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xp_logsJean finds Quentin sulking in the mansion's boathouse. Quentin's his surly self. (TW - Discussions of Suicide)
2 am. The moonlight glinted across the fresh powdered snow covering the grounds. It was cold enough that the lake had frozen over weeks ago, but the boat house hadn't seen a boat in ages. There was a knock at the boathouse door, though there were no footsteps to signal a visitor's arrival. The mansion had its night owls, some by choice, some by force.
The knock went unanswered for a minute, until the door opened on its own to let Jean in. Sitting on a stool at the far end, clad in a tacky white faux-fur coat to protect him from the blistering cold, Quentin stared out the window onto the empty docks and frozen lake. He looked over his shoulder, rolled his eyes when he saw who it was, and then turned back. "Go to bed, Doc."
"Tell my subconscious that," Jean said. She was holding two steaming cups for hot cocoa, and offered him one.
"I felt you out here, so I figured I'd see how your good imitation of a baby seal is." She glanced over the coat.
"Pretty good."
"No big burly man's come out to bludgeon me, so it's not that good." He turned again to take the offered drink, sniffed it, and made a face. "No whiskey? I can't drink this."
Jean smirked. "It may not be whiskey but it is amazing. Broke into my good stash of hot cocoa for this," she said, then shrugged, taking a sip of her mug with an appreciative sigh.
"But you don't drink it, I get two cups...which is bully for me."
"All that unnecessary extra sugar's just going to make you fat. And you don't have to check up on me. I'm fine. Don't waste your time."
"Good thing I exercise enough to make an athlete astounded, then," Jean said as she sat on the windowsill.
"And I don't have to check up on you but I want to." She took another sip.
"You seem particularly scowly lately," she added. She could feel it through the vestiges of their link.
Quentin rested his cheek against the cool glass of the window, and looked up at Jean. "Yeah, chlamydia'll do that to you," he said, holding her gaze, anticipating her shock, challenging her to give him the same disconcerted reactions Cecilia and Clarice had. "Got any other brilliant insights for me?"
Jean was silent for a long time after his proclamation garnered a raised eyebrow of dismay, but not exactly surprise.
"I don't think you'd want to hear them."
She got that right. Quentin raised his mug in salute and sipped from it. "'Course not. But you so desperately want to tell me so you can say you tried your best, like anyone cares, so. Whatever. Advise me."
"Nah. Sounds like you've got it figured out," Jean said, holding up her hands. "You know me, and everyone else so completely. What's left to say?"
She took another sip from her mug.
"I'm just here to drink cocoa and watch you self-destruct."
A dark look passed over his face — darker than normal, that is — and the window panes rattled, shaken by poorly restrained telekinesis. "Are you here to check up on me or because you have schadenfreude from me? It can't be both, Jean. Make up your mind."
Jean didn't flinch with the window panes rattled, like a parent having witnessed one too many toddler temper tantrums. Her face remained impassive, all except for her eyes. "Do you hear any pleasure in my voice?" she said, her voice as sharp as the crack in one of the window panes.
"Do you think I want to watch you do everything short of putting a noose around your neck? I'd rather be teaching you--helping you. But you push everyone away instead, including me. I don't want to watch, but I will. Because I care about you. But I can't do a damn thing unless you want to help yourself."
"Well . . . I don't." The truth came out with some surprise to Quentin himself. The shaking stopped, but the expression of disgust did not leave his face. "Help myself for what, anyway? What's the point? Nothing matters and I just . . . could not give less of a shit about anything. Who even has the energy to care anymore?"
Jean stared at him, her gaze never faltering.
"Why do you think it doesn't matter?"
He stood up and slowly paced around the room, careful not to spill the drink all over his coat. "Because it's all meaningless. We live, we die, the end. There's no point so why act like it? I died once, what does it matter if I do again?"
Letting the words hang for a few moments, Jean watched him walk before looking away.
"You probably think I'm angry. I'm not. You died, Quentin. And that is really big fucking deal. Of course you're going to feel that way. There's nothing wrong with that. Out of the billions of odds, it happened to you and that really sucked," she said. She stared into the coffee mug. The cocoa had grown cold, the last vestiges of steam long gone .
She rubbed her forehead. "I'm not sure what to say that will make you feel better. Because nothing will magically do that. But staying alive? That matters. It matters to me. And it matters to more people than you know. You may feel numb now but give yourself one thing. One thing to live for today. And then the next day, do the same thing. But talk to people. Don't shut yourself away."
