Then
*
He has such an adult face.
All those scars, for starters. Lots and lots of tiny little scars -- all over his body, I'll bet. Everytime he moves, every time a cloth shifts, you find another one.
And his face is less scarred than the rest of him, but it's still *** plenty. The cheek, the lip, the side of his forehead. A funny one that looks a little like the mark of piercing over his eyebrow. Pretty creepy to think how close that one probably was.
Then again, an eyepatch would kinda suit him, wouldn't it...?
But they're nothing next to the signs of age.
They're just the obvious stuff. Heroes dust. I've seen a little too much in my life to go after it. It's the small stuff that counts.
Faintest lines near his mouth, more pronounced ones around his eyes. Skin that's been tanned too often on un-tanable basis and got this strange texture. Not unattractive, just...
Not attractive or anything, either.
Just, you can see he's lived through a lot.
I can spot at least three white hairs, too. He's kinda young for stuff like that. The lines on his brow are smooth now, but you can still see the places where they appear whenever he frowns or laughs.
His laugh's the same. Low and somehow -- gravely and full of small things telling you that this is a laugh that's been through mountains.
His whole face is so grown up. Almost in his thirties, Sean said when I asked him; I made up some crack about how I wasn't sure we could count on such an old geezer and the whole bruhaha. Irish got a little annoyed, I guess he feels his age too. But he still didn't know to tell me anything more accurate than that -- he's a secretive one, our man Pete. Almost thirty-something.
So this is how an almost thirty face looks.
Funny. I've never paid attention before.
***I know all the little details of his face by heart, almost. I don't know why. Feels kinda awakward looking at him when others might be looking at me -- Ev especilly, or Jono. Or Jubes. Feels real strange to look anywhere but the face even when I'm all alone.***
So I don't.
Usually.
But his face is laid out in my memory, feature by feature, part by part. Chin, nose, ear, a small curl of dark hair that keeps flopping off. Almost thirty. Pete Wisdom's Face. It looks so grown-up.
Except for his eyes.
His eyes just look old.
~*~
Now
*
Pete's apartment. Dios, but it had been years. That couch, he knew that if he closed his eyes, he'd remember every single kiss, every single touch, every single lick, and fuck.
Every single time they hadn't made love, it was all burned onto that upholstry.
That couch was currently awfully comfy.
Well, not in the traditional sense, which would mean that it wasn't lumpy, and the cushion wasn't giving him a... well... cushion burn, and there wasn't a spring somewhere in there that was managing to attach itself to the very same abused spot in the small of his back, no matter which way they rolled.
And, for two grown up people on a couch made for one person lying down, if even that, they were managing to roll around a *lot*.
No. It was comfy in that it smelled of Pete, with no scents of strange perfume or unfamiliar cologne to get in the way. It did smell of other things, but they were fish and chips, and a bit of sharp-smelling scotch, and soup. Pete smells.
It was comfy in that it hid the open window, so that he could squint a little and pretend that he didn't see, didn't remember where he was, didn't know what was going on. Besides the fact that he was holding Pete, a uniquely agreeable and relenting Pete, and all kinds of interesting developements just south of his wandering hands. In both participants.
And it was also comfy in that it was, despite everything, wide enough that he could flip them over so that he was on top and lean down to kiss Pete, when he got tired of the other man just looking at him from above.
"Madre del Dios," He breathed into that slightly open, inviting mouth, lips trailing wetness in big sloppy circles all around it until the other man's lips were just as red and looked far more inviting, "You're just big on first kisses, ain't you -- this is... I should run off for ten years m'self just so we can do this again --"
The arms around him tightened just one unnoticeable bit. Angelo shut up and pretended he didn't feel it.
~*~
Then
*
It's one AM, and there's rain outside.
It must be the second, maybe third rain of the season. We're still at that time when the smell of it is new and exciting, and the escalating cold if refreshing, and getting wet is quirky and fun and a reason to howl laughter at Jubilee -- only when there's no one else around, of course, god forbid anyone but her *sees* me -- and not annoying and fuckin' freezy.
It's the third rain of the season and they're all missing it, best-seat tickets, drops flicking on the big window downstairs. Asleep, or pretending to be asleep. Frosty will have my head if she goes by and sees me.
Whooooo, lightning.
She'll probably have his head too, come to think of it. We'll make nice mantel pieces. But the rain's worth it.
