Jean & Jean-Paul, Sunday Morning

[x-quebecois.livejournal.com]

Jean comes by Jean-Paul's suite to check on him and things don't exactly turn out well.


Important things.

Jean-Paul was taking the important things. The books were staying, since he had an entire set at his flat in the city, anyway. All of his old ones. The worn ones with notes from school and teaching. The ones covered in post-it notes. They waited for him, so the newer ones on the shelf John had helped him build were going to stay.

The pictures were coming with him, though. He'd decided that the night before. He was taking his synthetic clothes, too, since they were the only things not pink. The boxers and socks were staying. He'd buy more once he was in the city.

All the planning in the world couldn't make him feel like less of a bastard, though. No matter how thoroughly he distracted himself, how often he double checked rooms, Jean-Paul kept coming back to the fact that he'd lied by omission. He was leaving and, once again, he didn't intend to come back. He'd promised he'd stay, but here he was, running away.

The circumstances were extenuated, of course. No one could deny that. But he had no doubt Kevin was, at least for the moment, thinking of all the ways they could adjust their lives to circumvent another accident.

Was it an accident if you knew it could happen and didn't bother to take the proper precautions against it? Jean-Paul didn't think so, not really.

And so he was packing.

He had to get away from the mansion before Kevin was conscious enough to understand that lies of omission counted.

Jean didn't waste much time. Jean-Paul's reaction was telling. He wasn't going to take her up on her offer to talk. No, he was the type to avoid instead of hit things head on. She knew what his past was like. She'd tried to help him through it. Which was why she knew she had to see him instead of waiting for him to come to her. It probably wouldn't have ever happened.

She sensed him in his room, the feelings of distress bleeding from him like blood in water. She knocked on the door out of courtesy, but wasn't afraid to come right in if need be.

"Qui est là?" Who's there? Jean-Paul's tone was distracted. There was no way to hide the evidence of the fact that he was leaving. That didn't matter - what mattered was that almost no one would be able to find him once he was gone. He didn't doubt that Vanessa could manage it, but he spoke to so few people - he probably wouldn't even be missed.

Jean didn't know French, but guessed the inflection in his words and curiosity in his thoughts. The words were rushed, thoughtless, focused on somewhere else.

"It's Jean," she said.

"Come in," Jean-Paul said, looking toward the door even as he tucked the pictures carefully into a folio. At least he wasn't speaking entirely in French. He had to concentrate to make sure he didn't revert, but that was better than the alternative.

Of course, then he realised he wasn't sure he wanted Jean in his suite. But it wouldn't be his for much longer, so maybe it didn't matter.

Opening the door, Jean slipped in, immediately noticing the sudden lack of personality to the room. Her eyes trailed over the walls, the furniture, then to him.

"Hmmm," she said, closing the door behind her.

"So, were you going to say goodbye to anyone or just let us all assume you'd been kidnapped? Again."

Sometimes vinegar was better than honey in getting someone to come to their senses.

That made Jean-Paul pause for a moment, but only a moment. He finished with the pictures Kevin had drawn him and closed the folio, laying it on the counter beside the mobile he wouldn't be taking with him. "Bonjour. I am sure the Professor knows that I am leaving." The thought didn't really comfort him, since he hated the idea of telepaths knowing his thoughts, his plans. But it was convenient, in this instance at least. "And I will tell Doctor McCoy, also." He'd be telling Vanessa he wasn't going to be at the mansion anymore, but it would be more interesting if she just tracked him down herself.

He was working with her for the time being, though, so that probably meant she'd know his general location by default.

Jean studied him, slowly shaking her head.

"Kevin knows it wasn't your fault. I know it. No one will think otherwise. It was an accident. If you run, what will Kevin say? Escape is not the way to handle everything. It happened, and I know you're feeling like you are the worst person on the planet but you're not.

"If you were, you wouldn't give a damn," she said, crossing to room toward him.

She attempted to put her hand on his shoulder.

"Jean-Paul, look at me. Look at me."

Shying away from the contact, Jean-Paul glanced up to meet Jean's eyes before letting his own gaze slide to the side. "It was not intentional," he said quietly, "But I do not think that makes it an accident, oui? I knew the risks. I was not so careful as I should have been. This is simple, I think." He didn't want to say anything else. He didn't want to talk about it.

Jean-Paul knew that his reasons wouldn't necessarily make sense to anyone else, but throughout the entirety of his life, everyone he'd ever been close to wound up getting hurt for one reason or another. No one ever stayed, they were never safe.

