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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
- 6
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Chapter 7: Yellow Brick Road

St. John arrived at the hotel a few minutes later than he’d planned, and the lack of parking certainly failed to assist his punctuality. He ignored as best he could the schmaltzy signs for the hotel, wondering not for the first or last time who thought “Koala-palooza” would make a chipper name for a hotel. He shook his head in dismay as he entered the hotel lobby, on the lookout for his crimson-tressed ‘date’ for the day.

Remember, she’s been on a rough row, he reminded himself. Like as not, she’s not looking for anything more than a willing ear. Thus resolved not to push too hard, he smiled tightly to himself.

The Australian spotted the American woman flipping through an issue of Time magazine, the cover showing a bald man in a wheelchair underneath the caption, “Professor Xavier: Mutant Apologist.” However, he found himself far more interested in the redhead, with her endless legs, planar stomach, and pinup waist, all on display thanks to her cherry-red two-piece. St. John marveled at how modest this bikini was, while remaining a bikini: it revealed plenty – in addition to the previous attributes, this woman had a not-insubstantial amount of cleavage on display – yet still left enough to intrigue the imagination, a quality St. John had in spades. Best keep it doused for now, mate, he steadied himself.

‘Sorry I got a bit behind,’ he apologized, pulling her attention to him and away from the magazine. ‘Took longer to pack the cooler than I planned. I hope you weren’t sitting down here too long.’

Jean smiled and shook her head. “It was thoughtful of you to pack drinks – assuming all you packed was soda.” Her smile shifted from genuine to mischievous. “I’ll admit I was starting to wonder if you’d stood me up.”

St. John smiled back, pleased that she felt comfortable enough to actually flirt with him. ‘I never stand a sheila,’ he replied. ‘Obelisk Beach awaits, but I doubt it knows what’s about to hit it.’

Magazine left on a nearby chair, Jean gathered her small beach bag – with towels, book, and SPF 40 sunscreen – and followed her “native guide” out to his car, which turned out to be a small jeep. Once her sunglasses had taken their rightful place over her eyes, she could see the small blue-and-white cooler stashed behind the driver’s seat. She smiled to herself, pleased at St. John’s forethought.

Not to mention his restraint, she added inwardly as she climbed into the passenger seat and buckled the seatbelt. In the lobby Jean caught St. John looking her over, felt his eyes roam her bikini-clad body; she also sensed him reining himself in, determined not to linger or dwell on thoughts he knew he oughtn’t. She’d decided to let him look his fill rather than interrupt and render things awkward between them for the rest of the day. After all, she reasoned, it’s strange enough to spend a day at the beach with a near-stranger.

During the ride through Sydney, though, Jean became more and more comfortable with the outing. He just seems really… familiar somehow, she mused. I just wish I could put my finger on it. She sat back in her seat, relaxed, and let the breeze carry such concerns away.

Twenty minutes saw them unloading the vehicle – St. John called it his ‘ute’ – and looking for a suitable spot under the morning sun. Early as it was, the beach was sparsely populated, so they spoiled themselves for choice. St. John pointed to a spot a few yards from the tide-line, and the two of them laid out their towels to lie on.

Jean breathed deeply of the salty air, basking in the solar warmth and shucking the denim shorts she’d worn over her bikini bottoms. “What a gorgeous day,” she sighed.

Beside her, St. John pulled off his plain white tee and applied sunscreen. Jean caught herself watching him, sizing him up – smooth and quite fit, to be sure, but not nearly as chiseled as the men she typically associated with. Still, not bad, she decided, not realizing she had licked her lips as her eyes took him in, not bad at all.

He favored her with a smile. Glad that her sunglasses hid her eyes, she fought the flush threatening to paint her cheeks pink. Jean stretched out and murmured, “I think I’ll grab a short nap. Wake me in an hour? I don’t want to burn.”

