Jean & Jean-Paul, Tuesday Afternoon

[x-quebecois.livejournal.com]

Jean-Paul goes looking for Jean and gets a broken nose for his trouble.


Jean sat in the atrium reading a book. The atrium’s primary function was as a classroom, but Jean had always enjoyed the room for it’s atmosphere, being drawn to the stained glass ceiling and the natural light. It was especially lovely in the mornings the way the light streamed in.

She had pulled up two chairs near one of the windows, propping her feet up on one while she sat down in another. She was reading some trashy little romance novel with ripped bodices, women named Starr and men named Bronco or Stetson or something equally manly. It was one of her guilty pleasures. The novel was rather bad but the writing amused her.

Jean-Paul didn’t exactly know where he should go looking when he set out to find Jean, but the medlab had yielded poor results and none of the other common areas held answers, either. As a last resort, he stuck his head into the atrium and paused, seeing her. There were many things he’d considered saying to her, initially, when he was still angry.

But the flavor if his mood had changed drastically now and really... really, he supposed he just wanted someone to talk to period. It wasn’t like there were people lining up outside his door to discuss the inner workings of his mostly-broken mind. Though, really, he didn’t want to talk about any of that. Rather, he wanted to make sure that Jean understood that, while he wasn’t feeling particularly hostile toward her, he’d appreciate it if she’d keep her pretty little nose out of his business in the future.

Knowing she’d likely already sensed him, he said simply, “Bonjour. May we speak?”

Jean turned the page in her book, not quite glancing up to him yet.

“Of course, just a moment.”

She wanted to finish up the chapter at least before she lost all interest in heaving bosoms and thinly veiled innuendo. Luckily, she only had a couple of paragraphs left.

Eventually she put the bookmark in her book and glanced up to him, slipping her feet out of the opposite chair to sit up straighter.

“Go ahead,” she said, motioning to the chair.

Moving at a regular person’s speed, which somehow seemed exaggerated and unnecessary now, Jean-Paul crossed the room and settled in the chair across from her. “Should we skip the introductory conversation? Or should I say something about the weather now?”

“If you want,” Jean said with a faint smile. She already had a feeling as to what he was going to say.

“You spoke with Kevin. About my leaving.”

“Yes, I did,” Jean said simply, keeping her voice remarkably even, hard to read. She waited for his eye to twitch, nostrils to flare, clenching of his jaw, all the signs of the emotionally wounded.

Jean-Paul’s expression matched Jean’s tone - difficult to read, though not overly complicated in the effort to make it that way. “Please, in the future, do not have these conversations with others that I should have myself. I understand why you did as you did, but I would like the chance, myself, if this sort of thing should happen again, oui?” Not that he thought it would, but it was always better to be prepared than to get into the middle of a situation and find yourself lacking necessary items.

Jean cocked her head to the side, studying him, her features still impassive.

“As far as anyone knew, you were gone for good, wanting no more contact with Kevin Ford whatsoever for his own protection. Had you indicated you were going to speak with him to actually relay this information, I would have given you every chance as you are indeed correct, you should have done so.

“But instead you left with all seeming indication of your permanent departure and I was not going to leave him forever wondering where you had gone. Again, had I known you were going to return I would’ve gladly let you tell him but I did not know, nor did anyone else.

“So I cannot make that promise should it happen again because if it does, and you leave without saying a word like you had intended...someone has to be the bearer of bad news and while I take no pleasure in it, I would rather they know than risk never knowing in case you do decide to stay gone this time.”

There was no judgment in this time or anger, just a straight statement. She had already told him her feelings before, no need for a reprisal. It would only piss her off, like throwing gasoline at more gasoline. It was unnecessary.

Jean-Paul was quiet for a long moment before he said, very carefully, “You know my mind, as Nathan and the Professor know it. You helped me to put it back together.” He paused, frowned slightly, then continued, “But you do not know me. You saw pieces of my life when you put them back where they needed to be, but... it is like the artist who draws in the colour by numbers. If they do not colour the whole, they do not see the picture.

“In this way, I would like to you view what was my relationship with Kevin, oui? Because you saw pieces. Here and there, in one place and another. You sensed intent. But I do not believe you understood it. Here,” he tapped his temple with two fingers, then his chest, “Or here.”

There was another short pause while he attempted to gather his thoughts into something that would make sense. Finally, he simply said, “I do not expect understanding, you see? There is no way for you to know that I am the moth to his flame. No reason for you to know this. But that is how it was. And now it is no longer. I believe he was hurt more than necessary, not just physically.” Though God knew Jean-Paul would take that back in a heartbeat if he could. “I ran. For fear. For many reasons. But I told him that I would not. And there is no reason for you to know this, also. But I promised him I would not. And so I had to return, do you see? What you viewed as an unhappy necessity, a burden upon your shoulders... it was inevitable for me to return. You need only have understood me.”

