Chapter Text
Aurora does not do star-struck.
What some may consider as a nonconformist stance, Jeanne-Marie considers it as a point of principle — and a boundary necessary to have when:
i. You are a world-class mutant superheroine, investigator, and adventurer;
ii. Your twin brother is, God have mercy, the one and only Northstar;
iii. Running into gods, billionaires, and cosmic entities in and out of the suit is hardly worth writing home about in this damning reality.
Though Jean-Paul’s the fastest of all mutantkind, Jeanne-Marie’s stellarly fast, and the comparison doesn’t matter when she can and will outrun the majority of the world around her; she’s faster than people can catch, and fame, in her informed opinion, moves far too slowly to be of value — to her, anyway.
Northstar’s having a grand time at this charity event she was originally dragged to for the sake of ‘keeping up appearances’, who is she to rain on his parade now that she’s decided to stay after the keynote speech and her first flute of fine wine?
“Lighten up,” Jean-Paul murmurs unhelpfully as he stands next to her, shoulder to shoulder, as the twins’ attires complement each other; the star athlete’s Brioni tuxedo in contrast to the pearl-white designer gown upon the tall woman’s frame, a black eight-pointed star adorned at the center of her torso.
Both monochromatic palettes, and yet — inverse of each other, complementary to each other, standing tall and steadfast side by side, being by each other’s side.
“No,” the evergreen scowl on Jeanne-Marie’s lips may be preventing her from offering a snippier response.
“You’re intimidating the donors.”
“Good. They should tread carefully when offering their pity money.”
“You don’t look like you’re having fun,” Northstar grins only a little, just enough to irritate Aurora. “You look like you’re getting paid to evaluate structural weaknesses.”
“There are structural weaknesses, matter of fact. In abundance. This place is a fire hazard.”
“It’s a ballroom, frangine. Not the Danger Room.”
“Just as burnable,” that retort, Aurora hopes, wins her the last word in this yet another war of words with Jean-Paul, ever so persistent; unlike her own self, of course. She is at this event, is she not? Politely feigned interest suffices plenty to count as ‘socialising’ in her book. Not in Northstar’s, as it seems.
“That so?” He hums. Annoyingly. Off-beat. On purpose. “It makes for a rather charming ice-breaker; you should tell that to Alison when she gets here.”
Aurora turns to him. “You invited Dazzler?”
He blinks. “No, darling, she has free will. And she was the performer this evening.”
“Oh.” A beat. Aurora composes herself. “Bien sûr. I knew that.”
“You’ve been here from the very start of the programme, Jeanne-Marie,” Northstar continues to whisper, now looking like a kicked puppy. “how could you have missed Dazzler’s performance?”
‘I tuned her out,’ Aurora doesn’t say.
“My best friend, globally and multiversally recognised disco-pop icon, fabulously roller-skating lightshow—”
“I know who she is, Jean-Paul.”
“— has bestowed upon us with one of the most transcendental performances in history right on that stage behind you, and you didn’t realise she was here the whole time? How?”
“Easy, I tuned her out,” Aurora does say, this time, with a non-committal shrug. “I’m happy you think highly of her, Jean-Paul, but I don’t really care about her like that,” she takes a cursory sip of her glass. “I prefer opera, you know.”
His jaw agape, a hand on his chest, Jean-Paul stares in horror. “Take that back, now.”
Aurora smiles — the first time, perhaps, that night. “No.”
“Jeanne-Mar—”
“Aww, Northstar, it’s fine,” A friendly voice shatters the lavaesque flow of the twins’ conversation — alongside Aurora’s momentary sense of triumph over rage-baiting her quick-tempered brother — as Dazzler joins them finally and wraps an arm around Northstar for a brief side-hug, greeting her best friend with affection off the bat — and that smile of hers; that beaming, charismatic, smile of hers that never fails to reach her teal blue eyes. “Aurora’s fine. People can like different things, y’know.”
“Oh—” Fuck, Dazzler heard that? Fuck, fuck. Praying her poker face is still intact, Aurora promptly manages a deceptively smooth, “—Alison. Bonne soirée.”
The singer tilts her head. “Sorry?”
Now is Northstar’s time to step in, smoothen the wrinkles, and shine — especially when his grin matches his dazzling friend’s.
“Dazzler doesn’t speak a word of French, Aurora,” he informs, smugly revelling in the knowledge that Jeanne-Marie is absolutely regretting not shittalking in their mother-tongue from the first word. “And Aurora has been awfully preoccupied with work, Alison; the toil of it is catching up to her, she’s only here at my insistence — apologies, and thank you, dear sister,” his smile broadens, effectively pissing off Aurora even more.
“Oh, right, yeah! You mentioned you were doing field work, right?” Alison turns to Jeanne-Marie. “How’s that been going? Stress aside, of course.”
“Yes,” Did I tell Alison that before? Though not as bright nor wide, Aurora still manages a smile for her— well, his companion. “It’s going excellently. Just…” Say something, you do field work every day and you get paid for it. “… stressful.” C'est malade.
