Adult-FanFiction.org : Marvel 'Verse

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
- 2
- 3
- 4
Chapter 3: Emerald City

Nearly an hour – a blessedly memory-free hour – passed before Jean stepped out of the shower. She’d washed herself three times before realizing that scrubbing her skin raw would not rid her of the uncleanness she felt clinging to her. It’s all in your mind, Red, she assured herself firmly, hoping that using Scott’s nickname for her might substitute for the man himself, her constant and steadfast anchor from whose confidence she could draw strength. You just need time to heal before the horror fades.

Part of her, though, wondered if it was even possible to recover from this ordeal.

She caught sight of herself in the mirror as she dried off. Jean determined not to turn away when she made eye contact with her reflection. To her surprise, she saw in her viridian soul-windows a deep well of resilience, the part of herself that refused to yield to anyone or anything – not the M’Kraan Crystal, not D’Ken, not even the Phoenix herself.

You will be all right, Jean Grey.

For the first time since she could readily recall, she smiled – a small, fragile smile, but a smile nonetheless.

Hair and body wrapped in towels to dry, Jean leafed through the brochures and flyers she’d brought from the lobby, attempting to decide what to see – and, perhaps more importantly, how much to see while keeping the vacation relaxing. Her memories of childhood vacations indicated that the Grey family had had less fun when trying to do too much. According to one of the brochures, Sydney was the “New York of the Southern Hemisphere”, meaning that the city offered myriad entertainments, ranging from beaches to pubs to parks to the world-renowned Opera House and Harbour Bridge.

Spreading the pamphlets across the hotel bed, Jean immediately ruled out the forts, as military history had never appealed to her. She also eliminated Bondi Beach and Manly Beach, figuring that Bondi might be too crowded for her tastes and Manly too distant (“only 30 minutes by ferry,” or so the brochure claimed). After much consideration – to the tune of fifteen minutes of chewing her lip thoughtfully – she decided against both zoos, since they seemed huge enough to warrant several days each.

The Australian Museum looked promising, with its “thought-provoking exhibits on natural history,” and even a limited-run presentation by a leading Australian geneticist on the “recent mutant phenomenon.” The Opera House was a must, in part because Beast had insisted she send him a postcard. Finally, the brochure for the Skywalk caught her eye with its “stunning view of the city” – a claim supported by the enclosed photos of the city alight after sunset.

Several of the other possibilities she marked as “maybe,” intending to sneak some of them in between main attractions. Collating all the activities onto a scrap of paper she’d brought for just this purpose took only a few minutes, morphing into a full-fledged itinerary with plenty of time for sight-seeing and necessary breaks and unnecessary breaks. Jean lounged against the head of the bed, on the verge of declaring “mission accomplished,” when she noticed one flyer had stuck to the back of another. Curious, she peeled the pages apart to see what she’d missed.

The light-tan paper was emblazoned with the logo for the Crying Crocodile pub – the eponymous reptile’s head in profile, a single tear hanging from the outer corner of its eye – along with the announcement that one of Sydney’s most renowned poets, St. John Allerdyce, would be reading tomorrow night. Jean noted the time and address and saw that she’d not planned anything that would conflict. She added “Allerdyce reading, Crying Crocodile, 8pm” to her itinerary, brushing aside a vague tickle at the back of her mind, a tickle without discernible origin or meaning.

A glance at the clock showed the night still young. Refreshed from her nap, Jean had no intention of staying in her hotel room, bored. Even after all she’d been through – perhaps because of all she’d been through – Jean wanted to do something that would grant her some normalcy. “What would a young single woman do in a large city at night?” she wondered aloud.

The red-haired mutant stood and paced around her room, thinking. As a teenager she’d been rather bookish, less concerned with the social swirl of high school than with achieving the best GPA and the title of valedictorian to go with it. She began toweling her hair, with a flash of inspiration asking herself: “What would Jubilee do?”

Once she put it into that frame of reference, the answer came to her readily: “Clubbing. Jubilee would probably hit the nightclubs, using a fake ID, unless she stuck with the teen clubs. Fortunately, I won’t have to make that choice.”

Jean finished drying her still-damp hair while selecting her outfit for the evening. She settled on her cocktail-length black number with her ruby peep-toe heels. Boy, am I glad I packed these after all! she thought as she dressed. Too bad I can’t borrow some bangles from Jubilee, though I’d never normally wear an ensemble like this, she added as she put in her long, slender silver earrings – a Christmas gift from Ororo. Her long, red hair she wound into a tight, neat bun, which she pinned in place with a pair of jet-black “chopsticks.”

Primping briefly in the mirror before she left the hotel, Jean wondered, Am I even doing this right?

