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Entry tags:
fic: X-Men movieverse, Jean/Domino, femslash
Disclaimer: Not mine.
Rating: ...PG13/R? Not much sex, but there are lesbians.
Fandom: X-Men movieverse. Post-movie three.
Pairing: Jean Grey/Domino, implied: Jean/Ororo, Jean/Scott, Jean/Logan
Words: 2,500+
Notes: Wow. Um. This was supposed to be a sequel to 'This Perfect Working Order', except that I forgot the original fic was comicverse and was halfway through and this was solidly movieverse, so I had to leave it so. Domino's origin in this is mostly her comic origin, with a few things different (no Nathan Summers...) The title is from 'Velvet Divorce' by the Sneaker Pimps.
This Perfect World Disorder
by ALC Punk!
The sunrise hadn't woken Jean up. It had merely been a convenient excuse for getting out of bed. Climbing free and moving out onto the balcony attached to the room she was sharing with Domino was a series of exercises in quiet. Waking Dom wasn't her goal. Not yet. Not with her mind full of memories that didn't feel like hers.
Jean settled on one of the wicker chairs, glad they were larger, befitting the style of the hotel. Her knees fit under her chin, her heels fit the edge of the seat.
Memories of walking in marketplaces she had never been danced through her mind. Dust swirled, and brilliant fabrics swayed, both clashing with the other. Faceless people milled, some laughing, some not. Cries for wares in languages Jean shouldn't know echoed in her mind.
There were people she should be remembering, but these were not them. Places, faces she'd loved, and yet, nothing save these other memories that taunt her with might-have-beens. Had there been children? Divorce? Husband? Had she been a cat-person or rather fond of dogs?
Jean knows her first name, and she knows her body isn't young, though it isn't old, either. If she was a doctor, perhaps she could tell more. Could run her long-fingered hands over her own pale-rose skin and tell a hundred tales of what had happened to it and where it had been. There was a slight callous on her index finger--from writing, possibly. And other light callouses on her palms and fingers.
Rubbing them down her legs, catching the smooth skin against them, she finally felt something that might be a memory.
-
It's not autumn, but it should be.
And he's laughing, head tipped back so she can't see the upper part of his face, which is all right, because she knows she's about to be scolded. And it's just such a silly rule.
"Jean, you forgot your gloves."
There it is, and she smiles, head tilting and lashes fluttering exaggeratedly, "I like feeling the grips."
He snorts, "You're going to ruin your hands."
She giggles, voice challenging when she replies, "Will you still love me when I'm old and calloused?"
Before he can answer, she tightens her hands, twists, and the motorcycle fires to life. Without a warning or a backward glance, she spins the bike and sashays across the yard, waiting for him to catch her. When he does, she takes off, letting the throttle out and feeling the wind tear at her eyes.
-
The feel of the wind rushing through her hair was so strong, that for a moment, Jean could see the dark green of the woods as they flashed by. Hands were on her waist, as she--as they--flew, braced against his chest and feeling his laughter as she took a curve too fast and had to push against the ground with her mind to steady them.
Her mind.
Jean's thoughts paused there, and Munich came back in a rush of sunrise and dogs barking, the smell of Domino's skin mixing with the coffee she must have ordered while Jean was lost.
"There are things I can't remember," Jean said. And her tone was harsh, raw with lack of sleep and emotion. "There are things I remember which make no sense."
"Yeah?" Domino dropped into the chair across from her, and then the scent of coffee was joined by the stench of her cigarette as she lit it without missing a beat. "What do you remember? Last night, I hope."
Her mind. There was something in her blood, something crawling under Jean's skin that told her the answer could be so easy to find and understand. And it frightened her. She wasn't sure she wanted to know why she knew things like the taste of a cigarette despite her utter certainty that she'd never smoked in her life. Or perhaps she just thought she did, with Domino smoking in serene confidence two feet away.
The silence had stretched too long, and Jean stood abruptly, legs and back protesting the long time spent still. "Let's go back to bed."
-=-
It had taken little effort to make Domino purr again, and Jean let herself lay on her side, stroking her still-damp skin as she considered the life she was now leading.
