Morgan & Jean-Paul | Wednesday Night

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After she finds out Jean-Paul is back and that something might be wrong Vanessa stakes out the hostel he's staying at.

A single long leg hung over the arm of the chair Vanessa had taken up residence in. Her foot bopped in time with the music playing in the one ear bud she'd put in. She wanted to keep her other ear free so her query could not escape her. Another page of The Iliad was flipped and the metamorph silently vowed to shred the bloody thing if she had to endure one more This guy, son of That Other Guy who hails from Over There where they are masters of This Thing That's Probably Inconsequential rundown. Vanessa loved history but Homer was going overboard on the background check. She couldn't even remember what was going on before the introductions half the time. Real history books were less bogged down with tedium than this. Even the dry ones.

Solid red, dimly luminescent eyes glanced away from the page and up toward the entrance. The girl at the counter had told Vanessa that the windows were all locked via a security mechanism controlled at the counter. They had to be able to keep track of their residents somehow and there were a whole host of mutations that could make windows a convenient getaway. Or a convenient way to sneak others in.

Amanda had told Morgan that she'd seen Jean-Paul and that she was worried about him. That had been all it took to get the former mercenary here at the cozy Hostel del Mutant in District X. That wasn't really the name of the place, but she maintained it ought to be. She had, of course, gone through the place in search of any other exists in the place. You couldn't be too careful and if something was really up Jean-Paul might be more careful slipping in and out of the place after his run in with Amanda. There were no other exists, though. Not unless Jean-Paul had a whole other skill set Vanessa knew nothing about. Realistically speaking, he'd have picked up that particular skill set too long ago for it to make him capable of slipping the locks on this place. Security was important here. Viva technology and all that, right?

Her eyes went back to the book she was suffering through. Vanessa had been there since around noon, staked out in the lobby just out of view of the main door. She did at least need him to get inside so he couldn't flee too easily. But she also had no intention to corner him, which was why she wasn't in his room. Could she have likely convinced the girl behind the counter to let her in? Vanessa's eyes went back to the girl who blushed pink when her eyes were caught. Yeah, she probably could have. The girl seemed fascinated by Vanessa's appearance. But when you didn't know what might set a person off sneaking up on them was a bad idea unless you were out to kill them. If she wanted Jean-Paul dead she would be hidden up in his room. Instead she flipped another page and waited in the lobby.

Jean-Paul walked through the front door of the hostel a good half hour before the curfew was supposed to go into effect, not meeting the eyes of the girl behind the counter as he headed down the hallway. He kept his head down, not looking at anyone in the foyer because it was easier that way. The keys for the room where he was staying jingled in his pocket and he reached for them, spinning them around with one finger through the keyring.

Weariness seeped through him, bone-deep and blood-thick, a trickle that wound its way from his forehead, through his temples, down his neck and his back, his chest and arms. It was ridiculous, pushing himself as he was, but if he was tired enough he might not dream. And if he didn't dream, there was less danger of hurting someone. Jean-Paul's theory that exhaustion was the key to success had, thus far, gone unproven. The nightmares crept up on him no matter how tired he was when he closed his eyes.

His toes were tingling as he walked on, fighting to keep his shoulders straight - at least until he got to the room.

She'd noticed him when he'd walked in and she'd watched him. Eyes down, head bent. It was easy to fixate on the obvious changes, like the way his hair had all been shaved off. What was important, though, was the way Jean-Paul seemed to practically drag himself down the corridor. A man who had once loved being the center of attention now looked like he was trying to bleed into the shadows and the walls. Hiding in plain sight taken to a whole new level.

Morgan snapped the hardcover in her hand shut and it made an audible sound. It was all grace when her dangling leg slid over the arm of the chair and fell until her foot touched the floor. She was up in a single, seamless movement and she chose to let her footfalls make more noise than they needed to. She wasn't the sort of girl who wore shoes that announced her presence. He didn't look up. "A girl could go hungry if she sat and waited for you to look up, you know," she said in that rich accent of mingled Irish and Boston inflection.

It took Jean-Paul a moment to realise that he was actually being addressed. He knew that voice, though, the memory of it tickling the back of his mind even as he turned. He should have seen her, should have noticed her. God knew she'd apparently noticed him. "Morgan," he said, nodding slightly. He wasn't sure why it was easier to remember her than others, but it was. Perhaps it was because she was so very distinctive. There were no immediate, negative connotations for him where she was concerned.

Just awkwardness. But those memories were spotty at best and all he could directly recall was a sense of discomfort at times, amusement at others.

Her typical lopsided grin greeted him when he turned to face her. It was just the left corner of her mouth pulled up into the expression, but it didn't make it look any less sincere. "Mi amor," she said in a small bow. She left off Daniel's Venezuelan accent and used a Castilian one she'd mostly picked up from impersonating Manuel instead.