The balmy night air, carrying a subtle scent of salty sea from the Bay, felt delicious against Jean’s bare arms and legs as she walked through the streets of Sydney. The sun had set nearly two hours ago, but the neon lights bathed the streets and sidewalks and buildings with their parti-colored hue. Natives and tourists bustled along their nighttime activities, their voices a polyglot of dialect and language. Taxis and buses and a host of other vehicles hummed along the busy by-ways.

With all the physical sound at a palpable buzz, Jean was glad that, because of her nap, her telepathic shields stood firmly in place. She sure as hell didn’t want a repeat of the incident in the hotel lobby. That hotel bed was surprisingly comfortable, she mused.

Her eyes stayed in motion constantly, on the lookout for a likely establishment. Despite it hanging across her body by its strap, she made sure one hand remained on her purse at all times; though she didn’t carry much cash, she feared having her passport and traveler’s cheques stolen. Jean remembered hearing of a section of the city called “the Cross,” which had, ironically, sounded rather seedy; she resolved to avoid that area if at all possible.

Finally she caught the sound of throbbing, thumping bass emanating from a building just ahead. When she got closer, she saw the sign for “Club 616.” A line of club-goers spilled into the sidewalk, hindered by the burly bouncer checking ID at the door. Jean inserted herself at the end of the queue, trying to look disinterested in everything around her, quelling her sudden doubts about this foray. A gaggle of young women chattered in front of her – Japanese, if their appearance and use of “-chan” and “desu” were any indication.

Passersby of both genders looked her over as they walked by, glances which she studiously ignored while fighting the urge to fidget with the hem of her dress. Her outfit obviously displayed her physical attributes – the lobby incident showed that she couldn’t do much to hide them, apparently – but she’d never been entirely comfortable in clothes that… accentuated… her figure. The memory of her Inner Circle outfit brought a furious blush to her cheeks.

The line for the club entrance moved faster than Jean had anticipated, snapping her out of her introspection when the bouncer asked for her identification, which she produced after only a few moments’ digging in her purse. The bouncer peered at her New York State driver’s license, ostensibly at her date of birth printed just beneath her name, before handing the laminated card back to her. He hesitated just noticeably, his eyes flicking down her body, sizing her up, before he waved her inside.

Jean checked her purse at the front desk so she wouldn’t have to keep an eye on it all night. Steadying herself with a deep breath, she dove into the club proper. A seething mass of people dancing, laughing, and drinking surrounded her as she edged her way to an unoccupied table, where she quickly placed an order for ice-water. So much body heat, she marveled. It’s stifling!

‘Ya sure ya don’t want somethin’ stronger?’ she heard someone shout over the din.

Jean looked over her shoulder to see a medium-height, red-haired man in a burgundy button-up shirt and black slacks at the edge of the dance-floor crowd. She responded with a wrinkled-nose smile and a shake of her head. The clean-shaven man literally danced his way over to the table. Jean couldn’t help but chuckle. So it begins, she resigned inwardly.

‘Least I don’t gotta shout now,’ the fellow commented as he took a position not quite directly across from her – good, non-intrusive spacing, Jean complimented him silently. ‘Name’s Gary; what’s yours?’

Smirking coyly, Jean replied, “Mom taught me never to tell my name to strangers.” Witty responses, she knew, often encouraged flirtation, and she’d decided that she wanted to flirt a bit with some fellows tonight, in an effort to have a good evening. Not too good an evening, of course, she reminded herself, but her earlier rest had at least improved her mood away from “outright rejection.”

Gary grinned. ‘Carn, I told you my name. Us rangas gotta stick together, right?’

“Rangas?”

He gestured to his hair and to hers. ‘Ah, gingers?’

She giggled lightly. “Now I understand. Ranga?”

He shrugged, nonchalant in his response: ‘Short for “orangutan,” I s’pose.’

“How flattering.”

‘If you’re one, I’m one.’ He leaned ever-so-slightly on the table. ‘And I still ‘ave no idea what ta call ya.’

Jean sighed as if he’d caught her red-handed in a ploy not to tell him her name. “Okay, okay – it’s Jean,” she told him, her tone of voice implying that she’d surrendered some vital secret about herself, that he could, if he wished, Rumpelstiltsken her at any time. I can’t believe I’m actually having fun after all, she marveled.

Gary took a half-step closer. ‘If I can’t get ya a drink, can I get ya a dance?’

“I’m game,” she answered, standing. “Only one, though – I’m a terrible dancer.”

