Quentin & Jessica, backdated to Thanksgiving

[xp_erverse]

For the wayback machine. Quentin and Jessica independently decide to keep a comatose Haller company on Thanksgiving rather than actually celebrate the holiday with the other mansion residents.


Quentin's Thanksgiving tradition (whenever he could not escape the mansion) was to wait until the meal was over and residents had dispersed to their tryptophan-induced comas so he could abscond with leftovers to his room and eat alone. Maybe all the cross-country travel recently made him want to stay put this year. Whatever the reason, he now had two bottles of wine, a plate of glazed carrots and what he hoped was a vegetarian stuffing, half a pumpkin pie, and half a pecan pie. He was halfway up the stairs when he decided he didn't actually want to lock himself in his suite, and turned around.

A couple minutes later, he was sitting on a chair in the medlab next to Haller's sleeping form, telekinetically pouring two glasses of wine. He offered one to the comatose psi, and when he didn't respond, Quentin shrugged and double-fisted. Gentle indie pop streamed from his phone on the nightstand.

Jessica turned the corner into the room, balancing two pies and a casserole dish full of stuffing, and nearly dropped everything. It took her a moment to recover herself. "This the quietest place you could think of too?" she asked, maybe a little rueful.

"No, just . . . I wanted company that wouldn't talk back," he answered, unsure of how to explain the compulsion that drew him down here. One glass of wine finished, he offered the second to Jessica. "What are you doing here?"

"You don't mind?" Jessica put the pies and the casserole dish down on the table and accepted the glass of wine, taking the second chair near Haller's bed. "I'm not big on parties," she said, shrugging a little; she was wearing a zippered hoodie instead of her usual leather jacket. "And this idiot's good company right now." The look she cast at Haller was determinedly ironic.

Quentin shrugged noncommittally to Jessica's inquiry. If there was anyone he could trust to not be a verbal nuisance, it was her. "I'll have to set him up against mutant doomsday cults more often, then maybe some day he'll be downright pleasant."

Jessica's eyebrows rose. "Is that what happened?" She slanted a sarcastic look at the unmoving figure on the bed. "Un-fucking-believable."

"Better get used to it if you're going to stay here," Quentin advised between bites of stuffing. "A house full of superheroes and super-spies. New adventures every month."

Jessica took a few bites of pie herself, thoughtfully. "But free rent," she said, wistfully; a New Yorker's dream.

"Yeah, in Westchester." The commute might kill him some day. "So. You back on your feet yet? With the license and whatever."

"Yeah. Got an office - well, it's a studio apartment in Soho, but it's fine. Got a few cases from old clients, and - do you know Felicia? She hired me to do some work in the city for her. So we're doing okay." She tilted her glass at him, a mild toast. "Thanks again for the resources, that first month. Helped a lot getting set back up."

Quentin waved off the gratitude as he dug into the pecan pie. "Don't worry about it. Glad to help another mutant get back to their feet."

"You really care about the mutant thing, huh," Jess said; curious, not defensive. Maybe it was the tryptophan from the turkey, or maybe actual gratitude - who could say?

He tried really hard not to twitch, as innocent as the comment was. He did give her quite the side eye, though. "Yes, the 'mutant thing' is very important to me," he said evenly. "It's a quirk of my instinct for self-preservation."

"I'm not criticizing," Jessica said, holding up a hand - either to pacify or defend. "I just never really thought of it that much before this."

"Yeah, well, if you're gonna live here, you're gonna have to think about it." Quentin turned to look at the catatonic Haller, lying still and staring at nothing. He'd nearly given his life for "the mutant thing." He should not have been stuck in a hospital bed on Thanksgiving. "What got you into being a PI in the first place?"

She shrugged. "It was better than serving fucking tables at dive bars," she said. She chewed on a bite of pie, and lifted a shoulder again, this time a little less dry, or a little more defensive. "I liked it. It was interesting, I could set my own hours, sometimes you got to help someone with something." She lifted her chin at him, questioning. "What about you? Other than my incredible career advice, that is."

He was going to regret honesty with her, wasn't he? He mimicked her one-armed shrug as he telekinetically refilled their glasses. "I wasn't really doing much of anything when I was brought here," he said thoughtfully. "But I wasn't about to be a superhero or a super-spy. X-Factor was a chance to actually help mutants. Nobody's looking out for us, so through X-Factor, we're looking out for each other. Community aid is powerful."

Jess opened a hand in acquiescence; not disagreeing, but not buying in, either. "So now you're the boss," she said. "Or did I hear that asshole Warren is back in charge?" She sipped the wine, sure it was too advanced for her palate. It certainly didn't burn going down like her drink of choice.

"It's complicated," Quentin groaned, gesturing with a forkful of pie. "But basically, we both co-own the agency, and we've agreed to let him handle the financial aspect, because he's infuriatingly good at that, while I manage the caseload because I actually am a PI."

There was a shift in the bed beside him.

Haller sat forward slowly, like a man moving through deep water. His eyes fell on neither visitor, but one hand began to grope against his lap, curling as if around an invisible fork. As they watched he began to raise his hand to his mouth in a blind pantomime of eating.

Jess, incredibly creeped out, watched this for a moment before rolling her eyes. With a relatively mild, "Jesus Christ," she shoved a plate of pie and her fork into Haller's lap. She sat back with her glass of wine. "He does talk less now," she said, defending this softness.

"I don't think he can actually hold onto the fork," Quentin mused, setting aside his own plate to pick up the one she left and hold a forkful of pie near Haller's mouth. "He has the right idea. Go braindead right before the holidays and be a zombie only when there's pie nearby."

The older man allowed Quentin to feed him with the stoic cooperation of a veteran patient. On the other hand, he was only slightly more engaged with the outside world than the pie he was currently consuming.

"Weird as fuck," Jessica said. "But at least relatable - if I'm ever in a coma like that, bring me pie." She paused. "Going back to the other thing, congratulations on being able to work with Warren without murdering him. I assume it's a daily challenge."

Bonding over mutual contempt for someone else always brought a smirk to Quentin's face. "All I'm saying is, he's lucky I already have to maintain impulse control as a telepath, because there are some days he's setting to be a Columbo cold open."

Jessica very carefully didn't flinch at the mention of Quentin's powers, keeping her eyes on Haller instead. If being in a room with two telepaths bothered her, it showed mostly in the tense lines of her hands, long fingers not fidgeting but locked. "I'm surprised it hasn't happened yet. There's punchable faces and then there's that fucking guy. I know he's rich - " This was clearly not a point in his favor in her opinion - "but money can't buy someone not sucker punching you for assholery."

Quentin busied himself with babying Haller so he wouldn't see Jessica fighting cringe. "Look, I'm pretty sure no one here would stop you if you got your shot in, not even his fiancee. She'd probably give you a medal. I guess we keep him around because it's better to have mutant Elon Musk on our side than not. At least his money is useful to the rest of us."

"He can keep that shit," Jessica said, rolling her eyes. "There are no ethical billionaires." If she knew she was talking to another rich man, the look on her face suggested she did not care. "But I guess it's nice that he funds his hobbies."

"Imagine being so wealthy you can make other people's livelihoods your hobby." Quentin rolled his eyes then glanced back at Haller, the secret son of a similar man. But at least Chuckles typically put his money where his mouth was. "Guess I'm a little envious, though, 'cuz I'd become a shady music producer if I could," he fantasized as Dream Wife came on shuffle.

Jess gave him a nod at the music, though she rolled her eyes tolerantly at the music producer nonsense. Rather than replying, she sat back, letting Quentin take the lead on feeding the patient while she applied herself to some stuffing.