“And I am human, Jean-Paul. Just because I am a telepath does not mean I can tell the future or know everything there is to know. You’re right. I didn’t know, nor understand. I know now, but only because you’re telling me.

“It’s easy to look at this in hindsight and tell me all the things you think I should’ve done. But when you were in the moment, when I was begging you to stay and you were telling me all the reasons you should go...how can you expect me to know anything but that? Can you truly, honestly expect me not to have believed you when you were screaming in my face about how badly you wanted to leave? Of course I wanted to believe you were coming back, I hoped and I prayed for it.

“I’m sorry you feel that I’ve slighted you but it saddens me that you would have to come here and tell me this. And I know you are hurting, and looking for someone to blame, someone to take your anger out on, but I will not be that person. I will be there if you want to talk but I will not be your scapegoat.”

“Jean,” Jean-Paul said, his tone very careful. “I do not blame you. I am not seeking a scapegoat, as you say. I am trying to tell you that I understand why you felt the need to speak with him. Because you did not know these things. I do not feel slighted.” And, in all honesty, if they’d been having this conversation with a different sort of tone, he might have disputed her description that he was screaming at her. However, he just continued, “What I am here to say, to ask of you is to trust that I will do the right thing. Oui? I do not wish to sling mud, as the saying goes. I am only here to ask for more faith on your part, should this happen again. This is all.”

Jean picked up her book, studying him for a few moments.

“I want to trust you, Jean-Paul. I want to believe in you. But I had thought, after everything, that you would come to trust me, at least a little,” she said, letting out a sigh. She rubbed her forehead as she rose from the chair, walking toward the window.

“I’m sorry. I’ve got these defensive walls up around you because I don’t know how you’ll react. Kind of feels like fumbling around in the dark, unprepared for what I’ll find around the next corner. So far as of late it feels like a suckerpunch or two.”

She dropped her hand down by her side, watching students run around on the lawn.

“I’m sorry for what I did before in your room...for holding you there when you tried to leave. I was frustrated, and stubborn and I let that get to me.

“I want to trust you, Jean-Paul. And I will. But I’d like it at least if you tried to have a little faith in me as well.”

Maybe that was too much to expect or hope for, but there it was.

“You misunderstand my purpose here,” Jean-Paul said, keeping his seat and leaning back a bit, fingers lacing over his midsection. “I would not have come if I did not trust you in some ways.” Expression hardening just the slightest bit, he said, “But I am asking that you not meddle. Do you see this? It is not the issue of my trusting you that we have here. It is that you felt me incapable of dealing with these troubles I cause myself. And I have said I understand why you felt this way, why you did as you did.

“I am here so that I may tell you, as politely as possible, that I am capable of this and many more things, no matter how broken my mind may have been.”

It was clear it was a lesson in miscommunication from the very start of the conversation. Neither one “understood” the other. Jean’s eyebrow rose, face turning blank.

“Mmm. Apparently I misunderstand everything about you. Just like you misunderstand me. And you’re wrong. I really don’t think you trust me. It’s not about incapability. It’s about...” she shook her head, sighing.

“Nevermind. Screw this. I’m done talking in circles. I’m not going to try anymore. Fine. No more ‘meddling.’ If you need a doctor go talk to Amelia or Hank or the professor if you need your brain put back together again because I’m done,” Jean said, turning on her heel to walk past him.

She was done talking, of trying to understand or not understand, or whatever the hell he claimed she was incapable of doing. She was tired of sewing up his wounded mind or pride or body only to watch him do it all over again.

He wanted to fight his own battles, she’d let him do it. Professional interaction only. She was done trying to do anything for him unless his life truly was in danger. She was tired of trying for any courtesy or acknowledgment of that fact. She was tired of being chided. She was just damn tired.

“Mon Dieu, this is why we were given the option to fuck men, not women,” Jean-Paul said, sagging back against the chair he was sitting in. “I do not even know what I have done that has upset you so!”

Spinning around, Jean set her eyes, practically blazing, right upon him. She stormed across the room without a word like a wave, her body rigid as a board, then lashed out with fist aimed directly at his nose.

Her breath came out quick and flared through her nostrils and she narrowed her eyes, forgetting every damn word of ‘first do no harm’ at the moment in lieu of the ever popular ‘your ass is grass.’

Still breathing hard, practically shaking from anger, she clutched her fist and pumped it a little, then winced and shook her hand out.