There's something about the angle of his neck against the darkness, I think. It draws me for some reason -- I can't remember the last sentence we've said. Can't remember which one of us said it.
There's something about the shadows under his eyes.
They match mine, I think, absurdly, and can't help but smile to myself. Just a little. Dunno why.
It makes no sense, anyway.
"It wasn't funny," he says, voice so dry it has to be part of some joke, mistaking my grin for something actually related to whatever's going on outside my head. "We were stuck there for two hours until the damned plane could get to us, and Braddock kept asking for everyone's underwear the whole time. The second hour he finally realized he could get his own panties, and then we sat there for fifty minutes with Captain Britain wearing his red-and-blue briefs on his head and telling the world, "Guess who I am! Guess who I am! I'm Batman!"
I'm now far enough back to the real world that I can actually be relevant. Just a coincidence that being relevant means repeating my last irrelevant thoughts. "That makes *no* sense."
Wisdom snorted, and I could see the amber glow of a cigarette moving up. Saw outline of pale lips wrapping around it. "Pity you weren't there to tell him that, mate. Coulda saved us a lot of headache."
I can't remember the last thing either of us said before I zoned out, which might had been the beginning of his story and might had been whatever it was I said that prompted him into telling it.
But I can remember the last thing I thought.
You're not supposed to look at guys like this.
I don't wanna think about this. So I just shake my head and say, "Sounds like you ran with some ineresting types back there."
This time the snort holds much more irony. "Interesting. Good word, have to remember that. I usually just went with homicidial maniacs with no stomach for alcohol and not enough brain cells to have some free from the Charlie-said mantra."
Bitter? Nah, the man isn't bitter, ladies and gentlemen, what makes you think that?
He's had about half a bottle of scotch so far, which is probably more than half the reason why he lets himself sound so -- angry. Well, not really angry, just... weary, somehow, and yeah, bitter. He sounds -- involved. Which isn't something I'm used to hearing from him, in the week and a half that he's been here.
He doesn't... he doesn't seem like a man who lets himself be involved, as a general rule.
I'm thinking I might make another run for the scotch soon. So far he hasn't let me touch it, and if there's one thing I'm sure of it's my talent in begging for a a drink. But he ain't budging. I still haven't decided if it's because I'm underage, or because he wants to keep all the booze.
He's an okay guy, really. I've been having -- what, maybe four conversations with him, so far? Counting in our first, which consisted mostly of us not liking each other. And this is the second conversation we've had late into the night, stretched here on the sofas in the den, rain beating against the big window, and me stealing his cigarettes.
But not his booze. Not yet, anyway.
So I feel capable of announcing that he's an okay guy. Not a *nice* guy, no way. Not even what Paige would call 'decent'. I'm thinking he'd be pretty horrified to be considered that, but no one seems to be getting close to it, so all's well. But he's kinda cool. It's not that he has a 'young soul' or anything like that, he's as old as anyone I've ever seen -- or, really, more like he's ageless.
He just doesn't give a shit. About anything much.
And he's pretty smart, and dangerously funny, once you get into that way of thinking. Brit humor, they call it; well, shit, I've never heard Jono do anything like it. Not like Jono is an example of humor, exactly.
And... I dunno. He has good hair. Whatever. And a *really* nice butt, but it's not like I've looked or anything, and this way of talking that isn't like any teacher I've ever met -- any adult, really. He doesn't wanna take me out of myself, or learn about me, or help me. He doesn't *hide* things.
Or, well, yes, he does. But not like adults do. Like... I don't know. But sometimes I can recognize the stuff he's hiding, understand it, read it somehow, because it feels like something I would do.
And he lets me steal his cigs, ad pretends like he doesn't notice. Not the booze, no, but he said I was to keep outta his fags too, so here's to hoping.
"You know," he says, stretching a bare foot across his sofa, raising the bottle in a funny ittle salute, "Em sees us here, she's gonner have both our bullocks off."
See, why don't *I* get imagery like that?
"Yeah," I say, and take another puff on a stolen cig. Look outside the window, just as lightning splits the sky. "View's worth it, though, isn't it?"
There's something startled about his face when I turn back to look at him, and then he relaxes, shrugs it off, grins.
"Yeah," he says, face vaguely amused, and it's too dark for me to even try to read his eyes. "Yeah, nice view."
I wait for silence to settle in for a bit and push off the sudden uncertainty that fell on me outta rainy sky. Wonder what the hell to talk about. There's enough to ask -- Excaliber, his past before that -- was something interesting, that much I know -- if Meggan Braddock was really such a hottie...
