the hem of my jeans. He doesn't fumble-- Pete Wisdom doesn't do that. His head leans heavily against my shoulder as the mettalic scrape of the zipper rips through the silent dark of the alley. I sigh, but it comes out as a slight hum.
My hand reaches back and drives into his dark hair as he slips into my jeans. Already incredible warmth, already, already-- wrapping around me, sending tendrils of physical memory spiraling outward from his hands on me and his mouth against my neck. And, of course, it doesn't take long. It was two years ago. The flow of life does strange things to you. Beef onion today. The jutting buck of my hips.
Then, spinning, the tight press of his body behind me replaced by cold brick, and him dropping down, taking me in, no fumbling. I push my head back, arching off the wall, eyes and hands clenching. "Pete!" He withdraws sharply, then leans forward to whisper softly, "Nah, cher. Y'can do better than that."
On second thought, maybe names don't change.
"Jack," I gasp, heated breath smoking in the cold air, "Jack, sacre mere." And, of course, it doesn't take long. I come into his mouth, and he takes everything I have to give. It doesn't matter who we are or who we aren't, or what has or hasn't happened. There is this. Long, long shudder.
We both collapse heavily onto the ground, leaning against the wall, breathing hard. After a few moments, Jack draws something out of his pocket, a pack of cigarettes-- he takes one, and then offers the pack to me. I shake my head and murmur apologetically, "Act'ly, I'm tryin' to quit." He rolls his eyes, but I know what he's thinking.
Yeah. Things change.
I grin. "Whatever. You wan' a blow job?"
end