Logically, he knew this wasn't because of him. He'd had no control over the automobiles that killed both his families, over the people who'd decided to take his sister from him, over the bastard who killed Belmonde, over the things that had been done to Jake. He knew. But that didn't change the panic he felt now, having hurt Kevin as badly as he had.

And it could have been so much worse.

What if it had been the window Kevin had hit, rather than the wall? They were three floors up and even Jean-Paul wouldn't have been fast enough to catch the Southerner before he hit. After the television incident, they should have known - he should have been so much more careful.

So it was his fault. He knew that. It didn't matter what others might think.

Jean stared at him impassively for a few moments, remaining close by him. He looked close to crumbling like he had been such a long time before. Not bad enough to try something as drastic but enough to want to get away from everyone and anything.

"Bullshit," Jean said.

"It's not that simple. It never is. You think you're the only one who ever accidentally hurt someone? Throw a rock in this mansion and you'll probably hit someone who's had the same problem. It happens. No matter how much we plan and no matter how many risks we try to avoid, it happens. But running away from our problems only creates more," she said, keeping her gaze steadily on him.

"I tried it. I thought burying my fears and my feelings and my problems would solve everything and it only made things a hundred times worse," she said. She tried to put her hand on his shoulder again. She wouldn't be deterred.

"Take what happened and learn from it, grow from it, but don't walk away. So many things could've happened but they didn't. You are so much stronger than you give yourself credit for. Don't throw everything away. Don't throw yourself away."

Jean-Paul dodged her hand again and used his powers to get himself across the room, away from her. It was that, or go through the window. The window was open, so escape was, technically, still an option if it came down to it. But he didn't want to leave the folio or the clothing.

"I respect what you say," Jean-Paul said, back pressed against the wall, shoulders stiff. "I do not agree. Why are you here?"

Jean watched him launch himself across the room, as if her touch were toxic. This time she kept her distance but she wasn't backing down.

"You know why I'm here. What do you disagree with? Instead of acting like a four year old, talk to me instead of skittering off to hide in a closet. After all we've been though you owe me that much. "

"Maudite marde," Jean-Paul muttered, shaking his head. "Non, I will not speak of these things with you." Because he had a feeling that Jean would use logic to poke holes in all of his doubts, in all of his recriminations, and without those things, he wouldn't be able to get himself away from the mansion. He needed to get away so that he wouldn't risk hurting Kevin any more.

After a short pause, he said, "I will not try to kill myself, if this is what worries you. I am only leaving. And so I must finish packing. If you will pardon me?"

Arching a brow, Jean shook her head. "No, I will not pardon you. And you don't respect me. I don't think you respect me at all right now. And right now I don't respect you either. I can't respect you when you're cowering in a corner hurting yourself. I didn't think you were trying to kill yourself. I think you're doing one of the worst things for yourself right now by ignorantly pulling yourself into your own emotional hell," she said, folding her arms.

"You walk out that door, you sever all your ties, cut yourself off from all the people who love you, that's just like dying. And I don't want to mourn you. No one does. There are people here who love you and care about you, even if you don't see it."

"What you say, it means nothing," Jean-Paul said, trying to let her words wash over and then off of him. "I asked you to leave. Please do."

Jean studied him. "You know damn well it means everything. The only way you are getting me out is by force. Because I am not going to leave you. I know you're terrified. I know you're going through dozens of scenarios of what could have happened in your mind, each one more horrifying than the next. But thing is? They didn't happen. Kevin is alive, waiting for someone who will never come back. He needs the man he loves. He needs you. Think about what you're doing. Think what you're giving up," she said, shaking her head.

"Jean-Paul, please don't do this. Stay with us."

"Us?" Jean-Paul's voice was rough, anger evident now where it hadn't been before. "What 'us' do you speak of? You have been gone longer than I. You speak as if you know me - you do not. Kevin waits for someone who does not exist, someone who cannot exist. He is normal now. He does not need these complications."

He didn't want to talk about this. Jean-Paul didn't want to talk about Kevin - this was private. This was between himself and the younger man. He hated that Jean was standing there, acting as though she had some sort of investment in his decision, his actions. She didn't.

Forcing himself to stop, he brought up the sound of wind in his mind, the memory of it rushing past his ears, drowning everything else out. Jean-Paul didn't want to leave the folio. The clothing... it was important, but he could always buy more later. He needed to get away from her.