He ends up speaking before I've settled on a question. "You and Lee seem t'be getting along pretty well."
I wonder what way exactly he means that. I don't think anyone can confuse me and Jubes for a couple. One day, sure, maybe, but now...
My nerves just aren't worn enough yet, I guess.
I shrug, watch another lightning strike cloud and darkness. "She's a friend, sure. We get along better sometimes, less good other weeks. But I guess I'd say she's onna my best friends, when I'm looking at everything." Big fucking contest there, really. Which kind of isn't very fair, cause Jubilee would probably with second place, at worst, anyway.
I don't know if he realizes he's echoing my thoughts; if he is, he isn't doing a very good job of it, voice lacking the necessary amount of deprecation. "You're a pretty small group here, huh? I'm pretty surprised you're all this tight, all of you different ages and places and whatnot."
"We're a friendly bunch," I say, and I can hear the shutters closing in my voice. I don't do well with people questioning close and personal. But I don't *want* to shut him out, I want to keep talking, and somewhere inside me it's nice that he's asking, even though he doesn't actually care.
***Most of everything, I don't want to think about whys.***
His chuckle saves me the need to look for a way to unconspiciously open the locks. "No you're not."
I flop down to lie on my back. Then I realize that I'm mimicking his pose, and that bugs me somehow, so I roll around and rest my chin on crossed arms. Almost fall off the sofa in the proccess. "Sure we are."
"As presented by that *lovely* team discussion in the bio sphere a week ago," He says, voice wry.
"Sure," I say, and grin to myself and plan stealing another cig to replace my recently crashed one. "Our finest hour."
There's another snort from the vague direction on the other sofa. Then he tilts his head back, squinting at me. "Hey, kid?"
"Yeah," I say. The rain's still falling, harder than before, if anything. It 's warm in here. Drowsy. I have to get up in five hours for a training session.
He shakes his head at me, a flash of teeth. I can only hope that's a grin. "You're not getting any more of my smokes."
***I must be more tired than I thought, because I can distinctly feel the beginning of a pout.***
He can't possibly see it in the darkness. It's a really *small* pout, really, and just a beginning. If I get to the conclusion that he saw it I'll have to remember to be deadly embarrassed tomorrow. I'm too tired for it right now.
Shit. What happened to the days when I went to bed at minimum four? What happened to the days that I never went to sleep at all?
The flash of white goes wider, and then his face is lit by another lightning strike, pale skin and dark hair and amused eyes thrown into sharp relief. He waits until the thunder rumbles away, alarmingly loud, to say, "No."
Warning tone. Whatever did I do to get a warning tone? All I did was pout.
And even then, not really.
I don't say anything, just look at him. It takes about thirty seconds for him to break, and I just about fall off the sofa from shock alone. How un-Wisdom. A week and a half, four full conversations, and I can already recognize this. VERY un-Wisdom.
"Here," he says, and pulls the butt of his cigarette from his mouth. Holds it away from himself, in my direction. "You're too smart to think this is ever gonna happen again, kid, so enjoy it while it lasts."
***His voice is gruff, and I can still hear threads of laughter going through it. It reminds me of Wolverine, just a little, when he visits Jubilee and we're not too irritating and he gets into his Wolvie mood. Only when he talks to her, though.***
I stretch my skin, form two fingers a good half foot further from my shoulder than my real ones are. Take the cig and draw myself back to myself.
Sucking on it feels weird somehow. I mean, his mouth was on it. But I've shared smokes before.
There are at least three good draws left on it.
I take the smoke in, slowly, and feel the sweet burn, the bliss of an addiction satisfied. Blow it out, happily, and stretch. I put the filter back in my mouth, close my lips on it gently, just to feel that wetness against them. I get a shiver.
When I look up, through the smoke, his eyes are on me.
He doesn't smile back when I grin, puffing again, but something in that brown color answers me.
Something in my throat wants to speak out, to say something I won't even know until I hear the sound of the words themselves.
I swallow smoke.
"You know," he says, and sits up, proping himself to stand, "We'd both better hit the sack. Dunno about you, but I need to wake up in five hours, and it's been long enough since I've last don't that."
There's something careful in his voice, in the look he gives me. Something I don't understand.
"Yeah," I say, and stand up myself. "Probably."
He stays there, almost-standing, as I turn away and walk up the stairs.