There were memories slowly drifting through her mind, but the true first memory she had was being in a bar, dancing in something that could barely be called clothing, and laughing up at a man. She never found out his name, because he let Domino cut in, and then the two of them were tangled, hands and fingers, Dom pressing Jean up against the wall to kiss her throat.
It had been easy to fall into Domino's bed, easy to let the brunette take her to a hotel room and strip her naked.
Easy to read her mind and roll around in her past, until Jean wasn't certain where she ended and Domino began. Not that the other woman was aware of that. Jean, herself, was only beginning to realize that's what she had done.
Into the silence, she asked, "How many people have you killed?"
Stupid question.
Jean knew, but she wanted to hear it, wanted to understand more than the memories and emotions of this woman who was paler than milk.
"Does it matter." Her skin seemed to grow cold under Jean's fingertips.
Staring down a rifle-scope, centering it perfectly for the kill shot. Feeling the adrenaline and control that came with having done this countless times. Jean knew they were not her memories. "I'd like to know how much more I might be remembering."
Domino's eyes went cold and flat, her voice was harsh when she replied. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
"I can read your mind, your memories--they're not mine, but I'm not sure what is mine anymore. I only know they're not mine, because they feel wrong, different."
Distrust flickering in her eyes, Domino shifted away from Jean. "How?"
"I don't know. But..." Feeling suddenly small, Jean wrapped her arms around herself. "You never had a childhood. I know that's wrong. Everyone should laugh in the sun and play catch with their puppy--" she wondered if those were her memories or someone else's, "I know, too, that you were stuck in Madripoor for far too long." Fighting, kicking, biting, and the sleazy looks--if Domino had been just a little older or a little younger... feeling sickened, Jean whispered, "God. If Logan--"
Logan.
"You're a dick."
Kaleidoscopic memory washed across her mind, triggered by that name. And the need for another.
Red eyes.
No.
Brown.
Not Logan's eyes, but someone else's. Someone important.
The bed shifted as Domino climbed out of it. "Look, Jean. I don't know who you are, but this isn't funny. I don't need no fuckin' trip down memory lane."
Scott's eyes were brown.
Scott.
How? How did she know that? How did she know any of this?
As though a switch had been thrown, Jean remembered. And she suddenly didn't want to.
So cold and alone, so scared, she'd called out for Scott. Not understanding everything, but knowing he was a rock. Something she could cling to. And like the man she'd known he was, he had come. Full of pain and anguish at her death (and laughter had consumed part of her at that very thought. Death had no hold on her), sadness and pain.
The emotions had pulled her from the water, dragged her from her dreams and loneliness.
But there was so much power, floating in the air, around her. The electricity had crackled down her fingertips, spilling into the air even before Scott had made the mistake of letting her touch him.
She'd been so frightened.
So full of power, it had consumed them both until there was nothing left but Jean, standing on a rock, the taste of Scott's mouth on hers.
Cold metal pressed against the back of her neck. "Don't move."
A laugh broke from Jean, but it wasn't happy. It cracked midway and broke into a thousand pieces. "Shoot me."
Not the answer Domino had been expecting, apparently. She faltered. "What?"
Jean turned, hands grabbing Domino's, pulling the barrel of the gun over her heart. "Shoot me. Kill. Me."
And Domino does. She'd been trained by the best, but even she couldn't help tightening her fingers at the stark terror in Jean's eyes. The report was loud, drowning out the sounds from the streets far below.
Tasting blood at the back of her throat, Jean coughed, and tried to smile. "Thank you..."
Power.
It had scared her so much she'd accidentally unraveled the component molecules of the man she loved. Jean felt it slide along her skin, slipping under her muscles and around her bones with a sort of horror she'd reserved once for roaches and particularly nasty hornets.
"Get back," she managed to croak, before her lungs were swallowed whole.
Power exploded, and Jean fought it, grabbing it and desperately hanging on before it unraveled the bed, Domino, the curtains or worse--the hotel itself. It wanted to. The power was chaotic and desired more than this normal life. It wanted to fly free, destroying and remaking as it saw fit.
--soldiers, ripped to shreds--
Jean remembered it all. Magneto, and the bridge. And before that, the woods and the mutants protesters. And finally, at the middle, Charles.