The breath that he took, then, was long and slow, the imaginary sound of wind still thrumming through his mind as Jean-Paul made his decision. Quickly, faster than Jean's eyes could track him, he moved across the room to the folio and picked it up, then headed for the window.

"And now I'm back. If we want to go for length of time spent here, I've pretty much got you trumped," Jean said flatly. She shook her head again. She was glad he was angry. Angry meant he cared. It meant he was willing to defend himself.

"I speak as someone who's saved your life. Who's helped put your mind back together when it was nearly ripped apart. I was there before, I am here now. Why can that person not exist? Who says? Have you asked him what he wants? Or are you so blinded by cowardly instinct that all you see is a door and nothing else?" she said. She wanted to hone in on that anger, provoke it, get him to actually feel something instead of guilt-laden fear.

She cocked her head to the side as the wind kicked up in his mind and he drew in a breath. It was quiet, too quiet. Quiet enough to be able to guess what he would do next.

As he disappeared from her sight she closed her eyes and focused on his mind, buzzing around like a bee. She focused on isolating the body attached to that mind and attempted to stop him in midstep just before he went through the window.

"We are not finished," Jean said, her eyes narrowed.

He'd forgotten she could do that. Jean-Paul had forgotten and he didn't know who he was angrier with - himself for not remembering or Jean for doing it again.

The curses that flew from his mouth then, as he stood immobilised half-on the windowsill, half out of it, were colourful and intensely creative. At least he still had hold of the folio. Not that it was doing him much good, of course. He didn't regret trying to get it. He regretted getting caught - wasn't that always the way it went.

"Release me."

Jean stared at him, keeping him still, knowing if she let up he'd be gone in a flash.

"Answer my question. Have you asked him what he wants? Who says the person he's waiting for can't exist?"

A few more choice words fell from Jean-Paul's lips before he very slowly, very carefully, said, "This is none of your business." He tried to convince himself that he wasn't panicking. Because panicking would be bad. He couldn't move, but he wasn't bound. Not in a tape-and-rope sort of way. But that almost made it worse. The skin along the back of his neck prickled, a chill went down his spine, and he said, "Let me go now, Jean."

Jean could feel the flurry of emotions, radiating from him like the heat of the sun.

"It is my business. We've already been over this. Pay attention," she said, narrowing her eyes again.

"Answer me and I'll let you go."

"Non," Jean-Paul said, gritting his teeth. He tried to think of the wind. He tried to think of playing frisbee. He tried to think of flying or running or any other of a myriad of activities that didn't make him feel like he was trapped beneath a microscope as someone prepared him for dissection.

Nothing helped.

"You do not - you cannot - " He broke off because really, how was he supposed to explain this? Panic rose again, more pronounced now, and he struggled in earnest against her psychic hold on him.

"I can't understand?" Jean said.

"Again, you presume you're alone in this. You're not alone, Jean-Paul, why can't you see that? You are not a damn island. Stop this. Stop running."

Jean-Paul's attempted warning had nothing to do with Jean's understanding, though a very small part of his mind supposed that she might have let him go if she'd understood what he was attempting to tell her. He'd have to work on his coherence while under pressure at some point in the future. For now, he squeezed his eyes shut, fingers tightening on the folio in his hand as he tried to use the foot he had braced on the floor to propel himself out the window.

Despite everything else, it wasn't until he heard the laughter that he knew something bad was going to happen. He knew he didn't like it, but at least Jean-Paul hadn't been hallucinating. Now, though... now, he heard Shrine's laughter lancing through his mind, slicing up his panic much the way the man had sliced up his memories, piecing them together into something that vaguely resembled a patchwork quilt - one full of holes and poorly sewn.

The blast didn't shift Jean-Paul from where he stood, but the force of it shoved the empty frames off the table where he'd left them and threw a vase to the floor where it shattered. He couldn't stop it - he could barely breathe through the memories and the frantic need to move, to be free, to be anywhere but here. Let me go, let me go, let me go.

Jean's eyes widened slightly then went slightly impassive as the sheer panic erupted like a volcano, along with the rush emanating from him. With the slightest blink of her eye the hold was released and she let him drop. She knew he'd probably disappear, leaving her with the breeze and the memory. But she hoped what she said got through. At least some part.

As soon as he realised he was free, Jean-Paul launched himself from the window, the folio with Kevin's artwork still clutched in one hand.