British Airways

Disclaimer: No ownership, no profit.

AN: This is a slightly AU fic, also set some years in the future. I think Jubilee’s meant to be between eighteen and twenty in current canon, and she is twenty-three in this fic. I know very little about current canon, also, so if something seems a little sketchy, it’s because I haven’t been bothered to read comics in a while. In my little brain, Jubilee met Wolverine when she was thirteen, joined Generation X at fifteen, and was de-powered at eighteen. She did a stint with the New Warriors, none of which I have read, so I know next to nothing about them, and has been bopping round the globe doing various merc stints here and there.

In this fic, Elizabeth Braddock (formerly Psylocke) is Captain Britain, her brother Brian is the King of England. The members of Excalibur are as follows: Captain Britain, Juggernaut, Pete Wisdom, Dazzler, Sage, Nocturne, and Jubilee. Wisdom and Sage are not getting it on.
The pairing in this fic is Pete Wisdom/Jubilation Lee. If this squicks you, puh-lease, she’s an adult. If you don’t see how it could possibly work, read on and find out. And, above all, share your opinion.

Jubilee POV

I've gotta be honest here. The first thing that came to me when Betts called and asked me to come to London was, 'oh, God, the ticket prices are murder at this time of year.' The second was, 'what the fuck am I even considering this for?' I mean, the X has chewed me up and spat me out on more than one occasion. I'm the last person to be picked for anything, especially now that I'm not much more than a flatscan. I mean, yeah, Dwayne fitted me out with a pink gimp outfit and some kick-ass gauntlets, but now that's over and done with, and I don't know what the fuck Captain Britain wants with me.

So here I am. Gatwick airport, London. Dis-fucking-gusting. I hate this place. It's a cesspool. Even the little smoking areas aren't as empty as they used to be, and I have to step outside with my duffel and Davidoffs to get a decent smoke. It's chilly and grey and damp, but not raining. It's too late in the day. I glance at my watch and do a quick calculation. Ye Gods. It's nearly nine pm, and no sight of a pickup.
I hail a cab, hefting my bag, and direct the driver to take me to the Crown. It's the only place with directions I remember, and being an unknown in a merc bar is probably the safest place I could be this late in the City.

It's a fifteen minute ride, and costs nearly ten quid, but I figure it's worth it, if Her Royal Captainness hauls her head out of her arse and gives me a ring. I, of course, have no contact info. 'For my own safety.'
The Crown is crowded, and it takes me a moment to shoulder my way in, but once I do, I'm astonished to realise that I can hardly be an unknown. I know at least thirty percent of the mercs and operatives nursing drinks and cigarettes, and I light up a Davidoff as I trundle toward an empty booth. Shoving my duffel into the seat, I hail a waitress and order a pint of lager and a basket of chips. She nods, placing an ashtray and a coaster in front of me, and as she leaves, I notice a couple men glancing my way. They're both nondescript, in neat black slacks and white button-downs, black ties. If they had backpacks, I'd probably pin them as Mormons, but they don't have those here, do they? They're pleasant-featured, with hard eyes and big hands, and they'd be difficult to describe. Late thirties, early forties, handsome, ordinary. Dark-haired, medium height and weight. One of them catches my eye and salutes me with his Newcastle brown. I exhale a cloud of acrid smoke and nod back.

He moves toward me, and despite the practiced casualness of his gait, I can see the unhindered smoothness, the grace and balance. I already know he's dangerous. Interpol, probably, undercover. Someone official, but whose name doesn't appear on any records. Anywhere.

'Would you mind if I sat here, Miss Lee?' his voice is low, a bland, unidentifiable British accent, practicedly modulated. So, he knows who I am. Whatever that means.

'Please.' I'm pasting on the valley girl before I realise it's happening, forcing my accent into syrupy SoCal goodness, but I'm pretty sure he's seeing right through it. He sits down, slowly, and leans forward on his forearms.

'You don't think Patch would be a little uncomfortable to know you're smoking?' his smile is unexpected, but his reference to my time in Madripoor is just the thing I need to recognize him.

'Ho-lee shit. Rasmussen. The fuck you doing here?'

'I'm from here.' his eyes are suddenly just a little less icy, and by reading his body language, he's just here for a drink. 'I didn't expect to see you. I thought you and Patch went back to the States.'

'We did.'

'Still working together?'

'Nah. Haven't been for the past eight years.' saying it always makes me shrivel up a little. I remember when it hit the five-year mark, I was twenty, and devastated that he barely called any more. Now, I just laugh to think about how long I held on.

'Has it been that long?' Rasmussen takes a pull of his beer, laying his hands flat on the vinyl table. He leaves finger-prints in the residual grease.

'I'm surprised you recognized me.' I was barely thirteen when I met Rasmussen.

'Your eyes used to be blue, but there's no mistaking that trademark pout.'

'Are you saying I still look like jailbait?' I surprise myself by smiling flirtatiously and batting my lashes.

'No, not at all.' he returns the look, and I can tell he's checking me out, though his visual tour of my body is somewhat impeded by the table between us. 'You've certainly grown up.' he pauses as the waitress delivers my pint and chips. 'So, how long are you in town?'

'I don't know. My services were required.' I roll my eyes.

