xp_logs | Nathan and Jean // Nathan and Jean-Paul, Tuesday

The morning after Wyoming, the two people who came up with the plan finally get a moment to stop and look back on what they brought about.

The second half of the night had been better than the first; he wasn't sure why, but he'd rested more easily. When Nathan finally opened his eyes again, he wasn't sure what time of day it was. But there were none of those dancing afterimages in his mind's peripheral vision, which meant that he could deal with the pain (reasonably dulled at this point, too) and the exhaustion with rather more aplomb.

Still, he was fuzzy enough that when the redhead walked in the door it took him a second to identify which one it was. "We're never allowed to have plans again, ever," he murmured as Jean came over to the side of the bed. "Promise?"

"Don't knock my plan, Nate. It was a good plan. Or, at least, it was the best plan which could be managed, given the circumstances."

"My plan too." It was a concession - of sorts. "So," he went on, trying to force a little more strength into his voice, with mixed results. "Am I going to live?" He really had no idea why he was opting for the banter. Maybe just because it was easier than thinking about the events of the last few days, and he was too tired right now to try. Processing could wait.

"Oh, probably," Jean said, settling into one of the chairs by the bed. "Assuming you don't annoy me so much I decide to put you out of my misery."

"I don't think I want to be an annoyance to anyone for the foreseeable future. Had quite enough of the smacking around it involves..." Nathan offered her a faint, not entirely convincing smile. She looked tired, he thought. This had definitely not been easy on her, either.

"Good choice." Jean was seriously contemplating putting her feet up on his bed and taking a nap - not because it would be comfortable but because nobody would risk Moira's wrath by disturbing Nathan to find out where she'd gone. "Anyways, you're probably safe from me. I think your wife has first dibs on killing you, and I hate waiting in line."

"She said later. Once I'm all healed up. Not sure of the logic behind that." Nathan gazed up at her for a long moment before a crease appeared in his forehead and he frowned, almost fitfully. "Jean...do we know that SHIELD will treat them all right?" 'They' being the young operatives, of course. "Just because they can take the therapeutic approach doesn't mean they will..." It was paranoia. He knew that. It didn't mean he was wrong.

"I trust Fury," Jean said after a thoughtful pause. "He's been straight with us throughout this whole damned mess and... I honestly think he does want what's best for the kids." Although, to be fair, what Fury wanted wouldn't matter all that much if someone farther up the chain of command wanted something different. But Jean was willing to bet it would matter enough.

"Just... suspicious, I guess." The words came out sounding more than vaguely forlorn, and Nathan looked away, wishing he dared try to shift position a little. Curling up into a ball and letting the world go on without him for a while sounded like a wonderful idea. But he had the definite impression that moving would hurt a lot.

"Yeah, that's nothing new," Jean said, but there was affection in her voice. "You should go back to sleep though, Nathan. You need more rest. Do you want any more painkillers?"

"Got anything that'll keep my brain from working for a while?" he muttered. "I don't feel like thinking right now..."

If Jean was surprised that he would ask for drugs that strong it didn't show as she stood up and moved to the cabinet in the corner, keying a code into the lock. "I think we can manage that," she said, pulling out a syringe and prepping a dose of medicine.

"Jean," he said as she injected the contents of the syringe into the IV drip. For a moment, he sounded as young as the operatives they'd both risked so much to rescue. "Thanks... I know it probably wasn't a lot of fun on your side of things either."

"It needed ending." Her tone was a little clipped, a little cold, but the hand which moved to brush softly along his forehead was gentle. "And now it's done. We did a good thing."

---

Later that day, Jean-Paul finds Nathan awake and lucid, and is rather scandalized to discover that his friend's feeling guilty. (OOC: Posted ahead of time due to potential lack of internet tonight.)

As Jean-Paul came through the door, there was something a little unusual about the infirmary room - specifically, the man inside it was awake, and frowning somewhat fitfully as he poked at lurid yellow pudding. At the sight of Jean-Paul, however, tired gray eyes lit up in Nathan's bruised face, and he gave his friend a crooked half-smile. "Here I thought Jeanne-Marie would have you tied to your bed still," he said, his voice hoarse and softer than usual, but steady. "I heard her threatening to do that the last time she was in here. Plus there was yelping. Did she drag you out by the ear?"

Jean-Paul practically lit up to see his friend awake and was at his bedside in an instant. "Worse, she recruited Voght to help her. Redheads with needles, they haunt me in the night. You, how are you doing?" He raised an eyebrow. "And what is this that they are feeding you? Nothing in nature is this color."

