Cecilia & JPB | Friday Morning

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Jean-Paul and Cecilia meet while running on the grounds.


The dog knew.

He was intuitive, loving, and loyal. Most dogs were. But there was an extra layer. There was something else. When Clint walked by, new Clint, he always whined. And he'd turn, and he'd look up at Cecilia with a little plaintive cry.

And now, for instance. Without thinking, she'd steered them toward the archery range, a place she'd been careful to avoid on their walks. And Lucky, god bless him, stopped in his tracks. Lost in thought as she was, she'd nearly tripped over him, catching herself only at the last second.

They stood still for a second, looking around the grounds. And then, almost on cue, the whine. She reached down to pet him, scratching behind the ears for a second. After a minute, they started running again.

The dog knew. He had to know.

Jean-Paul was running. It was not his favorite thing to do, but it was a million times better than turning over huge tires repeatedly in the sweltering summer sun. It was, of course, far inferior to speeding down a perfect, blindingly white mountainside, but.

But.

He had to stop, exhaling sharply as he pressed a hand to his side. The Quebecois had been running a great deal lately. Autumn came later to New York than Montreal, but only if you were looking very closely for the difference. Jean-Paul needed to make himself stop searching out the differences. This was his place now, for the time being at least. It could be much, much worse.

Glancing back at the rhythmic sound of feet hitting the path behind him, he quirked a brow at the woman and the dog. It was particularly odd, the way the dog simply stopped in its tracks. Jean-Paul was very briefly concerned that the woman would not notice, but she did. Whatever silent communication they shared, it was far beyond his ability to interpret. People and their pets... such odd bonds.

The dog slowed again, his ears perking up. Cecilia slowed too, finally reaching a stop as Lucky began looking around. He barked, looking back at her, then looking at the wincing man in front of him. She rolled her eyes. "Fine. Ven acá," she said in a low voice. The dog obliged, and she grinned as she let him off his leash.

Lucky bounded toward Jean-Paul, and Cecilia followed closely behind, though at a much slower pace. The sun came out from behind the clouds, and she shielded her eyes. "Hey," she called to him. "You okay?"

"Oui, yes. Thank you," Jean-Paul said, straightening a little as the dog half-skidded to a stop thanks to the fallen leaves on the path. Moving his hand from his side, he held his curled fingers out for the dog to sniff. "Pausing only."

"Uh huh." A hint of smile came to Cecilia's lips. She watched as Lucky extended his neck a bit, pushing his nose forward to sniff Jean-Paul's hands. He let out a short bark, then began sniffing the ground, moving slowly toward Jean-Paul's shoes. "He might be headed for the crotch next, just so you know," she said, looking back up at Jean-Paul. "Though I'm sure you've rebuffed similar advances before, so maybe you don't need the warning."

Laughing despite himself, Jean-Paul sat on his heels as the dog got closer to him. He scratched behind the dog's ears as he said, "Merci, monsieur. I am very flattered, of course. But I think that you are not my type." Then he looked toward the woman and smiled. "I am Jean-Paul. I do not think we have met."

"Not officially." She knew who he was, of course, and not just because he'd been found unconscious and dragged into her medlab. The ears would have been a giveaway, and as she looked more closely at his face, she had a flash to another Jean-Paul, about 10 years earlier.

"I'm Cecilia." She smiled back at him. "It's nice to—"

A bark interrupted the thought, and she laughed. "And this is Lucky."

Still smiling, Jean-Paul stood up. "Bonjour," he said, giving the dog a half-bow worthy of the stage. There was even a flourish. Then he turned toward Cecilia and said, "It is very good to meet you. You helped with the..." He gestured toward his head. "When I was unconscious?"

"I did." She nodded. Lucky trotted back to her side, nuzzling against her leg. "I mean, as much as any of us could, anyway. Kind of a unique challenge..." A light wind blow, rustling some of the leaves on the path. Lucky watched them somewhat dispassionately. "But yeah, I'm a doctor. And you were in a 14-year-old girl's brain."

Jean-Paul wrinkled his nose. "Oui," he said, shaking his head. "With three other people, also. But the girl, she was not there so much. Quentin and Gabriel, they only had mind sex the once. Wanda and I survived."

