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xp_logsJean-Phillipe retreats to the lake after being called out on Clarice's journal and discusses what few options he has with Jean-Paul.
The sole upside to Nate being so ill was that Jean-Paul didn't need to hover (even if he was choosing to, for the most part); a telepathic patient meant that you didn't have to be within physical shouting distance to be summoned for help. Jean-Paul craved the bracing, mind-clearing snap of cold air, but his mutation assured that was not going to happen. The best he could do was head out to get a breath of air that didn't smell like bile and sour stomach and be glad it didn't come with any guilt. That was something, however small.
The days were slowly warming, but the nights were still freezing. There was snow on the ground, though the constant foot traffic around the school and the boathouse had worn away most of it. The lake was likely a loss for bearing weight at the center, iced or no, but the edges were still solidly frozen. The speedster paced the ice slowly, letting himself be distracted by simply trying to keep his feet.
Jean-Phillipe was into his third cigarette when Jean-Paul happened upon him at the lakeside, the smoke mixing with his breath in the freezing air to slightly obscure his scowling face. He fished out a fourth and chained it off of the remains of the third, taking one last drag before flicking the glowing butt out towards the center of the lake. He watched it fall into a small pool of slush as it melted away the ice around it. At this rate, someone would probably come out of the mansion just to berate him for being a litterbug.
"You're out of your room," Jean-Paul hailed, heading up the bank. He hadn't actually set eyes on the young Frenchman since before Christmas. Seeing him out and about was almost a surprise. "Did the curtains catch fire or did the anti-smoking brigade start sharpening pitchforks?"
"I do not know about anti-smoking, but I am sure Ferguson would like to put me on a pitchfork, probably with the assistance of my cousin." He could have chainsmoked in his room, but in his snit he'd felt the need to be somewhere other than the mansion, even if it was simply out on the grounds. And the biting cold at the lakeside had suited his foul mood as well.
Ah. The journals again. Nothing quite like having to guess at the tone of single line of text to stir up more drama.
"If it's any consolation, Clarice would probably settle for a knee to the groin. Marie-Ange would probably take her pitchfork for herself, though." Ordinarily, Jean-Paul wouldn't have minded the smell of tobacco, but his nose was feeling unduly put-upon, so he settled for staying a bit upwind. "Are two girls that all that is chewing on you?" Not possible, given what the young man had confessed earlier, and Jean-Paul doubted the situation had improved.
Jean-Phillipe grunted and took another long drag on his cigarette, his shoulders hunched over, partly against the chill and partly a defensive posture. "Non. I feel like I am going...what is the phrase? Stir crazy?" The expression seemed insufficient to summarize what he was feeling. It was as though his skin were several sizes too small, and he had excessive difficulty sitting still, which was hard considering how much time he spent in his room attempting to avoid people.
"That is not uncommon when you spend a month locked in one room." Jean-Paul watched the miserable young man at his side for a few moments. Jean-Phillipe's defenses were up and he was holding to his cigarette as if it were the only thing making life at all tolerable. "So you've gotten to the point where keeping safe in hiding has lost it's appeal, but you do not want anything to do with the people here either? I wonder if you are still worrying about how others see you, or perhaps you are sick of thinking of them at all -- " Jean-Paul cut himself off with a snort. "Pardon. The telepaths aren't the only people around here who project."
Jean-Phillipe grimaced. "Am I truly that transparent?" He sighed gustily. "When I have to leave my room, it is as though I feel everyone's eyes on me. I know that is ridiculous," he said with a wave of his hand, "because only the X-Men know the entire truth about the things that I did. But still."
"Still. Secrets have a way of escaping; you still have to wonder who knows or who would tell. Even aside from that, even if they do not know, looking at them makes you think of the whole mess, hm?" Jean-Paul flicked his gaze out over the lake. The ice looked like dull silver under the moon. At least the colors were cold. "There are several ways to deal with this. I'm not a proponent of full disclosure, at least at this point."
"Yes, because I really -want- the entire population of the mansion crying for my head on a pole," Jean-Phillipe muttered. "What else would you suggest, then?"
"Honestly? The first would be distance, but I'm not sure this is an option in your case. I do not see your former leader as a man who forgives and forgets and I do not think you qualify for the Canadian exchange program." Jean-Paul considered. "Unfortunately, simply not giving a damn is easier said than done."
"Distance would be nice." The mansion was starting to feel like a fish bowl to him. He'd come there under false pretenses, and now he had no real reason to be there other than fear of reprisal.
"I'm not familiar with all of the school's satellites, but perhaps one of them would be a more attractive option than staying here or simply going out into the world. I assume that being in the same outfit as your cousin would be low on your list of choices, but perhaps you could find a purpose with one of the others? Nathan might have some ideas on that front."
"To be honest, what I would most like is a vacation. Anywhere but here, and preferably warmer. But I cannot see anyone agreeing to that." Jean-Phillipe shrugged.
"The only places I could offer would be considerably colder, yes. Ask around. Perhaps you will be lucky." Jean-Paul glanced back toward the boathouse. "As much of a temptation as it is to stay out here with handsome company all night, I had better get back to my patient."