I am not a child.
The power licked hungrily at Domino's skin, wanting to taste her molecules, hungry to discover what building-blocks of life made her up and scatter them to the four winds.
Charles had died for the simple reason that he believed the worst of her. Jean had torn him apart with her mind, childish and angry that he could believe her so evil. It had been the truth, of course. She had killed Scott, and then she'd compounded it with Charles.
He'd died, trying to help her keep her humanity.
She'd been so young when he'd put the blocks in her mind. So uncertain of herself that the other side of her had frightened and repulsed her. It had been easier to forget it existed. Easier to live pretending to be innocent and whole.
Jean Grey was no longer a child.
Her eyes snapped open.
The room was still again, the sounds from the street filtering in through the open balcony doors. It was midday out there, the height of the afternoon heat pouring down on the streets below.
"What the fuck was that?" Domino's voice rang oddly in the still room.
Jean turned her head to find the brunette woman leaning against the wall, gun still in her hand. A shrug escaped her, "I'm a mutant."
"No shit, Sherlock," was the sarcastic reply. "But I shot you."
"Yeah." Carefully standing, Jean caught the bullet as it fell and looked at it before tossing it to Domino and moving to stare out the balcony doors. "You did."
"I could shoot you again."
"Don't bother." Jean suggested, turning quickly and grabbing for the skirt and shirt she'd been wearing. "Save them for the men coming up the elevator to kill you."
-=-
"The hotel is going to charge extra for the towels."
Jean finished tying the last man, and looked up at Domino. The fight had been short and violent, with half a dozen men spilling into the room. There'd been no chance to escape. One of the men had gone over the balcony, Dom had shot two, and the remaining three had been punched, kicked, and slammed into the wall before passing out. The physical exertion had left her panting, but pleased. It had felt almost human to use her fists and not her powers.
"There will be more of them. Before I blocked them out--" if she hadn't, she would have felt two of them die, and probably been reduced to being a gibbering idiot, "--they were talking about the hit that was out on you, and how the knowledge had been leaked you were staying here."
"You're very calm," Domino noted, having packed her guns back up and checked that she hadn't left any toiletries.
"I've been dead twice," replied Jean, her tone flippant, "It gives a bit of perspective."
"Neat trick."
Pain flashed up Jean's abdomen, as for a moment, she relived Wolverine's claws slicing into her. She sucked in a breath and shook the memory away. "But one I wouldn't suggest." She frowned, "Shouldn't we notify the authorities, or something?"
"Nah." Domino shrugged, "Someone'll find 'em. We, meanwhile, need to be gone."
"And you're not worried they'll have an arrest warrant out for you?" Jean prodded as they headed for the elevator.
Domino snickered, "Honey, I've had one in Munich since I was sixteen. One more ain't gonna really make me unwelcome here, as long as I've got the right amount of money."
It was a good point, but frighteningly cynical. Still, Domino was her only link to the present, and Jean was loathe to let her go quite so easily. "May I come with you?"
"Stay out of my head, my guns, my business and my way."
"Deal."
Domino held out a sheathed knife, "Strap it to your leg under the skirt. You might need it if we run into anymore of them. And don't go flashing those powers of yours around. Someone'll label you a target fast."
"Got it." Jean hiked up her skirt, not really noticing how much leg she was flashing as she cinched the strap around her lower leg. Glancing up, she noticed Domino's appreciative gaze, and frowned. Before all of this, Jean had definitely been into men. Scott, Logan... A few others along the way. But she'd appreciated the aesthetics of the women around her--'Ro, especially. "I thought you said to stay out of your business."
"I don't conduct business in bed, Jean."
The elevator opened before she could reply, and they joined a pack of teenagers and two older couples for the ride to the ground floor.
Jean let the silence reign until they were several blocks from the hotel, striding easily and looking like two tourists out for a stroll. "Do you conduct it in the shower?"
A smirk touched Domino's lips. "Depends."
Somewhere in the world were the people who'd loved her. They were the same people who'd killed her. And for the moment, Jean was going to stay far away from them. Until she got her head on straight and understood exactly what she could do. Electricity slithered up her arm, making her hair stand on end. Stop that.
