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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
- 8
- 9
- 10
Chapter 9: The Man Behind the Curtain

Consciousness returned to Jean Grey gradually, like rays of sunlight dissipating cloud cover beam by beam until only clear blue skies remain. Viridian eyes drifting open, she reacquainted herself with her surroundings: massage table, towel, dried tears on her cheeks, a slight tingling in her nethers, the scent of cinnamon incense covering the lingering aroma of fettuccine. She noted she lay on her stomach, her lower half raised in the most wanton display of her privates. Ah, yes, she remembered, St. John pleasured me with his fingers until I passed out.
“Pleasured,” she knew, was pure understatement. St. John’s fingers had pressed against a single spot on the forward wall of her vagina, and it was as if the man had opened her cranium and directly caressed the pleasure centers of her brain. Raw, unadulterated ecstasy had consumed Jean’s senses so she could neither see nor hear nor smell nor taste – she could only feel, as if her whole existence centered around that tiny locus of sensation.
Jean rolled onto her side, intending to offer her host reciprocation for his generosity. What she saw, though, stopped her cold: in the air between two burning stems of incense, there danced a pair of figures formed from the flames – fiery waltz partners. Even more surprising, St. John lounged on his couch, one hand conducting the apparitions.
Before she could ask him any of the thousand questions that suddenly sprang to mind – before she could say anything to him at all, in fact – her mind linked to a mostly-forgotten memory…
< The X-Men seek to protect Senator Kelly from an unknown assassin, thanks to the vague warning of a strange time-traveler, the mutant Bishop, whose catch-phrase might as well have been “from the future.” He is too loose a cannon, so they leave him to watch Gambit, whom Bishop nearly killed after accusing of being the assassin. Wolverine babysits them.
Chaos reigns in Washington, D.C. A large mutant calling himself “Blob” shrugs off the mightiest strikes and energy blasts. Another mutant shaking the earth beneath their feet calls himself “Avalanche.” Finally, a third mutant named “Pyro” chases them with animated, sculpted flames.
The X-Men battle them all and subdue them one by one. Wily Gambit, escaped from confinement at the X-Mansion, exposes shape-shifting Mystique’s attempt to frame him and the X-Men. Senator Kelly lives to see another day, and would later change his anti-mutant stance. >

The eye of Jean’s mind superimposed the image of Pyro – red-and-yellow costume with backpack flamethrower assembly and nozzles on the backs of each hand – over the idle St. John. The match isn’t exact, analyzed Jean, but that encounter was months ago, and I was more focused on the Blob at the time. Oblivious to her awakening, the Aussie continued his fiery puppetry.
Reaching out with invisible hands, Jean yanked her erstwhile companion into the air to dangle by his ankles. She ignored the surprised yelp he uttered when she immobilized his hands by pinning them to his sides. The dancing flame-people, now without his guidance, winked out.
‘What the blazes?’ cried the dangling Aussie as Jean spun him around to face her. St. John’s eyes widened. ‘You… you’re a… plundie like me?’ he stammered.
“You’re damn right I am,” she answered with an icy glare. Then his terminology caught up with her indignation. “I think. What’s a ‘plundie’?”
‘Ah, well, it’s the term ‘round ‘ere fer… folks like us. “Plundie” short fer “plunder,”’ he explained, only the faintest quaver in his voice revealing his fear, ‘comes from the phrase “loot and plunder.” The first bit, “loot,” rhymes with “mute,” the first ‘alf o’ “mutant” – thus “plundie.”’
Jean narrowed her eyes in disbelief. “That is the most needlessly-convoluted method of forming a slang word I’ve ever heard.”
Still inverted, St. John shrugged. ‘Rhymin’ slang – blame the Cockneys fer bringin’ it with ‘em.’ Face nearly fuchsia by this point, he pleaded, ‘Now the language lesson’s over, mind puttin’ me down?’
The still-angry redhead spun him so he floated upright, but she made sure her telekinetic grip was iron. “Don’t you remember me,” she asked in acid tones, “from Washington, D.C., a year or two ago? I’m hurt… Pyro.”
St. John’s face registered only confusion. ‘I dunno what in the nine circles o’ Hell ya dreamed, Jean, but I swear I didn’t lay a finger on ya, past what ya asked me for.’
