Jean-Paul and Pietro, Sunday Morning
Oct. 14th, 2012 05:26 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
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om_mainAn apology of words and bacon is nearly derailed. (Pietro is lucky Jean-Paul had his hands full of Eggs Florentine.)
Early-early, while Victor was still snoozing, Pietro was up and darting through the house. He pulled on some super-durable running shorts and a tank, cleaned up a few little sideways knicknacks in their room that were bugging him, straightened some shit in the hall on his way down, and darted down towards the kitchen for his first breakfast of the day--the one that was meant just to keep his stomach from eating itself while he did his morning thing outside.
But today, unlike most days at this hour, he smelled... bacon?
He zipped around the corner and into the kitchen and there was Jean-Paul Martin.
No, wait, Beaubier?
Well, unless that whole journal entry thing had been for real, anyhow. Which, well, regardless of recent conversations with Eames on how this particular bag of dicks wasn't worth the waste of time...
How could Pietro not feel kinda bad for this miserable bastard, considering?
At a speed approaching what most people would consider normal, Pietro strolled towards the fridge with a casual, "Hey." He pulled it open and stuck his face in, looking for his usual yogurt-breakfast-snack.
Jean-Paul glanced up from the egg he was about to crack, noted who it was, and went back to his work with a nod. "Hey." He might have had a stronger reaction, but his aim was to poach a few eggs, not make egg soup.
That was better than Pietro expected--and now he just felt like the universe was daring him to cowboy up. He found the plain yogurt, then darted to a cupboard for some granola, mixed up a batch, and leaned against the counter with one hip, eating it. Watched dude cooking--like he actually knew what he was doing, which seemed likely, considering the incredible smell in here right now.
The fuck? Was he actually poaching eggs?
Pietro took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Then, when Jean-Paul was kind of on pause for whatever the hell egg-poaching took, Whatever, fuck it: "Okay, look, don't worry. I swear to god I'm not going to try and be your friend or anything. But, I just wanted to say sorry. For being a huge dick. And calling you out on being one."
Jean-Paul was occupied with laying the last of the poached eggs on a blotter of paper towels before he decided to speak. Finally, he looked up and shrugged at Pietro. "Merci. But I know what I am." He smirked slightly. "I work very hard at it." He turned back to his workspace and started slicing tomatoes.
"Yeah, don't get me wrong, I wasn't under the impression your feelings were hurt or anything." Pietro smirked right back and took another bite. "Just--when I make a mistake, I feel the need to admit it. It's a glass houses situation."
"Brownie points to you, I suppose. But since we have no brownies..." He turned and tossed a slice of crisped bacon Pietro's way. He still wasn't entirely sure what had brought this on, but he appreciated that he wasn't being actively harassed while he was trying to make the perfect "sorry for nearly breaking your ribs" breakfast.
Pieto caught it easily, then laughed. "I feel like I should be barking at you or something." Not that this was going to stop him from eating it. He took a bite and leaned more heavily against the counter. Sssssooooo good. "Oh my god, fuck granola."
"Evolution in action." Jean-Paul's attention was drawn back to his cooling ingredients. Pietro was again abandoned in favor of culinary pursuits -- the stacking of tomatoes and fresh spinach atop herbed pita and the careful application of poached eggs.
Meanwhile, Pietro finished his bacon and granola and rinsed out his bowl with regular applications of superspeed. He halfway wondered how the fuck Jean-Paul had the patience to stand there and cook with that slow mo heating shit going on, but the actual trouble of asking for once outweighed the benefits of satisfying his curiosity. Pietro had done his bit, said he was sorry, and what the fuck ever.
He grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge for after his run and said, "Later. Good luck with--" He paused halfway through the sentence, which was a rare thing for him. Usually things were thought out long before they came out of his mouth, surprisingly enough. "You know. Everything."
Ah, yes. He knew that journal post had been a mistake. "I appreciate the sentiment, but I will be fine. I got along all of my life without her, after all."
Fuck. Pietro had been so, so prepared to just... walk away. Fucking walk away, and then the next time he saw Jean-Paul whatever-the-fuck-he-was-now, not even notice him, apart from the fact that he was pretty or whatever.
But no.
No, he had to say that.
Every fucking bone in his body said not to. But Pietro turned, stood just in front of the fridge, and couldn't help but ask, "Really?" He didn't put in any inflection. He was actually curious.
Jean-Paul gave him a faintly curious look in return. "Yes, really."
"You're officially more hardcore than me, then." Pietro held up both hands in surrender. "I mean, I got a twin sister. Her shit throws me off like whoa so... lucky you, I guess."
Pietro's face, however, said the exact opposite.
"So," Jean-Paul said conversationally, "if your sister had turned away from you in horror when your mutation set in, you would be fine with that. Well, you officially have a higher bullshit tolerance than I do. Lucky you."
"Hate to disappoint." Pietro shrugged. This shit was clearly a metaphor, but he was not about to ask for more information--not only had he learned his lesson, but it wasn't his primary area of curiosity anyhow. "But if Wanda did that, we'd have an epic bitchfight. Hell of an event, but not even close to what I meant."
"So say what you mean. I have a delivery to make."
"I said what I meant the first time." Pietro shrugged again, flipping his water bottle into the air and catching it. "If you lived your whole life without your twin sister and it went well, rad. I can't even manage three months. I'm not to the point where I miss the epic bitchfights, but you know you have a problem when you kinda miss waking up screaming over someone else's nightmares. So, yeah. Lucky you. That's it."
"Fine. Thank you for the compliment." Jean-Paul picked up the plate with the assembled Eggs Florentine on it and headed for the lift that would take him to the boys' wing of the school.
