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Down Under	By : DrunkenScotsman Category: X-Men - Animated Series (all) > Het - Male/Female Views: 6656 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own any of the various incarnations of the X-Men, or any characters appearing in any of their titles appearing herein. I make no money writing this.

Chapter List
- 9
- 10
- 11
Chapter 10: Defying Gravity

Writing poetry proved even more difficult that Jean had anticipated. Even with an early start – early for a vacation, anyway – it took her nearly all day. She agonized over word choice; she fretted over line breaks; she meditated on her message. Granted, she assured herself during a late bout of writer’s block, I haven’t written anything like this in years.

Unfortunately, her libido rendered the writing process even tougher by distracting her all day. Moist from the moment she awakened, she’d managed to soak her panty-liner by mid-afternoon, forcing her to replace it. Lounging about in naught but her thong due to the heat – whether external or internal – Jean resisted the omnipresent urge to sate herself, despite the insistent throbbing of her privates.

I can’t remember the last time I felt this aroused, she marveled. St. John must have ignited my sex drive and put it into high gear. Jean licked her lips and shivered at the memory of his touch. But… where do I go from here?

After informing the fourth young female barfly that he was, in fact, waiting for someone else to occupy the other empty seat at his table, St. John idly swirled the glass of Riesling he’d poured from the bottle he’d ordered. A glance at his watch showed only seven-twenty, but he fretted nonetheless. All day his thoughts had dwelt on the rather enigmatic redhead he’d spent yesterday with.

Sounds like she’s been through a lot, he mused, used and abused in a time when she needed an anchor. From the way she talked, she’d just lost her anchor. Shame, really – wish I’d been able to help sooner.

He smiled tightly to himself. I’m here now, and I think I’m helping now. She’s almost ready to trust again, and I won’t abuse it.

His reverie was interrupted by Jean’s playful voice: “Excuse me, sir, but is this seat taken?” When he looked up at her, a flirty smirk played on her lips. His practiced eye also noted her rather brief shorts and tight-fitting navy tanktop – a tantalizing outfit, even though he’d seen practically everything last night. Naughty bits but not tits, he recalled.

Suddenly, an image of her lying topless on her bed, as seen from her hotel-room mirror flashed across his mind’s eye. There, Jean teased telepathically, you’ve now seen everything I have. The image faded.

St. John laughed it off. ‘Sorry, you weren’t supposed to hear that. Thanks for the view, though.’

Jean slid smoothly into the seat at the table. “I signed up to read, but I think I’m towards the bottom of the list,” she told him while examining the bottle on the table. “I might need a glass or two before my turn,” she added softly, as if to herself.

‘I bought it to share. Have at.’

Without further ado, she poured herself a glass.

The MC introduced himself and thanked the assembled crowd – running the gamut from pretentious teenagers to older aesthetes, but weighted overall towards what St. John called the ‘uni crowd’ – for their attendance. He introduced the first reader, and kept his presence to a minimum between readers. Jean guessed that the MC had been shanghaied into his duty, given his general lack of enthusiasm and charisma; she further speculated that he was probably a line cook or some such – someone who needed extra hours but had minimal people skills.

As the first reader, a young lady with a slew of piercings in various parts of her face, began an ‘interpretation’ of Sylvia Plath, Jean considered how necessary her wine would become as the night wore on. By the fourth reader, an older man with a half-dozen odes to his cats, Jean had finished her first glass and had poured a second. After the tenth, a nine-to-fiver with a monotone voice and high poetic aspirations, Jean actually wondered if they shouldn’t order a second bottle.

‘I sure as hell hope you’re up soon, Jean,’ St. John grumbled after the twelfth reader. ‘I doubt I can weather any more cliché storms.’

Jean giggled. “You mean ‘A Celebration of Coffee’ wasn’t a sign of the next Shelley?”

‘More like a sign of incoming artillery shells,’ St. John replied, rubbing his temples. ‘The uni crowd’s poems are better, but this has to be the worst reading I’ve ever been to in my career.’

Biting her lip, Jean winced. “I don’t think mine can possibly salvage the night.”