"I'm talking to you now, aren't I?" It did not escape Quentin that Jean's plea was much the same as Gabriel's last words to him a few months earlier. His lip twitched and he looked away so Jean could not see his face. "I was talking to David after I got back. Said to him nothing feels right. Like, everything's tilted a few degrees to the side. It's so close to correct but it's not and I can't right it. It's living in a constant state of wrongness. It's itchy. Living feels itchy, and that's not the STI."
Jean's breath misted in the air as she rubbed her hands together. The name Quentin used, David, was not lost on her. Not "Haller" or "Head Shrink" or one of a dozen insulting names, just David. She could hear the wind pick up outside the boathouse, a muffled roar, like an animal begging to be let in.
"Perhaps because you've had this experience that no one else has....and yet, life goes on and people go on and they have no idea what you've been through because they haven't felt it," she said, clenching her fist in and out. The cold had settled into her knuckles.
"There's nothing to correct. It is wrong. To you. There's nothing wrong with that. It just may....take new experiences to write over the feeling. Until the wrong is replaced with familiar," she said, rising to stand.
"I get it sometimes too. Dissociation. Like the world is slightly off and I'm not part of it. I'm in outer space. I felt it when I fell into the water, when we went into Topaz's mind. Like I was a million, billion miles away. And I felt it too after Shadow King---after what he did. It's why I bury myself in my work. But there easier ways. Instead of finding things to do that might make your dick fall off," she said, giving him a light smile.
Quentin set down his half-empty mug and crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall. "I didn't have anything before it all happened. I wouldn't even know where to look now. Can't fix emptiness with emptiness."
"Didn't you? What about Gabriel?" Jean said.
"And even if you don't know where to look, maybe I can help." She herself wasn't the best paragon of happiness lately, but having a purpose and helping people did give her some joy.
"G and I are taking a break," he admitted, looking away again, and locking up his still-piddly shields to keep Jean from watching the scene of their last encounter that was now replaying in his memories. "You're never gonna stop, are you? Gotta be the fuckin' messiah."
Jean's eyes flashed, figuratively not literally, mind you. She clenched her jaw, her fingers balling into fists. "It's obvious you don't give a damn what I think. You know what? Fine. Do whatever you want," she said, throwing her arms up as the door to the boathouse slammed open and she stormed out.
He watched her leave, sneering behind her back as she finally gave in to what he said he'd wanted all along. Once she was gone, the mug exploded, spraying hot chocolate around the room, but fortunately all avoiding his coat. "Your cocoa sucks, anyway."
2 am. The moonlight glinted across the fresh powdered snow covering the grounds. It was cold enough that the lake had frozen over weeks ago, but the boat house hadn't seen a boat in ages. There was a knock at the boathouse door, though there were no footsteps to signal a visitor's arrival. The mansion had its night owls, some by choice, some by force.
The knock went unanswered for a minute, until the door opened on its own to let Jean in. Sitting on a stool at the far end, clad in a tacky white faux-fur coat to protect him from the blistering cold, Quentin stared out the window onto the empty docks and frozen lake. He looked over his shoulder, rolled his eyes when he saw who it was, and then turned back. "Go to bed, Doc."
"Tell my subconscious that," Jean said. She was holding two steaming cups for hot cocoa, and offered him one.
"I felt you out here, so I figured I'd see how your good imitation of a baby seal is." She glanced over the coat.
"Pretty good."
"No big burly man's come out to bludgeon me, so it's not that good." He turned again to take the offered drink, sniffed it, and made a face. "No whiskey? I can't drink this."
Jean smirked. "It may not be whiskey but it is amazing. Broke into my good stash of hot cocoa for this," she said, then shrugged, taking a sip of her mug with an appreciative sigh.
"But you don't drink it, I get two cups...which is bully for me."
"All that unnecessary extra sugar's just going to make you fat. And you don't have to check up on me. I'm fine. Don't waste your time."
"Good thing I exercise enough to make an athlete astounded, then," Jean said as she sat on the windowsill.
"And I don't have to check up on you but I want to." She took another sip.
"You seem particularly scowly lately," she added. She could feel it through the vestiges of their link.
Quentin rested his cheek against the cool glass of the window, and looked up at Jean. "Yeah, chlamydia'll do that to you," he said, holding her gaze, anticipating her shock, challenging her to give him the same disconcerted reactions Cecilia and Clarice had. "Got any other brilliant insights for me?"
Jean was silent for a long time after his proclamation garnered a raised eyebrow of dismay, but not exactly surprise.
"I don't think you'd want to hear them."
She got that right. Quentin raised his mug in salute and sipped from it. "'Course not. But you so desperately want to tell me so you can say you tried your best, like anyone cares, so. Whatever. Advise me."
"Nah. Sounds like you've got it figured out," Jean said, holding up her hands. "You know me, and everyone else so completely. What's left to say?"