"Bon soir, Monsieur Beaubier," Jean-Phillipe murmured as he began trudging back toward the mansion, deep in thought.
The sole upside to Nate being so ill was that Jean-Paul didn't need to hover (even if he was choosing to, for the most part); a telepathic patient meant that you didn't have to be within physical shouting distance to be summoned for help. Jean-Paul craved the bracing, mind-clearing snap of cold air, but his mutation assured that was not going to happen. The best he could do was head out to get a breath of air that didn't smell like bile and sour stomach and be glad it didn't come with any guilt. That was something, however small.
The days were slowly warming, but the nights were still freezing. There was snow on the ground, though the constant foot traffic around the school and the boathouse had worn away most of it. The lake was likely a loss for bearing weight at the center, iced or no, but the edges were still solidly frozen. The speedster paced the ice slowly, letting himself be distracted by simply trying to keep his feet.
Jean-Phillipe was into his third cigarette when Jean-Paul happened upon him at the lakeside, the smoke mixing with his breath in the freezing air to slightly obscure his scowling face. He fished out a fourth and chained it off of the remains of the third, taking one last drag before flicking the glowing butt out towards the center of the lake. He watched it fall into a small pool of slush as it melted away the ice around it. At this rate, someone would probably come out of the mansion just to berate him for being a litterbug.
"You're out of your room," Jean-Paul hailed, heading up the bank. He hadn't actually set eyes on the young Frenchman since before Christmas. Seeing him out and about was almost a surprise. "Did the curtains catch fire or did the anti-smoking brigade start sharpening pitchforks?"
"I do not know about anti-smoking, but I am sure Ferguson would like to put me on a pitchfork, probably with the assistance of my cousin." He could have chainsmoked in his room, but in his snit he'd felt the need to be somewhere other than the mansion, even if it was simply out on the grounds. And the biting cold at the lakeside had suited his foul mood as well.
Ah. The journals again. Nothing quite like having to guess at the tone of single line of text to stir up more drama.
"If it's any consolation, Clarice would probably settle for a knee to the groin. Marie-Ange would probably take her pitchfork for herself, though." Ordinarily, Jean-Paul wouldn't have minded the smell of tobacco, but his nose was feeling unduly put-upon, so he settled for staying a bit upwind. "Are two girls that all that is chewing on you?" Not possible, given what the young man had confessed earlier, and Jean-Paul doubted the situation had improved.
Jean-Phillipe grunted and took another long drag on his cigarette, his shoulders hunched over, partly against the chill and partly a defensive posture. "Non. I feel like I am going...what is the phrase? Stir crazy?" The expression seemed insufficient to summarize what he was feeling. It was as though his skin were several sizes too small, and he had excessive difficulty sitting still, which was hard considering how much time he spent in his room attempting to avoid people.
"That is not uncommon when you spend a month locked in one room." Jean-Paul watched the miserable young man at his side for a few moments. Jean-Phillipe's defenses were up and he was holding to his cigarette as if it were the only thing making life at all tolerable. "So you've gotten to the point where keeping safe in hiding has lost it's appeal, but you do not want anything to do with the people here either? I wonder if you are still worrying about how others see you, or perhaps you are sick of thinking of them at all -- " Jean-Paul cut himself off with a snort. "Pardon. The telepaths aren't the only people around here who project."
Jean-Phillipe grimaced. "Am I truly that transparent?" He sighed gustily. "When I have to leave my room, it is as though I feel everyone's eyes on me. I know that is ridiculous," he said with a wave of his hand, "because only the X-Men know the entire truth about the things that I did. But still."
"Still. Secrets have a way of escaping; you still have to wonder who knows or who would tell. Even aside from that, even if they do not know, looking at them makes you think of the whole mess, hm?" Jean-Paul flicked his gaze out over the lake. The ice looked like dull silver under the moon. At least the colors were cold. "There are several ways to deal with this. I'm not a proponent of full disclosure, at least at this point."
"Yes, because I really -want- the entire population of the mansion crying for my head on a pole," Jean-Phillipe muttered. "What else would you suggest, then?"
"Honestly? The first would be distance, but I'm not sure this is an option in your case. I do not see your former leader as a man who forgives and forgets and I do not think you qualify for the Canadian exchange program." Jean-Paul considered. "Unfortunately, simply not giving a damn is easier said than done."
"Distance would be nice." The mansion was starting to feel like a fish bowl to him. He'd come there under false pretenses, and now he had no real reason to be there other than fear of reprisal.
"I'm not familiar with all of the school's satellites, but perhaps one of them would be a more attractive option than staying here or simply going out into the world. I assume that being in the same outfit as your cousin would be low on your list of choices, but perhaps you could find a purpose with one of the others? Nathan might have some ideas on that front."
"To be honest, what I would most like is a vacation. Anywhere but here, and preferably warmer. But I cannot see anyone agreeing to that." Jean-Phillipe shrugged.
"The only places I could offer would be considerably colder, yes. Ask around. Perhaps you will be lucky." Jean-Paul glanced back toward the boathouse. "As much of a temptation as it is to stay out here with handsome company all night, I had better get back to my patient."
"Bon soir, Monsieur Beaubier," Jean-Phillipe murmured as he began trudging back toward the mansion, deep in thought.
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