Morgan didn't find it hard to figure out why Amanda had thought there was something wrong with him. His body language was all wrong and it wasn't just the apparent physical exhaustion. There was something around his eyes, in the crease over his brow. There were unhappy little lines where crow's feet from smiling used to be. The lines around his eyes were deeper, troubled. She didn't like it, but she didn't let it show. "I've been enduring Greek family lineage for you. Well, waiting for you. It's a sacrifice, I hope you know. There are better books I could be giving my time." Her grin was back again. "Or I could be off hunting deer and finding some new schmuck to make it into many varied, tasty dishes for me."

That should have meant something to him. Jean-Paul knew that much. He also knew that, whatever the context that sentence might have made sense in - he didn't have it. An anxious little ball of tension started spinning slowly in the pit of his stomach, growing larger as he tried to remember what it was he was missing. By the time he gave up, the little ball had lodged itself somewhere near the bottom of his ribcage and was making its presence felt in incredibly uncomfortable ways. "Why were you waiting for me?"

Jean-Paul knew he should probably know the answer to that question, too, but his insides were all twisted in knots and none of his incomplete memories were making this any easier.

One shoulder shrugged upward, nonchalant. He was tensing up. Shoulders, neck, arms. There was a slight movement somewhere between a twitch and a shivering but more subdued. Morgan chose casual and friendly as her mode of pursuit. "Amanda? Tiny little blonde Brit? Cute? Aye, you saw her? She works with me? Said you were back." She left off that Amanda was worried. "I figured if you were staying in a hostel the food situation might be unimpressive. I was going to try to nab you for lunch. Except then there was no you so I waited and now it's like a late supper at best but," another shrug. "The offer stands. You, me, food of your choice. Take out, dine in or I'll even cook for you."

She hoped her non-reaction to his apparent anxiety would help calm him down. Something was definitely up. Some people needed to be pushed and then coddled, others needed to know you were there but not closing in on them. Morgan wasn't sure which Jean-Paul was but trying the latter first would do less potential damage if it was the wrong tactic than the former would.

Food was a necessity, yes, but one that Jean-Paul had purposefully been giving in to less often than he should have been. His increased metabolism made it important, but with the way things had been going lately, he wasn't sure eating the suggested daily amounts would do him any good. Half the time, he wasn't sure he'd manage to keep whatever he put in his stomach down - things just weren't working the way they ought to have been, false memories cropping up in the most inconvenient spots and making him sick. "I am not hungry, though I appreciate the offer," he said, the corners of his lips turning downward at the thought of eating anything.

Amanda had told Morgan where he was. Who else might she have told? Jean-Paul fought down the urge to simply pack up his things and go somewhere else. Anywhere else.

He had nowhere else to go. Not for the moment, anyway. And it was entirely possible they would just find him again - if he stayed in New York. There was always Montreal. Or Laval. But those options were even less ideal than the situation he currently found himself in.

"You're sure?" Her head tilted to the side as she looked at him, expression giving away none of her worry for him. Morgan wondered if she could bribe one of the guys at the bakery she went to all the time to deliver stuff here for Jean-Paul tomorrow morning before the sun rose. She could make it worth his while. In a number of ways if she was really dedicated to it. The Quebecois was too skinny. His cheekbones were sharper and more visible than they had been the last time she'd happened to see him. His wrists were thin, bony.

"Well, the offer stands. Whenever you might wanna take me up on it. You remember where I live?" She purposely didn't assume he did. She didn't know what had happened to Jean-Paul in the months before he went to Muir Island, but she knew people didn't go there because of something like making light with their twin sister. That was the sort of thing you went to Xavier's for. Muir was a research facility.

"Oui," Jean-Paul murmured, nodding briefly. "I do thank you, though." It was a kind offer. He wasn't sure why he felt just the tiniest bit grateful for it, but he did. Leather jacket shifting as he moved his shoulders a bit, he then nodded toward her again. "Should I expect any other visitors while I'm here?" He wanted to be prepared, just in case. He wanted to know if he really was going to have to go find a motel somewhere to stay in, rather than the hostel. The hostel was cheaper, though.

Morgan thought about that, but she couldn't really think of who else would feel the need to worry about him. Maybe that was a bit cynical, but most of the people Jean-Paul had been close to before he had taken off had also taken off for various reasons. "Only if Nate finds out, but I won't tell if you don't want me to. Aye, man's got a mother hen thing about him like no man's got a right to have anyway." And God knew the two of them had each other's backs through a number of things. But she really wouldn't bring Jean-Paul to his attention if the man didn't want her to. She'd just try to keep an eye on him herself.

"Thank you," Jean-Paul said. "I would prefer that no one else know where I am." Or even that he was back, for that matter. That he might be back in a more permanent sense, if Xavier decided to have him at the mansion. Of course, it wasn't like he intended to stay for very long - just enough to get his head put back together the right way, to figure out what was wrong with him and his powers. He didn't know where he'd go, once he'd gotten things straightened out, but he figured anywhere was better than where he currently was. And if he couldn't get his powers figured out - well then. He'd be heading off to a place where he wouldn't be doing any damage to anyone at all. Just him, his nightmares, and all the bare walls a room could hold.