Domino's hand smoothed them down.
-f-
Rating: ...PG13/R? Not much sex, but there are lesbians.
Fandom: X-Men movieverse. Post-movie three.
Pairing: Jean Grey/Domino, implied: Jean/Ororo, Jean/Scott, Jean/Logan
Words: 2,500+
Notes: Wow. Um. This was supposed to be a sequel to 'This Perfect Working Order', except that I forgot the original fic was comicverse and was halfway through and this was solidly movieverse, so I had to leave it so. Domino's origin in this is mostly her comic origin, with a few things different (no Nathan Summers...) The title is from 'Velvet Divorce' by the Sneaker Pimps.
This Perfect World Disorder
by ALC Punk!
The sunrise hadn't woken Jean up. It had merely been a convenient excuse for getting out of bed. Climbing free and moving out onto the balcony attached to the room she was sharing with Domino was a series of exercises in quiet. Waking Dom wasn't her goal. Not yet. Not with her mind full of memories that didn't feel like hers.
Jean settled on one of the wicker chairs, glad they were larger, befitting the style of the hotel. Her knees fit under her chin, her heels fit the edge of the seat.
Memories of walking in marketplaces she had never been danced through her mind. Dust swirled, and brilliant fabrics swayed, both clashing with the other. Faceless people milled, some laughing, some not. Cries for wares in languages Jean shouldn't know echoed in her mind.
There were people she should be remembering, but these were not them. Places, faces she'd loved, and yet, nothing save these other memories that taunt her with might-have-beens. Had there been children? Divorce? Husband? Had she been a cat-person or rather fond of dogs?
Jean knows her first name, and she knows her body isn't young, though it isn't old, either. If she was a doctor, perhaps she could tell more. Could run her long-fingered hands over her own pale-rose skin and tell a hundred tales of what had happened to it and where it had been. There was a slight callous on her index finger--from writing, possibly. And other light callouses on her palms and fingers.
Rubbing them down her legs, catching the smooth skin against them, she finally felt something that might be a memory.
-
It's not autumn, but it should be.
And he's laughing, head tipped back so she can't see the upper part of his face, which is all right, because she knows she's about to be scolded. And it's just such a silly rule.
"Jean, you forgot your gloves."
There it is, and she smiles, head tilting and lashes fluttering exaggeratedly, "I like feeling the grips."
He snorts, "You're going to ruin your hands."
She giggles, voice challenging when she replies, "Will you still love me when I'm old and calloused?"
Before he can answer, she tightens her hands, twists, and the motorcycle fires to life. Without a warning or a backward glance, she spins the bike and sashays across the yard, waiting for him to catch her. When he does, she takes off, letting the throttle out and feeling the wind tear at her eyes.
-
The feel of the wind rushing through her hair was so strong, that for a moment, Jean could see the dark green of the woods as they flashed by. Hands were on her waist, as she--as they--flew, braced against his chest and feeling his laughter as she took a curve too fast and had to push against the ground with her mind to steady them.
Her mind.
Jean's thoughts paused there, and Munich came back in a rush of sunrise and dogs barking, the smell of Domino's skin mixing with the coffee she must have ordered while Jean was lost.
"There are things I can't remember," Jean said. And her tone was harsh, raw with lack of sleep and emotion. "There are things I remember which make no sense."
"Yeah?" Domino dropped into the chair across from her, and then the scent of coffee was joined by the stench of her cigarette as she lit it without missing a beat. "What do you remember? Last night, I hope."
Her mind. There was something in her blood, something crawling under Jean's skin that told her the answer could be so easy to find and understand. And it frightened her. She wasn't sure she wanted to know why she knew things like the taste of a cigarette despite her utter certainty that she'd never smoked in her life. Or perhaps she just thought she did, with Domino smoking in serene confidence two feet away.
The silence had stretched too long, and Jean stood abruptly, legs and back protesting the long time spent still. "Let's go back to bed."
-=-
It had taken little effort to make Domino purr again, and Jean let herself lay on her side, stroking her still-damp skin as she considered the life she was now leading.