She took another sip from her mug.
"I'm just here to drink cocoa and watch you self-destruct."
A dark look passed over his face — darker than normal, that is — and the window panes rattled, shaken by poorly restrained telekinesis. "Are you here to check up on me or because you have schadenfreude from me? It can't be both, Jean. Make up your mind."
Jean didn't flinch with the window panes rattled, like a parent having witnessed one too many toddler temper tantrums. Her face remained impassive, all except for her eyes. "Do you hear any pleasure in my voice?" she said, her voice as sharp as the crack in one of the window panes.
"Do you think I want to watch you do everything short of putting a noose around your neck? I'd rather be teaching you--helping you. But you push everyone away instead, including me. I don't want to watch, but I will. Because I care about you. But I can't do a damn thing unless you want to help yourself."
"Well . . . I don't." The truth came out with some surprise to Quentin himself. The shaking stopped, but the expression of disgust did not leave his face. "Help myself for what, anyway? What's the point? Nothing matters and I just . . . could not give less of a shit about anything. Who even has the energy to care anymore?"
Jean stared at him, her gaze never faltering.
"Why do you think it doesn't matter?"
He stood up and slowly paced around the room, careful not to spill the drink all over his coat. "Because it's all meaningless. We live, we die, the end. There's no point so why act like it? I died once, what does it matter if I do again?"
Letting the words hang for a few moments, Jean watched him walk before looking away.
"You probably think I'm angry. I'm not. You died, Quentin. And that is really big fucking deal. Of course you're going to feel that way. There's nothing wrong with that. Out of the billions of odds, it happened to you and that really sucked," she said. She stared into the coffee mug. The cocoa had grown cold, the last vestiges of steam long gone .
She rubbed her forehead. "I'm not sure what to say that will make you feel better. Because nothing will magically do that. But staying alive? That matters. It matters to me. And it matters to more people than you know. You may feel numb now but give yourself one thing. One thing to live for today. And then the next day, do the same thing. But talk to people. Don't shut yourself away."
"I'm talking to you now, aren't I?" It did not escape Quentin that Jean's plea was much the same as Gabriel's last words to him a few months earlier. His lip twitched and he looked away so Jean could not see his face. "I was talking to David after I got back. Said to him nothing feels right. Like, everything's tilted a few degrees to the side. It's so close to correct but it's not and I can't right it. It's living in a constant state of wrongness. It's itchy. Living feels itchy, and that's not the STI."
Jean's breath misted in the air as she rubbed her hands together. The name Quentin used, David, was not lost on her. Not "Haller" or "Head Shrink" or one of a dozen insulting names, just David. She could hear the wind pick up outside the boathouse, a muffled roar, like an animal begging to be let in.
"Perhaps because you've had this experience that no one else has....and yet, life goes on and people go on and they have no idea what you've been through because they haven't felt it," she said, clenching her fist in and out. The cold had settled into her knuckles.
"There's nothing to correct. It is wrong. To you. There's nothing wrong with that. It just may....take new experiences to write over the feeling. Until the wrong is replaced with familiar," she said, rising to stand.
"I get it sometimes too. Dissociation. Like the world is slightly off and I'm not part of it. I'm in outer space. I felt it when I fell into the water, when we went into Topaz's mind. Like I was a million, billion miles away. And I felt it too after Shadow King---after what he did. It's why I bury myself in my work. But there easier ways. Instead of finding things to do that might make your dick fall off," she said, giving him a light smile.
Quentin set down his half-empty mug and crossed his arms, leaning back against the wall. "I didn't have anything before it all happened. I wouldn't even know where to look now. Can't fix emptiness with emptiness."
"Didn't you? What about Gabriel?" Jean said.
"And even if you don't know where to look, maybe I can help." She herself wasn't the best paragon of happiness lately, but having a purpose and helping people did give her some joy.
"G and I are taking a break," he admitted, looking away again, and locking up his still-piddly shields to keep Jean from watching the scene of their last encounter that was now replaying in his memories. "You're never gonna stop, are you? Gotta be the fuckin' messiah."
Jean's eyes flashed, figuratively not literally, mind you. She clenched her jaw, her fingers balling into fists. "It's obvious you don't give a damn what I think. You know what? Fine. Do whatever you want," she said, throwing her arms up as the door to the boathouse slammed open and she stormed out.
He watched her leave, sneering behind her back as she finally gave in to what he said he'd wanted all along. Once she was gone, the mug exploded, spraying hot chocolate around the room, but fortunately all avoiding his coat. "Your cocoa sucks, anyway."
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Date: 2018-02-04 04:28 pm (UTC)