Red-X: Firestorm, Jean-Phillipe & JPB, Saturday Afternoon (backdated)

[x-quebecois.livejournal.com]

Jean-Phillipe and Jean-Paul take a break from their respective duties to snark at one another. Dirtiness ensues.


"So, this is Canada. It's very...rural," Jean-Phillipe Colbert observed from a picnic table that had been set up in the aid station for the volunteers to eat and relax at. "I expected more beer, and other such stereotypical things."

"Oui, this is Canada," Jean-Paul said, his tone sarcastic as he continued, "I does not compare to France, of course. There is hardly a baguette to be found."

"Au contraire," Jean-Phillipe corrected. "As long as there is a Frenchman about, there is always a 'baguette' to be found." He thrust his crotch forward, as if there was any doubt as to his choice of euphemism. "But then, I suppose 'fried chicken' is more to your taste these days, n'est-ce-pas?"

Quirking a brow, Jean-Paul said, "Fried chicken has more flavour than baguettes. This is, maybe, why I prefer it."

"And this is why les Quebecois are no longer true Frenchmen. Because they have forgotten the appeal of la patrie." Jean-Phillipe was clearly tired, as his usual brain-to-mouth filter appeared to not be engaging properly.

"Non, we are no longer considered French because the French did not have the strength to protect their interests from the English and their colonies in the middle of the seventeen hundreds," Jean-Paul relied, shaking his head. He took a sip of water from the bottle in front of him before asking, "Is it the fried chicken of which you are jealous, mon ami? I have seen that you agree there is something very attractive about it, non? You said this on the journals."

"Hnh." Jean-Phillipe's reply was elegant in its expressiveness. He resisted the urge to cross his arms over his chest like a petulant five-year-old. But just barely. "It is none of my business," he grated out finally.

"Oui, this is very true," Jean-Paul said, nodding almost sagely. "And yet there you sit. Speculating about the merits of my fried chicken versus baguettes. I have had baguettes, mon ami." He waved his hand. "As I said, there is more flavour in the fried chicken." Smirking, he finished, "I could see if the fried chicken has any friends. A hot dog, perhaps. Surely you could enjoy that."

Jean-Phillipe bristled. "I am more than capable of finding my own dates, merci," he said testily. Searching blindly for a subject change, he asked, "So, how is it, being back in your homeland? You were part of Alpha Flight, non? Come across any old comrades in Beta?"

Pointing his index finger at Jean-Phillipe, Jean-Paul said, "You are very contrary." Then he paused at the question, some of the amusement he'd felt ebbing now. "Many of my comrades, as you say, are dead." He shrugged, though, because while it was a slightly sore subject, it wasn't sore for the reasons most people might assume - he was very, very tired of people thinking poorly of him simply because he hadn't felt the burning desire to go weep false tears over the graves of people he'd never liked, anyway. "I do not know anyone who is in Beta Flight now."

In a similar way, Jean-Phillipe's contrary testiness ebbed out of him. "Je regrette," he apologized sincerely. "Clearly my brain is not catching up with my mouth," he said wryly. Jealousy was no excuse for poor behavior.

Waving the Frenchman's apology off, Jean-Paul finished his water. "We are tired, all of us, are we not? I am sad, though, that you did not let me make the suggestion of finding you a pizza, if the hot dog did not suit you. They can be very large, oui? Twenty-six inches across in New York..."

Jean-Phillipe rolled his eyes. "Oui, you are very clever," he replied sarcastically. "I think that twenty-six inches is too much for any one person."

"This is why the French could not hold Quebec," Jean-Paul said, his tone sad. "You have either no ambition or, like Napoleon, you have far too much." Then he pointed at Jean-Phillipe again. "Never attack the Russians, mon ami."

"Well, Piotr is returned to the mansion..."

"Oui," Jean-Paul nodded, folding his forearms on the table and resting his chin atop them. "You should reintroduce yourself, non? And then maybe you will not be so jealous of the fried chicken."

Jean-Phillipe snorted. "Not be a jealous snarky petty bitch? I do not think that is possible."

"It would be difficult, I think, but not impossible," Jean-Paul said, tone turning philosophical. "It would, I think, even be easier." He lifted his head enough to make a rather crass, repetitive gesture with one hand. "It is better when someone else does it, is it not?"

Jean-Phillipe smirked. "Even better when they use other things." He raised his hand closer to his mouth and made the same repetitive gesture with the addition of his mouth in an O shape.

"Oui," Jean-Paul said, pausing before saying, "But you must not forget the tongue." Then he made the same gesture Jean-Phillipe had, only he stuck his tongue in his cheek to do it. "This is very important."

"Oui," Jean-Phillipe agreed. "I never forget the tongue." Instead of mirroring Jean-Paul, he ran his tongue salaciously around his lips.

Jean-Paul let one eyebrow rise for a moment before he gave up the pretense of being unimpressed and chuckled. "Too much tongue, mon ami. That was too much tongue."

"That is what you say, but I have not yet heard any complaints."