‘Bad is better than awful,’ kidded St. John. Jean dignified his remark with a scathing mock-glare.

The MC called Jean’s name next. “Lucky number thirteen – that’s a good omen,” she grumbled, eliciting a chuckle from St. John. She fished her slip of paper out of her purse and, with a brave smile to her companion, approached the clearing that served as the stage. En route, she enjoyed St. John’s enjoyment of her legs and rear, so she exaggerated the sway of her hips to tease him. By the time she reached the microphone, her nerves had melted away.

“I won’t bore you with the how and the why that made this poem happen,” she told the crowd, “but I do want to dedicate this poem to my friend. You know who you are.” Jean looked up and smiled at St. John, who winked and gave her a thumbs-up.

“Identity

Wife against adulteress,
Mind against heart,
Hero against villain
Against the girl who just wants to go home –
The contested field is me.

Girl, adulteress, wife,
Hero, villain, friend:
I am all of these;
I am none of these.

Venus has many faces –
Creator, lover, ideal woman –
But none are hers.
I have none,
And all are mine.

I draw each and discard.
What’s left?
What remains, when masks hide nothing?

I am legion,
For I am many.

I am dead;
All I am has slain me.

I am reborn,
Alive to become once more.”

To Jean’s lasting surprise, the applause for her poem sounded a bit more spirited and less perfunctory than the applause for previous readers. Beaming with pride, she retook her seat. She inhaled the deepest, cleanest breath she’d taken since…

Well, since I temporarily stopped breathing permanently, she realized, suppressing a laugh at the oxymoron. Oxymoron – that word sure defines my life lately. In fact, I probably should’ve named my poem that.

Once she’d gotten settled, St. John leaned toward her and murmured, ‘Best poem I’ve heard tonight.’ Jean shot him another playful glare, prompting him to append ‘By leagues.’

“Still, that’s not saying much,” she responded with a wry smile before finishing another glass of wine. “The Riesling was a good call, by the by.”

St. John chuckled. ‘Nothing helps bad poetry go down smooth like good booze.’ To emphasize his point, he pushed his glass away from him; Jean’s puzzled expression prompted him to explain, ‘Yours was more than good enough not to need a drop.’ He favored her with a charming smile.

Blushing profusely, Jean smiled back. A single finger skated along the lip of her glass. The alcohol hadn’t helped her libido problem; in fact, her yearning seemed even more pronounced now than it had been earlier. Rubbing and squeezing her thighs together only produced a surge of desire.

‘You alright, Jean?’ came St. John’s voice, full of concern. ‘Do I need to cut you off?’

Making eye contact solidified her decision. “Let’s get out of here, St. John,” she replied. “Poetry’s not, um, what I’m in the mood for anymore.”

The Aussie pursed his lips. If I’m reading the signals right, he thought, then I need to handle this delicately. ‘Maybe I should walk you back to your hotel,’ he suggested.

“Not what I had in mind,” she retorted, shaking her head. Barely enough of her self-restraint remained for her to resist showing what, exactly, was on her mind. He’ll find out soon enough anyway, Jean told herself giddily. “You’re very sweet, St. John, not wanting to take advantage of me,” she told him, “but I’ve actually been considering this all day, when I wasn’t at all impaired in my judgment.”

St. John chuckled at his companion’s surprising coherence while buzzed. ‘If you’re sure, Jean, then we’ll go back to my flat.’ That said, he rose and offered his arm. Grinning at the gallant gesture, Jean took his offer, and with linked arms they left the pub.

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A/N: Sorry for the wait on this chapter, everyone. Summer heat + new phase of life + laziness = lack of desire to write. I really had to sit down and make myself write this chapter, but hopefully that's not too apparent from the quality. If so, I apologize.

I don't apologize for Jean's poem - if you think it's bad, bear in mind that it's not supposed to be good. If you think it's good, may God have mercy on your soul. :D

To Daye: Your point, from your last review, is taken, but not where I wanted to go w/ this fic. (It's enough of a crack pairing as-is!) Sorry if the last chapter, or this one, kills your interest.
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