“That’s good news… for you,” Jean practically snarled. “If you had taken advantage of me while I was asleep, I might shut down all your higher brain functions and leave you in a vegetative state for the rest of your days – a fate worse than death for a man such as you who prizes his creativity, hm?” With no way of knowing she’d never do that to anyone ever again – not after she saw Phoenix neutralize Mastermind thus – St. John paled.
They remained silent for a bit as Jean calmed herself, planning her next move. Ignoring for now that she had not a stitch of clothing, she decided on the direct verbal approach. If it fails, she reasoned, I always have telepathy.
“So, Pyro, are you hiding in Australia after failing to assassinate Senator Kelly?”
‘Why would I want to?’ he responded as evenly as he could manage. ‘Isn’t the President the more important bloke?’
“Usually – Senator Kelly led the anti-mutant segment of Congress and proposed several mutant-control bills. You didn’t know who you were after?”
The Aussie shook his head. ‘I don’t even follow politics ‘ere in Oz, honest. Never gone ta Washington, either – I’m no Mr. Smith.’
Reining in a smirk, Jean narrowed her eyes. “I still don’t know if I believe you. Don’t you remember fighting the X-Men?”
‘The who now?’ To cut off Jean’s further questions, he added, ‘Don’t ya think I’d remember it if I met such a beaut as you?’
With one eyebrow raised, she answered, “Flattery’ll get you everywhere,” echoing what he’d said to her the night they met. Was it only last night? wondered Jean in shock. Aloud she continued, “I think so – our costumes leave little to the imagination.”
St. John managed a saucy smirk. ‘Yer current outfit leaves even less.’
“Is that what this is about?” Jean shouted, suddenly furious once more. “You saw me at your reading, remembered me, hoped I wouldn’t remember you, and put on all your charm to get me into bed?” She returned him to the upside-down position from before and spun him around twice like a top.
‘No! Ya got it all wrong!’ he cried. ‘I never saw ya before last night’s readin’, I swear!’
Jean stalled him mid-spin and lowered him to the couch, her anger seething. “In addition to telekinesis,” she warned him, giving him one last opportunity to confess, “I also possess the gift of telepathy. I’m going to scan your mind to find out the truth, or at least for evidence that your memories have been altered,” Jean appended as the latter possibility occurred to her. “The process won’t hurt, I promise – as long as you don’t resist me.”
St. John swallowed and steadied his rapid breathing. ‘If that’ll convince ya, I got nil ta hide.’
Focusing intently on his warm brown eyes, Jean delved into the innermost recesses of St. John’s mind. Memories, intentions, emotions, images – she sifted through all, searching, searching, searching for anything that might prove her case. No evidence of tampering, at least, she noted.
The telepathic scan lasted for some time – how long, exactly, neither of them could recall. Finally Jean relaxed her handless grip and withdrew from St. John’s mind. “I… St. John, I’m… I could’ve sworn you were… that blond fire-controlling mutant.” She brought her knees up to serve as a chin rest.
Sighing, Jean apologized: “St. John, I am truly, deeply sorry for accusing you – not just of attempted assassination, but for… the rest.” She took a shaky breath. “I’m just so… so tired of men… and the way I’m nothing more than an object, or a piece of meat… tired of villains trying to seduce me, to use me.”
Her voice, which had strengthened with each phrase uttered, now reached its forte when she declared, “I am a person, dammit, with thoughts and feelings, hopes and dreams! I’m more than a shapely collection of appealing physical features! I am no fragile flower in need of protection, but a mighty mutant woman!”
Only silence came from the couch. Quietly Jean repeated, “I’m a woman.” Slowly St. John rose and draped a throw-blanket from the back of the couch around her shoulders, sitting gingerly beside her. The redhead pulled the blanket tight around her, silently grateful.
‘It sounds like you’ve had a rough row,’ murmured the Sydney native.
Jean simply nodded. “I didn’t need to dump it on you, though,” she began, “especially since most of it wasn’t intended for you.” She giggled half-heartedly before adding, “It was a lot more ‘hear me roar’ than I usually get, too.”