"Mind sex?" Cecilia raised an eyebrow. "How does—" She shook her head. "Eh, forget it. Probably better off not knowing." She paused for a second, trying to get his full measure. "You never do get used to the psi stuff."

"No," Jean-Paul agreed. "I do not think it will be so easy to get used to. And I think... it takes a lot of trust to live with them always, oui?"

"Well..." Cecilia hesitated, unsure whether to be comforting or blunt. "That's true of a lot of people here, honestly. The psychics do their best, I think. And there are ways to shield them, although I never learned." She shrugged and gave him a smile. "Apparently my thoughts are pretty loud."

Shrugging, Jean-Paul said, "This is true of mutants, oui? That there must be trust. It is why there is so much trouble now. No one trusts... us. No one trusts us."

"We trust each other." Cecilia smiled. "I mean, we have to. I barely know you, but my dog hasn't tried to kill you, and he's a pretty good judge of character, which is fine by me." She looked down at Lucky, who was sniffing around the leaves. "We were at the park, and a guy had just asked me out, and Lucky puked on his shoes. Turned out later he lived with his mother."

Jean-Paul laughed again. "I have heard this, oui? That animals are very good at choosing people. I have never had a pet, myself. Too much traveling." His side hurt far less now than it had when he'd stopped to take a breath, so he gestured toward the trail. "Would you like to continue running? Together, I mean?"

"You and me?" Cecilia laughed. "You're a professional athlete with two Olympic golds. I'm a surgeon in her 30s. And you—" Actually, did he know that he had super-speed? Maybe this Jean-Paul didn't have it. "You sure you can keep up with me? Betting it'll be a challenge."

"Six," Jean-Paul said, grin widening. "I have six gold medals, merci. But that is all skiing, going downhill. And so, I think we should see if I can keep up."

"Now, see, if that was a test of modesty," Cecilia poked him in the shoulder, "you failed. Massively." She shook her head. "Okay. Fine. You're competitive, right? So, let's make a bet."

"As long as it does not involve body parts," Jean-Paul answered, gesturing for her to continue.

"Body parts? What kind of bets are you usually placing?" Cecilia raised an eyebrow.

The smile on Jean-Paul's face turned sly. "The fun kind." Then he laughed again and said, "But what is this bet? For food? For chores?"

"Oh, if I win, I'm going down a list of the famous men you've been linked to in the press, and you have to tell me what's true and what isn't. And endure some very personal questions about some very attractive actors. Over brunch."

Delighted, Jean-Paul laughed. "Oui. And if I win..." He shrugged. "You will owe me a thing. I do not know what yet, but it will not be awful, I promise."

"Uh-uh," Cecilia shook her head, "that doesn't seem fair. Because you, as discussed, will almost certainly win."

"You will have to tell me," Jean-Paul said, tilting his head to the side. "All there is to know about the Longshot, oui? And why you slapped him last year. At his signing. Over brunch."

Cecilia considered this briefly, tilting her head as well. It wasn't exactly her place to recount Arthur's personal history, and anyway, when you factored in the Xorn, it got messy.

Then again, that was extra incentive to win.

"Fine," Cecilia nodded. "But either way, you're buying brunch. Endorsement money."

Snorting softly, Jean-Paul nodded, then dragged the toe of his shoe through the dirt and leaves on the path. "To start?" He asked, stepping behind the line as he arched an eyebrow at Cecilia.

"Sure." Cecilia bundled up the slack leash in her hand and tossed it on the ground. She'd come back for it later after she beat Jean-Paul, or she'd make him fly to get it. "Let's do this." She stepped behind the line, making a show of boxing him out of her space. "Ready when you are."

"On three?" Jean-Paul asked, rolling his shoulders and he positioned his feet just so.

"Sure." She adopted a kind of racing stance, not quite bending down to mimic starting blocks, but at least putting one fit in front of the other. "Your count."

"Un. Deux. Trois," Jean-Paul said. And then he took off running, only to realize a moment later that they hadn't actually set a winning destination. He would just assume that the first person back to the mansion won.