“That’s understandable, I hope it gets easier for you soon,” Alison tilts her head, smiling. “Nevertheless, you’re handling it well, if I’m bein’ honest; you look really good.”
‘Dazzler thinks I’m pretty?’
No, Aurora— she— Alison— complimented your outfit, Christ.
“Fabulously so,” Jean-Paul says, before making a brief motion with his empty flute. “Catch you in a minute, ladies. That Domaine d'Auvenay in the corner is calling my name.”
And of fucking course Northstar is gone in literal picoseconds, leaving Aurora alone with Dazzler — and Dazzler with Aurora. Between the two luminaries, one in shades of greys and one in hues of blue, who knows who’s drawn the unluckier card?
“White wine, right?”
Jeanne-Marie blinks at Alison. “Pardon?”
“What Jay-Pee just mentioned,” Alison clarifies, coolly. “that’s the name of some white wine brand, isn’t it?”
“Yes,” Aurora nods while briefly — subtly — studying the other woman’s face; relaxed, casual, not desperate for an answer — but still wanting one anyway, it’s as if… Alison wants to hear it from Aurora? No, that — isn’t it, I’m just overthinking this, of course. “You have… guessed right.”
“Oh, neat. Lucky me,” Dazzler laughs — as performers do, Aurora tells herself. Performers have a knack for engaging, connecting, reaching, making you feel seen. This is no different, and yet, Jeanne-Marie finds herself affected when the singer continues, “That, and I was hopin’ I’d see you tonight.”
“Me?” Jeanne-Marie tilts her head.
“Mhm,” Alison casually confirms. “Yeah, you. I feel like we’ve only ever talked in passin’ —”
“Occupational hazard,” Aurora interrupts with that polite addendum; nothing personal, she has no real reason to not want to talk to Dazzler.
“— right, yes, but still, I find it ridiculous, ‘cause like, you’re you! How can I miss you when we have such overlappin’ circles?”
Aurora genuinely doesn’t know how to process this conversation anymore, which is not saying much considering she’s still reeling in from her earlier social faux pas of talking shit about Dazzler right in front of Dazzler — and yet, it is Dazzler, somehow, who appears to be the star-struck one in this conversation? Jeanne-Marie has never pegged Alison for a fan of Canadian superheroes — but God knows what is possible and what isn’t anymore, fuck if I know what to do.
Maybe paying attention would be a good place to start, considering Alison has been talking for the past however-long and not just for the sake of talking, she’s actually invested, trying to engage in something mutual with Jeanne-Marie beyond the surface-level chitchat.
“—Then Jay-Pee said— you know how he is—” Dazzler’s voice is liquid pools of poetry melted into honey, even and especially when she speaks conversationally. “—of course, but like I swear he’s got to— and then one time in Berlin—”
Jeanne-Marie can tell Alison has a tendency towards jumping between topics as if it is an Olympic sport — but it is not scattered, if she’s being honest; just bright, energetic, and full of life, the way Alison circles back to previous topics she’s leapt from and asks questions with the expectant tone of hearing Jeanne-Marie out, as if Dazzler did mean it when she said she was happy to see Aurora tonight. Or was she just hoping to see her? With what motives, exactly? Of what service could Jeanne-Marie possibly be to Alison Blaire, at this dime-a-dozen charity event?
(Mon dieu.)
“And then my bodyguard was like, ‘Ali, you can’t just wander off,’—” Dazzler never forgets to pause and smile during specific moments, to assess and check for Aurora’s reactions as though Aurora’s her one-woman audience. “—and I was like, ‘consider this, I want to!’ — but anyway, have you ever been to the CFB— actually, on a second thought, I bet you have, you’ve been everywhere, I saw the photos—”
Jeanne-Marie nods at appropriate intervals, contributing when she can and even curling up the corners of lips occasionally, but most importantly —
“— Hello? Down to earth, Miss Beaubier?”
“Right, sorry— Yes?”
“I was askin’ if it’s all right for me to call you Jeanne-Marie?” Ali says, before elaborating with a light tone, “or if I should stick to Aurora? Both are pretty names, of course, they suit you very well — I just don’t wanna assume we’re on a first-name basis, you know?”
“I…” She just called me pretty, didn’t she? Again, isn’t it? “Of course, Ali— Alison, we are…” Exhaling, Jeanne-Marie smiles again. “…on a first-name basis, indeed. Don’t assume otherwise.”
“Great! And you can call me anythin’, darlin’,” Dazzler grins at her, eyes scrunching in delight. “‘Ali’’s perfectly fine.”
It has to be again.
Aurora inhales.
She must.
Dazzler’s nice.
And not just nice.
She’s nice, and considerate, and attentive, not just treating this like a PR celebrity interaction that would look good on the cameras or headlines.
She’s treating Jeanne-Marie like —
(Like I matter.)
— And…
…
‘Am I fucking dissociating?’
Ridiculous. This is downright absurd.
Aurora does not get flustered because someone is nice to her.
Plenty of people are nice to her; plenty aren’t. Neither group settles her, Aurora has seen, lived, and braved worse.