‘No worries, Jean,’ he replied, on all counts. ‘It could well be that you needed to roar just now.’ St. John smirked, as if an idea had just occurred to him. ‘Maybe you ought to roar more often, hm? Say, tomorrow evening at the Croc?”
Jean’s brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
St. John’s eyes twinkled. ‘It’s open-mic night. Write something – something about your experiences you just told me.’ He shrugged. ‘Or just about your feelings, anything to express yourself.’
The young woman’s cheeks burned as bright as her hair. “I… I don’t know. I’m no poet.”
‘Think on it,’ urged the poet. ‘In the mean, better call it a night, right?’
Jean smiled and nodded, rising to get dressed. Fetching her clothes from the restroom took only a moment, and she decided to clothe herself in full view of her host. He’s seen the whole enchilada already anyway, she reasoned, and I don’t mind showing off to someone who sees beyond my external attributes.
She hardly needed telepathy to tell that St. John enjoyed what he saw, but she still caught a stray thought from him to that effect: Good thing I wanked off while she slept, or I’d be right rooted right now. Jean could detect enough emotional context to figure out what ‘rooted’ meant.
Once dressed, she let him escort her to his vehicle. He drove through the balmy evening air toward her hotel, blending effortlessly with the city traffic. The first star was just barely visible between buildings.
As they approached their destination, Jean apologized to St. John once again. “I really thought you looked like Pyro – similar builds, same powers. The hair’s different, but it’s been over a year.”
St. John chuckled. ‘An assassination attempt – to say naught of success – would likely get my work blacklisted at publishing houses, so let’s hope no one else sees me wrong.’
“The costume obscured a good bit of the face. You could be moonlighting as an assassin – better pay than poetry, I’d bet,” she suggested, though she wasn’t at all serious by this point. St. John knew it, and merely glowered at her when he could safely remove his gaze from the road.
More seriously, Jean told him, “Thank you… for being so understanding, St. John. You certainly have every right to be angry with me, after what I pulled.”
He shrugged and licked his lips thoughtfully. ‘I… in the spirit of honesty… since you’ve been straight with me,’ he began, ‘I thought I should tell ya… I have a… a half-brother – similar build, same powers – in England.’
Jean’s jaw dropped nearly to the floor of St. John’s ‘ute.’ “If I didn’t know better,” she finally managed, “I’d say that’s just the sort of story a writer would make up.”
St. John chuckled as he parked. ‘Sure, if I wrote fiction,’ he jibed. ‘That’s the aboriginal truth, though – Dad met and ran off with an English tourist when I was small. I met the half-sibs on a promo tour for my first book to get an international audience.’
“Or something resembling it, given the whole Commonwealth thing.”
‘More or less, yeah. Any rate, something about Johnny never struck me quite right,’ he admitted. ‘I can believe he’d sell his firepower, if you’ll excuse the pun, to the highest bidder.’
“Your dad named your half-brother ‘John,’ even though you’re ‘St. John’?”
St. John nodded. ‘I guess that extra bit at the front’s what kept me turning rotten.’
Jean laughed as she started to exit the vehicle. “Thank you… for today,” she told him. “I had fun at the beach,” she added with a wink. Mentally she projected, To say nothing of afterward.
The Aussie favored her with a charming smile. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow night at the Crying Croc – seven-thirty.’ Cheekily he wiggled his eyebrows. ‘Don’t stand me up.’
Jean giggled and headed for the hotel. On impulse she spun around to shout, “It’ll be terrible, but I’ll work on it!”
Even if it takes me all day.
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A/N: I hope everyone enjoyed this chapter and the key bit of backstory that 's come through. The 'half-brother' explanation seemed to be the simplest option, at least when trying to reconcile the existence of Pyro in the Animated Series (who does, in fact, have an English accent and who uses British idioms) with the St. John Allerdyce in this story. I did consider using the whole 'altered memories' angle, and I may pursue it in a later fic. If one of you readers wants to call dibs, though, feel free - I've got approximately 1.312 million other fanfic ideas that I want to get to.
If you hated this chapter, please excuse it as the result of trying to work on it during the honeymoon. (Dedication!)
Regardless, reviews are, as always, both welcome and appreciated!
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