There were memories slowly drifting through her mind, but the true first memory she had was being in a bar, dancing in something that could barely be called clothing, and laughing up at a man. She never found out his name, because he let Domino cut in, and then the two of them were tangled, hands and fingers, Dom pressing Jean up against the wall to kiss her throat.
It had been easy to fall into Domino's bed, easy to let the brunette take her to a hotel room and strip her naked.
Easy to read her mind and roll around in her past, until Jean wasn't certain where she ended and Domino began. Not that the other woman was aware of that. Jean, herself, was only beginning to realize that's what she had done.
Into the silence, she asked, "How many people have you killed?"
Stupid question.
Jean knew, but she wanted to hear it, wanted to understand more than the memories and emotions of this woman who was paler than milk.
"Does it matter." Her skin seemed to grow cold under Jean's fingertips.
Staring down a rifle-scope, centering it perfectly for the kill shot. Feeling the adrenaline and control that came with having done this countless times. Jean knew they were not her memories. "I'd like to know how much more I might be remembering."
Domino's eyes went cold and flat, her voice was harsh when she replied. "What the fuck are you talking about?"
"I can read your mind, your memories--they're not mine, but I'm not sure what is mine anymore. I only know they're not mine, because they feel wrong, different."
Distrust flickering in her eyes, Domino shifted away from Jean. "How?"
"I don't know. But..." Feeling suddenly small, Jean wrapped her arms around herself. "You never had a childhood. I know that's wrong. Everyone should laugh in the sun and play catch with their puppy--" she wondered if those were her memories or someone else's, "I know, too, that you were stuck in Madripoor for far too long." Fighting, kicking, biting, and the sleazy looks--if Domino had been just a little older or a little younger... feeling sickened, Jean whispered, "God. If Logan--"
Logan.
"You're a dick."
Kaleidoscopic memory washed across her mind, triggered by that name. And the need for another.
Red eyes.
No.
Brown.
Not Logan's eyes, but someone else's. Someone important.
The bed shifted as Domino climbed out of it. "Look, Jean. I don't know who you are, but this isn't funny. I don't need no fuckin' trip down memory lane."
Scott's eyes were brown.
Scott.
How? How did she know that? How did she know any of this?
As though a switch had been thrown, Jean remembered. And she suddenly didn't want to.
So cold and alone, so scared, she'd called out for Scott. Not understanding everything, but knowing he was a rock. Something she could cling to. And like the man she'd known he was, he had come. Full of pain and anguish at her death (and laughter had consumed part of her at that very thought. Death had no hold on her), sadness and pain.
The emotions had pulled her from the water, dragged her from her dreams and loneliness.
But there was so much power, floating in the air, around her. The electricity had crackled down her fingertips, spilling into the air even before Scott had made the mistake of letting her touch him.
She'd been so frightened.
So full of power, it had consumed them both until there was nothing left but Jean, standing on a rock, the taste of Scott's mouth on hers.
Cold metal pressed against the back of her neck. "Don't move."
A laugh broke from Jean, but it wasn't happy. It cracked midway and broke into a thousand pieces. "Shoot me."
Not the answer Domino had been expecting, apparently. She faltered. "What?"
Jean turned, hands grabbing Domino's, pulling the barrel of the gun over her heart. "Shoot me. Kill. Me."
And Domino does. She'd been trained by the best, but even she couldn't help tightening her fingers at the stark terror in Jean's eyes. The report was loud, drowning out the sounds from the streets far below.
Tasting blood at the back of her throat, Jean coughed, and tried to smile. "Thank you..."
Power.
It had scared her so much she'd accidentally unraveled the component molecules of the man she loved. Jean felt it slide along her skin, slipping under her muscles and around her bones with a sort of horror she'd reserved once for roaches and particularly nasty hornets.
"Get back," she managed to croak, before her lungs were swallowed whole.
Power exploded, and Jean fought it, grabbing it and desperately hanging on before it unraveled the bed, Domino, the curtains or worse--the hotel itself. It wanted to. The power was chaotic and desired more than this normal life. It wanted to fly free, destroying and remaking as it saw fit.
--soldiers, ripped to shreds--
Jean remembered it all. Magneto, and the bridge. And before that, the woods and the mutants protesters. And finally, at the middle, Charles.
I am not a child.