"Sure." Pietro shot a mock-salute at dude's back. "Thanks for the bacon."
Early-early, while Victor was still snoozing, Pietro was up and darting through the house. He pulled on some super-durable running shorts and a tank, cleaned up a few little sideways knicknacks in their room that were bugging him, straightened some shit in the hall on his way down, and darted down towards the kitchen for his first breakfast of the day--the one that was meant just to keep his stomach from eating itself while he did his morning thing outside.
But today, unlike most days at this hour, he smelled... bacon?
He zipped around the corner and into the kitchen and there was Jean-Paul Martin.
No, wait, Beaubier?
Well, unless that whole journal entry thing had been for real, anyhow. Which, well, regardless of recent conversations with Eames on how this particular bag of dicks wasn't worth the waste of time...
How could Pietro not feel kinda bad for this miserable bastard, considering?
At a speed approaching what most people would consider normal, Pietro strolled towards the fridge with a casual, "Hey." He pulled it open and stuck his face in, looking for his usual yogurt-breakfast-snack.
Jean-Paul glanced up from the egg he was about to crack, noted who it was, and went back to his work with a nod. "Hey." He might have had a stronger reaction, but his aim was to poach a few eggs, not make egg soup.
That was better than Pietro expected--and now he just felt like the universe was daring him to cowboy up. He found the plain yogurt, then darted to a cupboard for some granola, mixed up a batch, and leaned against the counter with one hip, eating it. Watched dude cooking--like he actually knew what he was doing, which seemed likely, considering the incredible smell in here right now.
The fuck? Was he actually poaching eggs?
Pietro took a bite. Chewed. Swallowed. Then, when Jean-Paul was kind of on pause for whatever the hell egg-poaching took, Whatever, fuck it: "Okay, look, don't worry. I swear to god I'm not going to try and be your friend or anything. But, I just wanted to say sorry. For being a huge dick. And calling you out on being one."
Jean-Paul was occupied with laying the last of the poached eggs on a blotter of paper towels before he decided to speak. Finally, he looked up and shrugged at Pietro. "Merci. But I know what I am." He smirked slightly. "I work very hard at it." He turned back to his workspace and started slicing tomatoes.
"Yeah, don't get me wrong, I wasn't under the impression your feelings were hurt or anything." Pietro smirked right back and took another bite. "Just--when I make a mistake, I feel the need to admit it. It's a glass houses situation."
"Brownie points to you, I suppose. But since we have no brownies..." He turned and tossed a slice of crisped bacon Pietro's way. He still wasn't entirely sure what had brought this on, but he appreciated that he wasn't being actively harassed while he was trying to make the perfect "sorry for nearly breaking your ribs" breakfast.
Pieto caught it easily, then laughed. "I feel like I should be barking at you or something." Not that this was going to stop him from eating it. He took a bite and leaned more heavily against the counter. Sssssooooo good. "Oh my god, fuck granola."
"Evolution in action." Jean-Paul's attention was drawn back to his cooling ingredients. Pietro was again abandoned in favor of culinary pursuits -- the stacking of tomatoes and fresh spinach atop herbed pita and the careful application of poached eggs.
Meanwhile, Pietro finished his bacon and granola and rinsed out his bowl with regular applications of superspeed. He halfway wondered how the fuck Jean-Paul had the patience to stand there and cook with that slow mo heating shit going on, but the actual trouble of asking for once outweighed the benefits of satisfying his curiosity. Pietro had done his bit, said he was sorry, and what the fuck ever.
He grabbed a bottle of water out of the fridge for after his run and said, "Later. Good luck with--" He paused halfway through the sentence, which was a rare thing for him. Usually things were thought out long before they came out of his mouth, surprisingly enough. "You know. Everything."
Ah, yes. He knew that journal post had been a mistake. "I appreciate the sentiment, but I will be fine. I got along all of my life without her, after all."
Fuck. Pietro had been so, so prepared to just... walk away. Fucking walk away, and then the next time he saw Jean-Paul whatever-the-fuck-he-was-now, not even notice him, apart from the fact that he was pretty or whatever.
But no.
No, he had to say that.
Every fucking bone in his body said not to. But Pietro turned, stood just in front of the fridge, and couldn't help but ask, "Really?" He didn't put in any inflection. He was actually curious.
Jean-Paul gave him a faintly curious look in return. "Yes, really."
"You're officially more hardcore than me, then." Pietro held up both hands in surrender. "I mean, I got a twin sister. Her shit throws me off like whoa so... lucky you, I guess."
Pietro's face, however, said the exact opposite.
"So," Jean-Paul said conversationally, "if your sister had turned away from you in horror when your mutation set in, you would be fine with that. Well, you officially have a higher bullshit tolerance than I do. Lucky you."
"Hate to disappoint." Pietro shrugged. This shit was clearly a metaphor, but he was not about to ask for more information--not only had he learned his lesson, but it wasn't his primary area of curiosity anyhow. "But if Wanda did that, we'd have an epic bitchfight. Hell of an event, but not even close to what I meant."
"So say what you mean. I have a delivery to make."
"I said what I meant the first time." Pietro shrugged again, flipping his water bottle into the air and catching it. "If you lived your whole life without your twin sister and it went well, rad. I can't even manage three months. I'm not to the point where I miss the epic bitchfights, but you know you have a problem when you kinda miss waking up screaming over someone else's nightmares. So, yeah. Lucky you. That's it."
"Fine. Thank you for the compliment." Jean-Paul picked up the plate with the assembled Eggs Florentine on it and headed for the lift that would take him to the boys' wing of the school.
"Sure." Pietro shot a mock-salute at dude's back. "Thanks for the bacon."