They both started off at a fair sprint, their shoulders more or less aligned for their first few paces. But Cecilia, her mind always on the long game, kept her pace steady as Jean-Paul sped up. She'd seen the way he'd been standing earlier, with an obvious cramp in his side, and she figured the best way to beat him was to take advantage of whatever competitive nature he had.

Jean-Paul kept an ear turned toward the sound of Cecilia's feet beside and, then, behind him, his eyes partially unfocused as he ran. Intent on getting to the closest part of the mansion – the smoker's porch – first, he let everything else fade out of his perception. His side twinged a bit, but he was breathing carefully, so he thought he'd be able to manage just fine.

Stretching his legs a little more, he sped up again.

Cecilia had to pick up her pace. Jean-Paul was really gaining speed - a weird amount of speed, actually, if he was dealing with a muscle cramp. At her side, Lucky was trotting along excitedly.

She watched as Jean-Paul started to veer a bit off the path, heading towards his left a bit, though still at a fast pace. She glanced at his feet, trying to see if they were leaving the ground.

In fact, Jean-Paul's feet had left the ground, but he didn't notice. It would be faster to cut through the trees to his left to get to the mansion, but the path didn't take that shortcut. The path ran straight. He kept thinking about it, though, as he ran. Just a little faster. Just a little faster.

And then –

He veered left unexpectedly, feet still not on the ground. A curse escaped Jean-Paul at the sudden shift in direction, but a much saltier word escaped him right before he slammed into the trunk of a rather impressive oak tree. He fell six feet to the ground beneath him a moment later.

"Oh my God!" Cecilia was at an all-out sprint now, bolting toward the tree. "Jean-Paul! Don't move!." She slowed down as she neared his body, shifting into full-on doctor mode. "Are you conscious?"

Jean-Paul squeezed his eyes shut and groaned. "Oui," he said. "I wish I was not." Then came the flood of Quebecois curses, more and more blasphemous and sacrilegious he straightened out his legs. He did the usual check to make sure he hadn't actually damaged himself, then sat up. "Pah."

"Stop moving." Cecilia squatted down. She held a finger in front of his face. "Follow the finger. Tell me your name and what day it is."

Pausing in his extensive recitation profanity, Jean-Paul gave Cecilia a mildly unimpressed look. He did, however, stop attempting to move and allowed his eyes to follow her finger as she moved it in front of him. "My name is Jean-Paul Étienne Beaubier. It is Friday, 20 November 2015."

Cecilia gave him an equally unimpressed look. "Don't look at me like that. I'm making sure you don't have brain damage. Headaches? Nausea? You hit that tree pretty hard."

"I have fallen down mountains, Doctor Cecilia," Jean-Paul said. "But no, I am not nauseated. My head hurts, but like a bruise. I will be sore."

"I'm sure you have," Cecilia said sternly, "but you're getting a full look when we get back to the mansion."

Sighing, Jean-Paul let his shoulders slump a little. "I think it is that I have a hard head, yes? I did not have concussion after car crash."

"Oh." Cecilia rose to her feet and extended her hand. "Well, that's probably good, right? I mean, built-in crash padding." She looked up at the tree. "You're clearly not the most, you know. Accurate flyer."

Taking her hand, Jean-Paul shook his head as he let her help him to his feet. "I did not realize I was flying."

"Really?" Cecilia furrowed her brow. "That – huh. Seems like your feet should have felt that the ground and the air aren't the same thing." She shrugged. "Whatever. Still counts as cheating, which means I totally won."

Jean-Paul's good mood soured a little at that – not that he lost, but at the accusation that he cheated. Freeing his hand to brush the leaves off of his back, he shrugged. "This is true. I will tell you whatever you like about whoever you would like to ask about – over brunch."

Cecilia gave him a hand, picking a few leafs and blades of grass off of his shirt. "Don't sound so upset. There'll be mimosas. And eggs. It'll be great."

"Mimosas," Jean-Paul said, snorting softly. The dog had stopped with them, and now he was sniffing at the Quebecois' knees. "Well, it will be delicious, wherever we wind up, as long as there are mimosas."

"You're not a good loser," Cecilia teased. "Come on. Let's get you to the medlab."