One dance became two, which in turn became three. Jean found in Gary an excellent dance partner: despite the crowd, he maintained eye contact most of the time – I can’t expect him not to look at all, she conceded – and maintained a fairly respectful distance from her. He even remained directly in front of her while dancing, rather than moving around behind her like most of the other paired dancers in the club.

Wincing at the pain suddenly radiating from her feet, she suggested they sit for a bit. Gary obliged, parting the crowd for her as she started to hobble towards her table. Bad choice of shoes, she chided herself.

Jean sat and pulled off her heels, flexing some of the soreness out of her toes. From across the table Gary asked, ‘Didn’t break those clunkers in proper, huh?’

She shook her head. “I don’t go out to clubs like this often.” If by “often” I really mean “at all,” she thought wryly. Aloud she added, “I’m sure you could tell, based on my spasms out there.”

His face quirked just noticeably, as if he were deciding between honesty and mollification. In the end, he just shrugged and changed the subject. ‘A drink’ll dull the pain; I’ve seen it work wonders before.’ Jean opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off: ‘The grigio ‘ere’s ta die for.’

Jean simply blinked. “It’s been forever since I had wine,” she admitted, to her own surprise, “especially a good white. How’d you guess?”

Gary smiled mischievously as he waved a server over. ‘I’ll have a Clubby Stubby, and the lovely Sheila a cuppa ’82 pinot grigio.’ The server nodded and disappeared, leaving Jean to drink from her water in companionable silence. This is going much better than I’d thought it would, she realized. Gary seems like a guy who can take “no” for an answer, but I’m not looking forward to breaking the news to him.

The silence stretched on for some time more. Gary checked his watch, his brow furrowing. ‘Shouldn’t take this long fer a couple drinks. I better check with th’ barkeep, see what’s the hold-up.’

“It’s busy in here,” Jean objected on the bartender’s behalf.

‘She’ll be apples; the barkeep’s a mate o’ mine. Back in a tick.’ With that, before Jean could ask about “she’ll be apples,” Gary threaded through the crowd toward the bar.

Alarms shrieked in Jean’s mind. Something about her impromptu date’s demeanor just now didn’t sit well with her. Afraid she was acting paranoid but unable to subdue the intense unease, Jean reached out and touched Gary’s mind, a feat made easier by the visual lock she maintained on him thanks to his unique hair color.

Fantastic knockers on that one – I can’t wait to get my hands on them later. And those gams! I hope she wraps them around my waist while rooting. I wonder how tight her cunt is…

Jean sighed. I suppose that’s to be expected, given how I’m dressed. I mean, these are called “fuck-me heels,” aren’t they? I’ll just have to tell him when he gets back that I’m not a one-night-stand kind of girl. Nothing out of the ordinary, nothing I can’t handle, and certainly nothing to worry –

In her mind’s eye she saw this man, who’d been nothing short of charming and non-threatening, retrieve their drinks from the bar. She felt through his senses the pair of pills fall from his hand into her glass of wine. Two little pills, and you’re all mine…

Immediately Jean snapped the mind-link. Rage boiled within her at this… this slimeball’s treachery: she’d let her guard down, which he’d intended all along. She knew she needed only a thought to remove him as a threat to women everywhere – a brain hemorrhage, for instance.

No! I mustn’t,the ethical part of her protested, conjuring the image of what she’d done to Wyngarde. I’d be no better than the Dark Phoenix if I kill this man. While she debated with herself, though, Gary approached, weaving expertly through the crowd once more.

Ruby-red heels in hand, Jean decided to bolt. Disgust welling inside her, she touched Gary’s mind again, just enough to make him fail to notice her on her way to retrieve her purse. She also planted the idea in his mind that she must have gone to “freshen up.”

On the way out of the club, she informed the bouncer that she had seen a “ranga” inside put something suspicious into someone’s drink. The mountain of a man narrowed his eyes and cracked his knuckles. ‘Don’ worry, sheila,’ he assured her in his deep, rumbling bass, ‘I’ll knock that shit-stirrer arse-over-tits.’ He swapped places with the interior bouncer and disappeared into the darkness of Club 616.

Too shaken to walk back to her hotel, Jean hailed a taxi, an experience she noted as much simpler her than back home. Once she gave the driver her destination, she slumped against the seat, kicking herself for attempting this lunacy.

Why did I think this would work out well? This isn’t me at all. She took a ragged breath, trying to calm herself, but to no avail. I think I need to talk to someone back home.

************************************
A/N: Sorry for the wait on this chapter, everyone. March Madness has struck, and not just in the arena of college hoops! Hopefully, since this chapter is more-or-less double-length, y'all will forgive me for the delay. As usual, reviews are appreciated!
- 2
- 3
- 4
You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.You need to be logged in to leave a review for this story.
Report Story

Down Under