Nathan and Jean Paul

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Jean-Paul arrives on Muir Island and gets some unexpected rest.



Jean-Paul was in civilian garb when he reached Muir, wind-tossed, tired, and still too keyed up to sleep. He carried duffel bag over one shoulder new enough that it still bore the tags of the store where it had been picked up. He hovered over the island a moment or two, either announcing himself to any security that might be present or else not entirely sure that he should land before he finally touched down, stumbling a bit as he landed. He hadn't pushed himself for full
speed, but it had been a long flight.

#You goddamned idiot.# The voice seemed to come from nowhere, but a familiar tall figure quickly appeared at the top of the front steps of the castle, heading down them and towards Jean-Paul. "You actually flew, here? After all that?" Nathan looked genuinely angry, although it was definitely a concerned sort of anger and not 'come over here so I can sock you in the jaw'.

"It was this or risk that you would have to come get me out of custody as soon as the plane landed. I'm not..." He stopped, genuinely unsure of what else he could say. "It was not a straight shot, anyway. I had to hit land and hop around Britain a bit once I got across the water. Didn't want to show up armored or have to carry luggage the whole way." He finally started forward to meet Nate. "Thanks for letting me come. I really...did not want to go back to the school like this."

Nathan sighed and shook his head. "Get in here," he said, laying a hand on Jean-Paul's arm and squeezing briefly before he urged the other man towards the stairs. "Moira's buried in work, so you might actually get away with not getting fussed at if I can get some food in you before she resurfaces."

"So long as I don't have to watch anything being prepared." Jean-Paul managed a small, brittle laugh. "I have been keeping myself out of the kitchen the last few days. It is odd, the way these traumas manifest in the aftermath. It just had to be food. The bastard is probably laughing from Hell."

"Actually, I have just the thing for you to do while you're waiting for me to cook," Nathan said, taking the bag from him and leading him into the family quarters. Rachel looked up as they entered the sitting room, and smiled at Jean-Paul - before blinking at him and then getting up, abandoning her toys to come over and latch onto his leg.

"Pick me up."

"Something tells me she's been learning bad habits from Catseye," Nathan said. "You don't need to indulge her. But do sit down."

Jean-Paul actually flinched at the contact, but did pick Rachel up before he sat; he didn't trust himself to navigate with another person attached to his leg. He did set her down on the couch once he was down, however.

"You can fly, you know."

Rachel's smile was gone. She was staring up at him with inquisitive, concerned gray eyes, and every so often, reached out to pat his leg, as if reassuringly. "Dad was waiting for you."

"Your father's been very patient with me," Jean-Paul said, managing a faint smile, leaning back into the couch. He could have sworn that he only closed his eyes to help with the faint throbbing in his head, but the next thing he knew, he was being shaken awake.

Gently, of course. "No jumping," Nathan said, "she'll land on the floor." As Jean-Paul opened his eyes, Nathan lifted the redhead who'd been curled up on his lap into his own arms. Rachel yawned and leaned her head on his shoulder for a moment before she shook herself. "Dinner's ready," he said, inclining his head in the direction of the hall. "I tried to keep it easy on the stomach." And the brain.

Jean-Paul got to his feet, still somewhat dazed. Easy sleep. No nightmares.

"Did you do that?"

"What, me? Make use of one of the few good telepathic tricks I have for a friend?" Nathan inquired, not quite dryly, as he led the way to the kitchen. He didn't think that Jean-Paul was up for the family dining room tonight, so he'd set places for them at the table in the kitchen. He got Rachel settled into her seat, then went to get the salad.

After dinner, Nathan gives Jean-Paul advice on moving on.



"So yes, it was a stupid idea to fly across the Atlantic given the last week." A little uninterrupted sleep and a decent meal did a lot to help put the world in something like perspective. "I will book the return trip." Jean-Paul stared out at the black water, more hearing it than seeing.

"You could always stay and go back with me," Nathan pointed out, leaning against the balcony railing. It was almost tolerable out here, temperature-wise. Maybe the weather would stay decent for the length of Jean-Paul's visit? Constant drizzle would certainly not help his mood. "Moira's plane is almost tolerable."

"There is always that." Jean-Paul shoved his hands into his pockets. "Do you think I should have waited? Tried to bring Scott or the others into that mess?"

"How would you have managed to do that?" Nathan's tone was almost gentle. "You didn't know, going in, what he wanted. Once you were in that basement, it was... being concluded one way or the other, I think."

"I knew it could not be anything good." Jean-Paul finally looked away from the sea. "There were plenty of good reasons to keep it just me, non? Even if you or Jean could have been along, all it would have taken was a suspicion that there was something wrong and the flick of a muscle and one of the hostages would have died. Plenty of good reasons to give him what he wanted. And I still know better. I did not want anyone else in the way. I was all for killing the bastard until I knew that was what he wanted."

"And now?" Although he thought he suspected.

"I am not sorry that St. Ives if dead." The words were quick, almost defensive. "But he did not deserve a release. Being in his own body had become a hell for him and I should have found a way to keep him there. I should not have let him be the one to choose how things ended this time."

"From the sounds of it, if you hadn't acted, his hostage would be dead. You didn't hesitate, because your inclination is to protect the innocent. That was your priority," Nathan said, quietly vehement. "What St. Ives did or didn't deserve - isn't it secondary to that?"

"Not enough. It cannot be. Nathan...me, my life, as a whole...it is pathetic. I would rather be in control than be alive. As long as I can find some crack to dig my nails into -- Xavier's, my sister, the goddamn cat -- something to keep an eye on, I can hold on. The only reason I can live with myself most days is because I had a few years out of my whole wreck of an existence where someone cared about me without conditions. He had absolutely no reason to take me in. He never asked anything of me. He helped me become a person. And I repaid him by standing by and letting him die. It cannot be enough."

Nathan straightened, moving in just enough to make it very clearly that he Had A Point To Make, Damn It. "If I hear you refer to yourself as pathetic one more time," he said, very softly, "I swear to God, I'm laking you in the North Sea." He went on, more gently. "I hear what you're saying. But that's one of my best friends you're tearing apart for perceived inadequacy."

"Désolé." Jean-Paul didn't try to move away. "I screwed up the last chance I was going to have to try and make what happened anything close to right. It did not even have to be right, just...some kind of balance." A weak laugh. "Raymonde would probably be telling me the same thing you are. That it was more important that I did not let those people die. And I still just cannot let it go."

Nathan was silent for a moment. "The dead can't really speak to us," he said quietly. "Not the way we'd like. But if you know what he'd say, and you know what I'm saying... no one's expecting you to be able to 'just' let it go, Jean-Paul. But you need to concede that starting to work on it might not be such a bad thing."

Jean-Paul's reaction to the idea was an immediate, gut-level rejection, but he kept quiet for a few moments.

"How did you get through losing your family?" he asked softly. There was no challenge in the words, just a quiet request for help from someone who couldn't find the guideposts for the path he was on.

Nathan turned back to the ocean. "One day at a time," he said softly. "There were days there wasn't much 'getting through' it at all. But...I had friends, people I cared about. I held onto that. There was no replacing my family, or the friends I've lost," he said, looking back at Jean-Paul. "I'm not saying that. Moira and I still live every day knowing that we should have three children, not one. But the love, the memories are still there. It might be hard to live without them," he said, not quite managing to suppress a sigh, "but we carry on. Because there's so much worth living for, here and now."