As a matter of fact, she’s loved, dated, and slept with worse, too, and still goes on with her life as usual.
But this? Yet this?
This is a problem.
Alison laughs at something — something Aurora’s just said? apparently? — and reaches out, briefly, touches her arm.
Just a light, casual contact.
Jeanne-Marie short-circuits.
‘Holy fuck, Dazzler is fine.’
(What?)
“Sorry,” Alison says, withdrawing her hand just as easily, to Aurora’s relief and mild puzzlement. “I gesture a lot when I talk, I’ll—”
Before Aurora can register what Alison is even apologising for, the blonde continues, this time with a tilt of her head: “I’m sorry, I hope this doesn’t come across as too forward…”
Oh God, why do I suddenly feel so flushed? Why’s she looking at me like that?
“… but, Jeanne-Marie, are you all right?” Dazzler’s hands lift again, this time in pre-emptive reassurance. “No, like, it’s fine, of course, no pressure — you just seem to have a lot on your mind at the moment, like…” The songstress pauses, searching for suitable words again, animated hands slowing down to match. “… you’re here, but also somewhere else?”
Ah.
That.
Astute observation, not bad for a popstar.
“… I apologise,” Jeanne-Marie finally responds, quieter, deliberate. She’s not sure if she can manage a reassuring smile, but she does make it a point to add, “I didn’t mean to space out.”
“Hey,” Alison says, lowering her voice to match Jeanne-Marie’s. “It’s all good, please don’t be sorry. Just checkin’ in, Aurora; if you’re overwhelmed or you wanna bail, I can — well — stop talkin’, or talk less, or —”
“I don’t want you to stop talking,” Jeanne-Marie counters, a little too fast. “Carry on.”
Alison pauses —
Studies Aurora’s face for a beat, then smiles again, understanding;
“Okay.”
And doesn’t push; Dazzler doesn’t press, linger, or dwell.
She carries on.
This is a significant problem.
A deeply attractive problem with cascading waves of golden locks, eyes that put most gemstones to shame, and a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it glow that appears to reflect the very warmth that Dazzler radiates.
Aurora clenches her jaw, imperceptible.
This is a humiliating problem to have.
Everybody likes Dazzler. For crying out loud, it’s Alison “Alison fucking Blaire” Blaire: pretty tall blonde, fit and flexible and fashionable, successful in every metric, aspirational, ambitious, admirable, and on top of all that, nice. Super nice.
Having a crush on her is achingly redundant.
Not that this is a crush, just — receptiveness.
Aurora is simply welcoming the energy Alison is so generously sending her way.
“You are very good at this,” Aurora comments.
“At ramblin’?”
“At making people feel seen.”
Alison huffs a small laugh. “Occupational hazard, I reckon.”
“That is not a hazard.”
“It can be,” she says, pausing for the slightest fraction as her gaze lingers on Aurora for half a second long, half a second longer than necessary. “But — thank you,” Her eyes glisten, her smile softens. “Jeanne-Marie.”
It’s the way that Alison lingers, not just physically — but the way she holds onto those three syllables as if she enjoys saying her name.
And that’s when Aurora’s mind decides to unhelpfully supply: ‘You can flirt. She doesn’t seem like she’d mind, even if you misinterpreted all of this… somehow.’
Aurora shuts that down immediately —
For the love of— I CANNOT just impulsively hook up with DAZZLER.
That’s a a bad idea.
A catastrophically bad idea.
For many reasons that Jeanne-Marie can list off at the speed of light:
i. Primary among them: Jean-Paul would never let her live it down, mon dieu.
ii. Also: dignity.
iii. Also: common sense.
iv. Also: the fact that this is probably just Dazzler being nic—
“Aurora,” Alison leans in, noticeably closer, as if to tell Aurora something important over the cacophony reigning over the crowded room when she whispers, “I’m really glad you came today.”
Now the tips of her ears feel flushed.
“My brother had to practically tug me here,” Aurora downplays.
Alison grins. “I’ll have to thank him, then.”
“Please don’t encourage him.”
“No promises,” a melodious chuckle. “besides, you know Jean-Paul doesn’t need any encouragin’.”
Jeanne-Marie exhales slowly.
This is… manageable. Nice, if she may.
There’s nothing to make a mountain out of.
She can handle this.
That is until Alison asks, casual and also not, “So, are you stayin’ long?”
Aurora blinks.
Oh no.
That is not casual. It’s loaded. Aurora knows that tone, that very register Ali is using.
And then there it is, in the air, that Aurora can feel: the fork in the road. The sensible choice, on one hand. And on another…
The other option.
“I hadn’t decided,” Aurora finally answers, cautiously — and with a semblance of judgement.
“We could get out of here,” Hands behind her back, golden eyebrows arch, cherry lips quirk. Alison tilts her head. “If you want.”
Well, of course it’s if I want. What a punchy use of that ‘if’.
There’s no need for a verdict to arrive, Jeanne-Marie has made up her mind long ago; in other words?
To hell with being cautious tonight.
“Lead the way, Ali.”
“Join me, Jeanne-Marie.”