“Damnit!”

Jean-Paul let her hit him, since there was little chance of getting away from her, if she decided to freeze him where he sat, so he just stayed there instead. It hurt like fuck, but it wasn’t the worst injury he’d ever had. Raising his hand to cover his nose, he cursed for a moment, blood beginning to seep from his nostrils, before asking thickly, “Feel better, mon ami?”

Jean stared at him as if he’d just grown a chihuahua from his back and started singing excerpts from Carmen.

“No,” she said.

“And we are obviously not mon amis.”

“I do not make a practice of letting people who are not my friends punch me for no apparent reason,” Jean-Paul said, feeling he was making a very valid point. The blood was starting to drop down his shirt. Luckily, it was one of the awful, pink wifebeaters Angelo had given him when he’d dyed everything else, so it didn’t particularly matter. “Marde,” he muttered anyway, tipping his head back in an effort to staunch the flow.

Jean kept her eyes narrowed. “Could’ve fooled me,” she said, then grabbed a box of tissues from the teacher’s desk, shoving it at him.

“Here. Don’t tilt your head back. The blood running down your throat will make you choke or throw up,” she murmured.

Still grumbling unintelligible French under his breath, Jean-Paul switched tactics, took the tissues, and leaned forward. “What made you so angry? I do not read minds, Jean. I cannot tell when is the right time to say what.”

Dropping the book on the ground, Jean rubbed her forehead.

“God I hate it when you all say that,” she said to the ceiling. Because being a telepath automatically meant she was expected to know every goddamn thing about everyone and therefore knew how to fix everything.

And it also meant you got bitched at when you DO know every goddamn thing or say even something remotely correct then they suspect you ‘read their mind’ and ‘meddled’ (oh my god!) and it was therefore and invasion of privacy. Um, which one was right again?

“If I ‘meddle’....if I say what I say to you...it’s not because I take sick pleasure in being Nancy Drew. It’s because I want to protect you.

“It’s because all I’ve seen is you broken, mentally, physically, emotionally, and at the end of your rope. And when I hear ‘oh let me do this on my own.’ I’m afraid the moment I let you do that, the moment I believe you, I’m going to be wrong. And I’m going to find you dead in an alley somewhere, either by your own hand or someone else’s,” she said.

She lifted her hand. “And it’s irrational, and maybe illogical, but I’m tired...I don’t...want to have another dead or missing person on my conscience because I looked the other way. Because I wasn’t there,” she said, closing her eyes.

“Like I said, I want to believe in you. But I’m scared to, for my own sake. I’m tired of dreaming of walking through the mansion...finding dead bodies in every room because I left for too long,” she said.

“It’s all I see. Night after night,” she said. She opened her eyes, brushing her hair behind her ears.

“So...sorry, I guess. I’ll work on the irrational anger issues.”

“Merci,” Jean-Paul said, voice still thick from pain and blood as well as whatever was going on with his nose. He didn’t think it was broken, at least. “Also, I am not going to die any time soon, by my own hand or someone else’s. At least so long as I have a say. They would have to catch me, oui?” Too much talking. Too much talking was bad. He was giving himself a worse headache. “Ow.”

She smiled faintly. “Yeah, I guess,” she said, folding her arms. Again, she supposed it came down to subconscious irrational fear.

And now all she felt was an intense amount of awkwardness.

“Very good,” Jean-Paul said, accent thicker, words edging closer to ‘unintelligible” than they had before. “Did you break my nose?” It was swelling up. That was just what he needed.

Jean ignored the sudden feeling like she was in a obedience class. She shrugged.

“Probably,” she said.

“For someone so worried about my well-being, that was not very nice.”

“You’re still alive, aren’t you?” she said with a smile. Almost a smirk.

“Sometimes my fist gets a little punch happy when I’m mad. It’s the hair. Gives me a natural propensity towards rage. Sorry,” she said.

“Mostly.”

It still felt pretty damn good.

“You should work on that.” The blood seemed to be stopping, at least. “So... are we amis again? Please?”

“I’ll add it to my list of New Year’s Resolutions,” Jean said. She glanced out the window again, folding her arms with a smile.

“Yeah. I guess we are.”

“Bon,” Jean-Paul said, nodding and then wishing he hadn’t. “I think I will be going upstairs to destroy this shirt and find one that is not bloody.”

Jean reached down to pick up her book. “Will it also be pink?” she said innocently, glancing up at him.

“Probably,” Jean-Paul said, nodding. “Angelo dyed all of them pink. I need to wrap his office in wrapping paper... just to get even.”

Jean smirked.

“Boys will be boys.”