xp_logs | Scott and Jean-Paul

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Jean-Paul goes for a late night run and stumbles across Scott playing saxophone in the stables.

Another restless night, with nightmares that were more bad memories than actual dreams, the kind that left him hollow and heavy with regrets instead of scared out of his mind. Jean-Paul didn't know how hard he'd have to work to get rid of them this time, so he suited up, just in case he needed something that would stand up to a high-velocity flight better than sweats.

He started out running, doing irregular, twisted laps of the campus. A long, plaintive note caught his ear few steps past the stables and he skidded to a halt, leaving a long furrow in the snow. The dead of night was not a time one expected to hear saxophone music, particularly not out of the horse shed. The music didn't seem as if it came from a radio either; the sound was too immediate.

While the warmth of the stables had little effect on his senses, the dim yellow light of the barn lanterns and the scents of hay, oats, and the oddly pleasant pungency of the horses made the place seem cozy and isolated from the outside world. He considered leaving; whoever was here was probably seeking privacy.

The music continued for a few moments, the tune unfamiliar and oddly wistful. Then it paused, as if the sound of the door opening had just registered. "Hello?" a voice that was unmistakably Scott's called out.

Too late to retreat now.

"It is Jean-Paul, come to see what talented breed of horse was making that sound." He followed the voice and found Scott sitting in one of the empty stalls near the door. "It's not outside the realm of possibility here, you know."

"Mutant sax-playing horses. Now there's a frightening thought." Scott leaned back against the wooden wall of the stall, eying the other man. "You're up late," he observed. "And yes, I know that's the pot calling the kettle black."

"Bad dreams. You think I'd learn one of these days that they can't be outrun." Jean-Paul leaned against the wall, wrists crossed at the small of his back. "I do not know the piece, but that was nice."

"Thank you. I really ought to gather my courage and play somewhere outside the stables one of these days. But I rather like my little post-midnight escape method." Scott's fingers moved unconsciously on the keys of the instrument, another song, or perhaps the same one, played in silence. "I'm trying to outrun a bad dream myself," he said, almost abruptly. "They come and go sporadically. They've been coming a little more than they've been going, lately."

"Fears or regrets?" The question was quiet and lacking Jean-Paul's usual casualty.

"Both. Tonight in my dreams I was giving a eulogy at Alex's funeral." Scott's smile was faint and twisted. "I think that translates into an expectation that our four missing people are going to be declared dead one of these days, and worry about who's going to be next. So," he went on, more briskly, "I come out here and torture the sax, and then I can face the day with an appropriately Zen-like demeanor again. It's amazing how well it works."

Jean-Paul shook his head. "I don't know how you do not go mad, Scott, carrying all of us around with you."

"Oh, I did," Scott said, his lips twitching. "I went quite mad - and then came out the other side. It's very nice over here. Admittedly, you spend a certain amount of time wondering why some things don't affect you as much as they should. And the detachment creeps people out sometimes. But it's much better for one's blood pressure."

"It does not show." Jean-Paul contemplated one of the hay bales beside Scott for a minute, then took a seat just beyond arm's reach. "I was talking with the new boy the other day. Julian? We watched a bad movie and talked about saving the world."

"Saving the world, huh? I hadn't had much time to talk to him," Scott said thoughtfully. "He wouldn't be the first student to show up with leanings in that direction." The crooked smile Jean-Paul got was more than a little self-deprecating. "We don't do a very good job of discouraging them, unfortunately."

"I added the appropriate caveats during the talk, but I think he is still determined. I hope it does not cost him very much. I also wonder what the hell I am doing, trying to be responsible for other people."

"The Cyclops half of my soul can't help but reflect on how useful telekinetics are. Especially ones likely to be trained by teeks already experienced in using their powers productively. The Scott half would like to see him have more of a normal life." Scott sighed, running a hand down the sax. "As for you, my friend, it's the casualty of being older and experienced, I think. They react to you expecting words of wisdom."

"Is it that close to you? Being leader of the X-Men?" It was hard for him to comprehend; 'Northstar' was still something he wore, even after all of this time. Just one more name of many.

Scott gave that some thought before he answered. "I try and keep a balance," he said, "but yes. Unfortunately. To a certain degree I'm almost always 'on stage'. I suppose I've learned to live with it, to an extent."

"That part much I can understand, at least. I suppose wanting the position makes a difference as well." After a few moments, "I do not want to get it wrong again."

Scott gave another faint smile, this one with a spark of real humor in it. "I think you're doing just fine so far, if you want my opinion. But you also need to keep in mind that we all make mistakes sometimes with these kids. It's inevitable. It doesn't make you feel any less like shit when it happens, but we're only human."

"I dreamed of my father," Jean-Paul said abruptly, looking away. "He wasn't...I never called him that. I did not have good luck with any of the men who claimed they wanted to be my father and I did not want to jinx it. He took on the job out of nowhere and I wound up disappointing him, with the skiing. He thought I was using my powers, that I was going to hurt myself in the long run. We fought over it and never made things quite right with each other. He was killed soon after a came out as a mutant and I couldn't..." He let out a breath. "That was what I was dreaming of. I kept trying to tell him that he had been right, that I was...sorry, and it made no difference. Waking up doesn't change that, unfortunately."

Scott was silent for a long moment, processing that particular revelation. "As much as the memories clearly still trouble you," he said finally, almost carefully, "can I suggest that you're honoring him, being here, doing what you're doing? I don't doubt that some of these kids won't listen - but some of them will."

"Maybe someday you can get me drunk and get that whole ridiculous story out of me, hm? Merci, Scott." Jean-Paul closed his eyes and leaned against the wall at his back. "I'll leave if you would like your privacy back, but I hope you will not mind if I stay."

"Plenty of room out here," Scott said idly, raising the sax into a playing position again. "Any requests? With the caveat that my tastes run almost exclusively to jazz."

"I'll trust to your taste tonight. Though...I'd like to know how the piece I walked in on ends."