‘Yeah, one hour,’ he agreed. St. John immediately sat on his towel – he certainly didn’t miss the way his companion stretched herself out on the towel, and he didn’t want his yellow-trimmed red trunks to fail, as they inevitably would, to hide his reaction.

Peacefully the hour passed. No memory-dreams disturbed Jean’s slumber. St. John noted various small details for later use in poems, details ranging from wispy cloud-patterns to the sound of a small crab scuttling about the beach to the early-morning crispness of the air. As the day lengthened and the warmth grew, Obelisk Beach became ever more populous.

Vaguely Jean could feel the increasing pressure of additional minds on her telepathic shields, though nothing to the degree of that first afternoon in the hotel lobby. Gentle shaking centered on her shoulder returned her to full consciousness, though it took a moment for her vision to adjust to the increased sunlight. Now awake, her mental protections activated fully, easing the pressure and preventing a headache.

‘Time’s up. Sleep well?’ came the clear voice of her companion.

“Well enough, I suppose. Time for more sunblock.”

‘The curse of beautiful fair skin,’ he commented, eliciting a girlish giggle from her. ‘Need me to get your back?’ he added, mischief coating his tone.

A slight shiver of excitement at the prospect ran up her back. “I don’t think so,” she answered, though she wondered just how certain she sounded to him. Jean sat up to look for her sunblock and froze in place.

In front of her eyes, a young couple strolled through the surf, not a hint of swimsuit to be seen. Oblivious to the shocked woman watching them, they chatted about this or that, their whole lives ahead of them and the possibilities endless. Jean’s mouth opened and closed several times without words exiting.

Finally she turned to her “guide” to ask him if he’d seen the young naked couple – to ensure that she was not, in fact, seeing things – but stopped short when she saw, just beyond him, a trio of middle-aged women removing their bikini tops. Further down the beach, some sculpted young men – possibly military types, if their haircuts were any indication – harkened back to the ancient Greeks with their gymnophiliac discus-throwing. After a long moment of shocked staring, she fixed her gaze on her companion, thinking he should be grateful she wasn’t shooting mind-bullets.

“You didn’t tell me this beach was… clothing-optional,” she said as evenly as she could manage, but her voice still carried a hint of accusation.

St. John’s brow furrowed, and Jean could sense the confusion emanating from the Aussie. Realization dawned for him a moment later: ‘Of course – you’re a Yank. You’re not likely comfortable with the idea of public nudity.’

Jean shook her head. “You should’ve warned me, or taken us to a different beach,” she scolded.

All St. John could do was shrug. ‘Most beaches in and around Sydney are clothing-optional. The ones that aren’t have such mobs a bloke can’t breathe without bumping someone.’

“I suppose I should’ve thought to ask,” sighed the American. I’ve already seen more naked men in the past five minutes than I’d previously seen in my entire life, she noted silently, and there’ll only be more as the crowd thickens throughout the day.

Awkward silence lingered for several minutes, during which a family of four – parents with twin toddlers – put down a blanket off to their left and began sand-castle construction. The mother soon shed the upper half of her tankini. One of the twin boys, naked as the day he’d been born, handed the mother a seashell, babbling something that sounded vaguely like ‘mermaid.’

Her train of thought returned, Jean rolled onto her stomach and reached into her bag for sunscreen. “You Aussies might feel fine about prancing around the beach in the buff,” she began indignantly, “but my swimsuit is staying where it belongs: on by body.”

‘Look, Jean, I’m sorry I didn’t warn ya,’ St. John replied, his accent asserting itself due to heightened emotion. ‘I can even understand ya don’t want blokes starin’ at ya – low profile and all that. But I think you’re more likely to attract unwanted attention if you’re the only sheila at th’ beach wearin’ somethin’ other than ‘er birthday suit.’