The power licked hungrily at Domino's skin, wanting to taste her molecules, hungry to discover what building-blocks of life made her up and scatter them to the four winds.
Charles had died for the simple reason that he believed the worst of her. Jean had torn him apart with her mind, childish and angry that he could believe her so evil. It had been the truth, of course. She had killed Scott, and then she'd compounded it with Charles.
He'd died, trying to help her keep her humanity.
She'd been so young when he'd put the blocks in her mind. So uncertain of herself that the other side of her had frightened and repulsed her. It had been easier to forget it existed. Easier to live pretending to be innocent and whole.
Jean Grey was no longer a child.
Her eyes snapped open.
The room was still again, the sounds from the street filtering in through the open balcony doors. It was midday out there, the height of the afternoon heat pouring down on the streets below.
"What the fuck was that?" Domino's voice rang oddly in the still room.
Jean turned her head to find the brunette woman leaning against the wall, gun still in her hand. A shrug escaped her, "I'm a mutant."
"No shit, Sherlock," was the sarcastic reply. "But I shot you."
"Yeah." Carefully standing, Jean caught the bullet as it fell and looked at it before tossing it to Domino and moving to stare out the balcony doors. "You did."
"I could shoot you again."
"Don't bother." Jean suggested, turning quickly and grabbing for the skirt and shirt she'd been wearing. "Save them for the men coming up the elevator to kill you."
-=-
"The hotel is going to charge extra for the towels."
Jean finished tying the last man, and looked up at Domino. The fight had been short and violent, with half a dozen men spilling into the room. There'd been no chance to escape. One of the men had gone over the balcony, Dom had shot two, and the remaining three had been punched, kicked, and slammed into the wall before passing out. The physical exertion had left her panting, but pleased. It had felt almost human to use her fists and not her powers.
"There will be more of them. Before I blocked them out--" if she hadn't, she would have felt two of them die, and probably been reduced to being a gibbering idiot, "--they were talking about the hit that was out on you, and how the knowledge had been leaked you were staying here."
"You're very calm," Domino noted, having packed her guns back up and checked that she hadn't left any toiletries.
"I've been dead twice," replied Jean, her tone flippant, "It gives a bit of perspective."
"Neat trick."
Pain flashed up Jean's abdomen, as for a moment, she relived Wolverine's claws slicing into her. She sucked in a breath and shook the memory away. "But one I wouldn't suggest." She frowned, "Shouldn't we notify the authorities, or something?"
"Nah." Domino shrugged, "Someone'll find 'em. We, meanwhile, need to be gone."
"And you're not worried they'll have an arrest warrant out for you?" Jean prodded as they headed for the elevator.
Domino snickered, "Honey, I've had one in Munich since I was sixteen. One more ain't gonna really make me unwelcome here, as long as I've got the right amount of money."
It was a good point, but frighteningly cynical. Still, Domino was her only link to the present, and Jean was loathe to let her go quite so easily. "May I come with you?"
"Stay out of my head, my guns, my business and my way."
"Deal."
Domino held out a sheathed knife, "Strap it to your leg under the skirt. You might need it if we run into anymore of them. And don't go flashing those powers of yours around. Someone'll label you a target fast."
"Got it." Jean hiked up her skirt, not really noticing how much leg she was flashing as she cinched the strap around her lower leg. Glancing up, she noticed Domino's appreciative gaze, and frowned. Before all of this, Jean had definitely been into men. Scott, Logan... A few others along the way. But she'd appreciated the aesthetics of the women around her--'Ro, especially. "I thought you said to stay out of your business."
"I don't conduct business in bed, Jean."
The elevator opened before she could reply, and they joined a pack of teenagers and two older couples for the ride to the ground floor.
Jean let the silence reign until they were several blocks from the hotel, striding easily and looking like two tourists out for a stroll. "Do you conduct it in the shower?"
A smirk touched Domino's lips. "Depends."
Somewhere in the world were the people who'd loved her. They were the same people who'd killed her. And for the moment, Jean was going to stay far away from them. Until she got her head on straight and understood exactly what she could do. Electricity slithered up her arm, making her hair stand on end. Stop that.
Domino's hand smoothed them down.
-f-