"According to Amelia it has all kinds of vitamins and nutrients," Nathan said, poking at the goop some more. "I think it's punishment, personally." He was having a little trouble meeting his friend's eyes, suddenly. It had struck him just how much stress he would have caused Jean-Paul, who was still in the middle - at best! - of his recovery. "So, um... I'm good. Or better. How are you?" Turnabout was fair play, that was the ticket.

"Definitely punishment for not letting her knock you out earlier. Name your desire and I will try to smuggle it in." He resisted the urge to nudge the tray out of Nathan's reach; he just couldn't deprive anyone who looked that pathetic of food, even if it was just barely food. He tilted his head as Nathan asked after him while averting his gaze. "Me? I am doing fine, rested." The expression on Nate's face clicked. "Dammit, Dayspring! You are a very frustrating creature, did you know this?"

"I am not," was the vaguely sulky-sounding protest; he was an invalid (at least according to every redhead who made a habit of stalking in and out of here), he was allowed to pout. "I'm not allowed to be worried about you? Last thing you need these days is more stress."

"And you need more guilt? I fully intend to make you suffer for vanishing on me, so you can stop that right now."

Nathan actually brightened, as if that was the best news he'd had all week. Then, he laughed at his own reaction - or meant to laugh, as it turned into more of a pained wheeze. "Ow," he muttered, still smiling somewhat loopily as his good arm tucked against his ribs protectively. "Am I... allowed to look forward to it?" The bantering would have been more effective if his breath hadn't rasped in his chest, as if there were things grating together.

Jean-Paul shook his head, somewhere between amused and exasperated. "Calvaire. How Moira puts up with you, I do not know. But yes, look forward to it all you like. I suggest you keep a paint-scraper and a shovel handy." His expression moved to concern at the pain on Nathan's face. "Here, lie back. If you want something in your stomach, I will make you a shake out of that stuff."

Nathan laid back, trying to stifle another cough - unsuccessfully, and his face lost a little more color as he winced. "I was worried about you," he said after a moment, his voice tighter than it had been. "More worried than I realized. She picked it right out of my head... I mean, I know Jeanne-Marie's here, and that you're better, but still..."

"But you know just how bad I was," Jean-Paul said quietly. He took a moment to compose himself. To see Nathan so badly hurt and concerned for him brought the emotions of the last few days welling up to the surface of his mind, and he certainly wasn't going to enforce Nathan's guilt by breaking down in front of him. He touched Nathan's hand lightly. He was back and he was alive. There was no need to go to pieces again. "Just how did we wind up this wrapped up in each other anyway?"

"Not sure." Nathan's voice was more gravelly, but he managed another slight smile. "I'm sure it's probably unhealthy. If we're lucky we'll both survive the experience." And he was sounding punchy again. He half-sighed and closed his eyes for a moment. "Pain pills make my head weird. I liked Amelia's stuff better. Had me downright functional in Wyoming..."

"You do not have to worry about being functional," Jean-Paul reminded him quietly. "You just have to rest."

"I'm having a hard time..." Nathan trailed off, staring a bit blankly upwards. "Doesn't seem like it could actually be over. But it is." He made another noise that might have been a very soft laugh, no more than a snort, but it was an oddly forlorn sound. "I was lucky," he said, almost inaudibly. "I am lucky. To be back here."

"That will take time to get used to." Jean-Paul offered a smile that was more sad than encouraging. "What you have done...this cannot be a bad thing, Nathan."

"Couldn't change anything that's already happened." Gray eyes focused on Jean-Paul, tired and a little hazy. "No more new scars, though. That's something, isn't it?"

"Not where I can see, anyway." Jean-Paul brushed his fingers lightly over Nathan's short-cropped hair, hesitant to put too much pressure to any touch. "Get some sleep, Nathan. I will sit up and think pleasant things at you until you drift off."

"Speaking figuratively about the scars," Nathan muttered, but let his eyes close. Even that minimal amount of moving around had hurt. He realized almost immediately that Jean-Paul had not been speaking figuratively about thinking good thoughts at him. They had the unmistakable, vivid colors and textures of treasured memories. Snow-covered slopes and icy trees that looked like they were clad in crystal, all under a sky the color of sunrise. Quiet and peaceful, clean and bright - everything that the memories already haunting his dreams weren't.

He was drifting off before he knew it, managing a bare telepathic whisper of thank you.