Jean froze. “I hadn’t thought of that. I’d stick out like a sore thumb, wouldn’t I?” Her head turned toward him, her eyes narrowing behind the tinted lenses. “You’re not just saying that so I’ll parade myself around, are you? Because that,” she emphasized, her mind focusing on his to gauge his intentions, “is not going to happen.”

St. John shook his head, and Jean could detect no malicious intent from him. While she sensed that he was attracted to her – that he would by no means object to seeing her naked – she also sensed that it honestly hadn’t occurred to him that she’d have a problem with a nude beach. Additionally, she could taste the strong hint of chagrin he felt due to her reactions thus far.

‘We can pack up and head for Bondi Beach,’ he offered tentatively, intent on mollifying her, ‘though the mob’ll be out in full force by the time we arrive.’

“No,” Jean replied, quickly enough to surprise herself. “I like this beach. It’s quiet, the sand is soft…”

‘The scenery’s great,’ quipped the poet.

Jean laughed in spite of herself. The tension that had spiked so suddenly just now drained as readily away. She sat up, bottle finally in hand, and reapplied the sunscreen to her arms and legs.

‘Need a hand with your back?’ St. John offered again, his tone intentionally neutral this time.

“Please and thank you,” she responded, remarking inwardly, Since I can’t use my telekinesis in public, I don’t have much choice, do I? While St. John squirted some of the skin protector into his hands, Jean braced herself. At the touch of his hands on the small of her back, a strong shiver crept up her spine. His hands followed the shiver until-they met the clasp holding her bikini strap together, but they swiftly moved back down.

St. John applied sunscreen all over Jean’s lower back and between her shoulders, including the back of her neck. Much to her surprise, Jean enjoyed the way he touched her – firm but not too strong, hands a little rough but not sandpapery. If I didn’t know better, she mused hazily, I’d swear he was a masseur by trade. All too soon, though, he was finished.

Jean looked over her shoulder at him, and he smiled the smile of satisfaction at a job well done. “You, ah, missed a spot,” she misinformed him, not wanting his hands to leave her.

‘I did?’ he asked incredulously. ‘Where?’

Panicking, not wanting to admit the truth to him, Jean’s mind raced. The best she could stammer out was, “Um, under the straps, actually.” When St. John hesitated, she added, “I… I’ve decided I don’t want to draw attention as the most-covered woman on the beach.”

Licking his lips, St. John slowly slid the shoulder-straps over the humps of her deltoids and spread sunscreen over the exposed areas. Jean almost didn’t need her telepathy to feel the surprise and excitement radiating from him. Upon reaching the cross-strap, he asked, ‘You sure ‘bout this? Get ready then,’ to which she nodded and folded her arms across her breasts.

With deft hands he unfastened the S-shaped plastic clip from the fabric loop, releasing the tension holding up the upper half of Jean’s two-piece. Not without difficulty, Jean kept herself covered while extracting the garment from between her arm and her breasts, grumbling to herself that the task would have been far simpler with the aid of telekinesis. “You know,” she rambled aloud to keep her mind from dwelling on the absurdity of the situation, “I’m suddenly glad I didn’t pick the one-piece.”

‘Not going for the, ah, full monty, as it were?’ he teased. Cheeks aflame, Jean merely shook her head. St. John smeared a small supply of sunscreen back and forth along the area once covered by the strap. ‘No worries – topless is a good compromise for you.’ He decided on a playful gamble: ‘Need me to get the front too, I hope?’

Jean responded with an exasperated “Just hand me the bottle,” which drew a hearty laugh from the Australian.

One arm continuously guarding her modesty, Jean spread sunblock over the now-exposed curvature of her copious breasts. By the time she finished, she had come to a startling conclusion: between St. John’s expert hands on her back, and her own hands caressing her breasts, her nipples had stiffened fully and the flush of her cheeks had taken on a new meaning.

Just great - now I’m turned on.

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A/N: I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter thoroughly. I feel like it's lacking a certain je ne sais quoi. Feedback will be much appreciated as always.
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