"Yeah, well, technically I owe you." The half-smile he got was far more subdued than the grins Morgan had been issuing. The first step toward him was taken slowly. The next was slow still but faster. She didn't quite give him the chance to evade her so much as figure out what was coming. Morgan wrapped her arms around Jean-Paul and pulled him into a hug, fully knowing that it might be against his will.

"I'm glad you're back," she whispered, the Irish in her voice fading. "Whoever you are." Because this was not the man she'd known once. It was not the man she'd gone out on the town with all dressed up in a Latino body for. It was not the man she hung out with and curled up with at night for one reason or another. It was someone, but not him. Vanessa guessed she'd find out who he was eventually. If he wanted her to.

"We were tight once," she continued, leaning back but not letting him go. "A lot's happened since then, a lot's changed. For some people that matters. It doesn't for me. I figured maybe I needed to stop by and make sure you knew that all that changing? Means fuck all to me. You're still in my category of people I'd go to hell and back for. So if you need anything you've got it. Even if that's to be left alone. Otherwise," she shrugged one shoulder again and this time the smile that graced her lips spread fully across them, "well, I don't lock the window to the living room that the fire escape conveniently leads to. In case you miss curfew or want to raid a kitchen or something. Alright?"

Jean-Paul stood stiffly as she hugged him, the skin between his shoulder blades crawling, muscles tensing without his permission as he suppressed the urge to push her away. It wasn't safe. She shouldn't have been there at all, really. Confusion was no excuse for endangering people he'd apparently once been tight with. "Thank you," he said, discomfort evident.

The remodel, Jean-Paul version two-point-oh, had to learn to lighten up. Just a little. Whatever serious shit he had going on, Vanessa was sure he would drown in it if he kept it up. That was her entire motivating factor for doing what she did next. Her arms fell away from him, but before she stepped back the metamorph reached up and rubbed his head. If he still had hair she would have been ruffling it. Instead her hand moved over short, soft fuzz. "I like the haircut, by the way. Fuzzy suits you." She gave him a lighthearted grin and finally stepped back and out of his personal space.

Personal space, though, Vanessa was sure was for the terminally anxiety ridden. Personal space was highly over rated. Unless she didn't like you. In that case she loved her personal space and you needed to back the fuck out of it lest she pull a knife on you. Or the highly illegal firearm she was carrying. But she had to really, really not like you for that one since she liked her freedom and life outside prison far more.

Blinking, his train of thought and, thus, his discomfort completely derailed, Jean-Paul raised his hand to his head, rubbing at the bit that she'd touched. "Merci?" That probably shouldn't have been a question, but how could he really respond to someone rubbing his head and saying he looked good fuzzy? There just weren't parameters for that for him any longer. He wasn't sure how to react, so he erred on the side of caution.

"Living the life of the fuzzy. If it filled you with glee I'd endorse it more." Vanessa narrowed her eyes playfully, then reached out to scritch at the scruff along his jaw. "Still, it looks good. You could've embraced fuzzy sooner. Just think of all those 'hey, wanna pet me' pick up lines you missed out on delivering to men you didn't want to take home with you. It's a shame really."

"I..." Jean-Paul trailed off, though, completely bewildered. "Quoi?" And now he was rubbing at his jaw instead of his head, but she kept touching him and he kept feeling like he needed to make sure he hadn't let himself get too horribly unkempt.

It was so hard to not end up laughing when confronted with such an utter look of confusion. It was like she'd picked him up and dumped him in the middle of the Australian Outback while he slept. There could've been a kangaroo trying to find his pouch to wiggle into for how much he seemed to comprehend what was going on.

"Well, I guess you could still use that line on men you don't want to take home who want to take you home but," she tsked and shook her head. "Underfed street urchin isn't the look this season." As if she knew anything about fashion whatsoever. The Irish was coming back in her voice. "Aye, but maybe if we fed you...for three days straight. And, you know, made you shower. But the homeless puppy thing, it's cute in a 'take pity on me' sort of way. Really, if you're not looking for a Daddy to take you home and spoil you then you should re-think the eating thing. I just can't picture you bottoming that consistently."

Fingers digging into the back of his neck as he tried to follow that logic - was there even any logic in what she'd just said? - Jean-Paul felt his eyebrows pulling down, only to have them go right back up a moment later. Why was she speculating about whether he liked to bottom consistently? "I... am going to go now. To my room. Have a good evening, Morgan."

Morgan looked very proud of herself when she smiled and even gave him a little wave. "Night, fuzzy love. Don't hurt yourself with all that alone time, aye?" It was entirely possible he was going to kill her, but that was a marked improvement from surly, sulky and distant.

Jean-Paul turned around without answering and just headed for his door again. There were probably about twenty minutes before curfew and the other residents of the hostel were either already in their rooms or likely to start coming back any minute. He didn't want to be in the hall when they did. And he decided that shaving might be a good idea.