'I see you've just gotten in from the airport.'

'Yeah.'

'And who's picking you up?'

'I don't know.' I shrug, faking carelessness. But damn it, this hurts. I should be used to this by now. I've always been the one everyone forgot about. 'They've been very discreet with their cell phone numbers. And I wasn't about to sit around sucking my thumb at Gatwick.'

'Do you need a ride anywhere, then?'

I snort, in a decidedly unladylike fashion, and mutter, 'As if I knew where to go. Nah, I'm gonna finish my beer and call a number I'm not meant to know.' I smear a couple chips through mayonnaise and chow down.
He glances up, and over at his partner. An almost imperceptible sign passes between the two, and Rasmussen reaches into his jacket, bringing out a note of twenty pounds, wraps a business card in it. 'Drinks are on me, little Lee. And if you're ever in a bind, ring this number.' he lays the two on the table in front of me and leaves, setting his Newcastle on the bar.

The minutes tick idly past as I finish my chips, drain my beer, and slowly deplete my cigarette. Just as I'm beginning to lose hope, my cell jangles to life, blaring Five for Fighting's 'Kryptonite,' my own private little jab at all the wearers of the X. 'Well, hello there, Braddock.' I fight to keep my tone civil.

'Ain't Braddock.'

'Wisdom.' I'd know that smarmy git's voice anywhere. Remy introduced me to
him a few years back, while I was hanging upside down with a laser strapped to my forehead. He'd helped our little heist go down without a hitch, and I'd be lying if I said I hadn't understood why Pryde was so devastated when he'd kicked her out of bed. 'I'm at the Crown. Come have a pint with me, some sexy operative gave me twenty quid.'

'I was told not ter letchyer near th' Underbelly,' he began peremptorily,
'an' wot's th' first thing yer go an' do? Yer probably draped across some overmuscled cape, pissed half dead an' about ter start weeping. Ye Gods! Why'm I in charge of all th' fecking tough pickups?'

'Cause half-pissed little American girls can't resist your incredible sex appeal. Now get your ass over here and help me finish my chips.'

'Yer wish is my command, me luvly.' the voice at my shoulder makes me leap out of my skin. Damn, the man is good. Fucking good. Hel-lo blue eyes. I snap my phone closed, and he slides into the booth, already armed with a Jack and Coke.

'Wisdom.'

'Lee. Yer look good. No wonder bloody Rasmussen was pervin' all over yer.' his snarky smile goes straight to my gut, and I wave at the waitress to bring me another pint.

'He was not perving on me.' I protest, but weakly.

'Oh, come on! If his eyes weren't glued inter 'is skull, they would've dropped down yer cleavage.'

'Bollocks. How long have you been watching me, anyhow?'

'I was in 'ere when yer arrived.'

'And you didn't feel it was at all necessary to pop over and say hello?'

'Well, I panicked, like. I thought yer was gettin' in tomorrow. Was wonderin' why Braddock wasn't keepin' tabs on me when I left. Then you showed up an' proved me wrong. I'm just hopin' you'll cover for me.'
Meow. Just say the word. I narrow my eyes. 'So, was Rasmussen really checking out my tits?'

'You can't blame th' poor bugger. They're fantastic tits, luv.' he leans over the table for a better view, and I wish, for a moment, that I could throw a handful of sparks down his trousers, but it's been a few years since White Day, and I've always been good at adaptation. I reach forward and grab his nose.

'Get your smarmy face out of my cleavage, Pete.' I think he detects the half-heartedness in my protests, because his smile turns downright lascivious.

'But it's so bloody cute.' his brows waggle suggestively. 'Specially since yer all flushed.'

'I am not!' I glance down at my chest, over which a faint pink glow has begun to spread.

'Yer are. An' I'm havin' really dirty thoughts about yer flushed cleavage, an' yer black hair twisted round me fingers as I pull your head back an' have my filthy way with you.' God help me, I'm a sucker for boys who talk dirty. Of course, I've also learnt to handle myself, and, letting go of his nose, manage a groin-heating smile, which deepens as I watch it hit home. Pete leans back and steals my cigarette from the ashtray. 'Logan would have kittens if he knew yer was—' I hold up a hand.

'First of all, Wisdom, Logan is not exactly my guardian any longer. I happen to be twenty four, and perfectly capable of choosing my poison, so to speak. Secondly, I rarely smoke. Only en transit. And when I'm insufferably horny with no outlet for my frustration.'

'No outlet?' a brow lifts, and he's very purposefully staring at the table. 'That's right tragic.'

'Is it really?'

'Well, considering yer a pocket rocket of an Asian bird with a mercifully gorgeous rack and,' he peers under the table, with a studious air, 'legs that go on for bloody miles, well...it's tragic that you're unable to find a randy bloke upon whom to vent yer frustrations.'

'Indeed.' Damn. Think about this, Lee. The man shagged Kitty for two years. He's going to be your boss. Do you really want to push this further than it needs to go? ‘Well, how does one go about finding a randy bloke upon whom to vent frustrations in this lovely country of yours?’
His smile was quick and mischievous, his eyes already darkened with lust.

‘Well, lemme give yer a few quick pointers.’
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(More to come. Please review.)