Protest: Aftermath (Cont.)
[ooc: Set Thursday late afternoon/evening.]
Doug should be making milkshakes.
It's what's expected of him in a crisis these days. Caught between John and Jean-Paul's highly passionate personalities, he's so often called upon to be the peacemaker, the joker, the one member of their makeshift little family who never takes anything to heart.
Sitting in Jean-Paul's hospital room, watching his lover sleep, his fingernails are about to draw blood from his palm.
He'd fared better than most in the sudden chaos of the protest, used to not being able to rely on powers to protect himself. He'd been shoved and elbowed, but he'd managed to round up his students and get them to safety before searching for his friends. He'd assumed - foolish, so very foolish - that Jean-Paul could more than take care of himself. More worried that John would let his anger get the better of him, he'd looked out for a hoodie in the surging crowd, but he'd heard the shot before he could reach either of them.
A bullet. It's so stupidly retro he could laugh. Jean-Paul might not be bulletproof like Kon, who is now guarding the door against any further attacks, but he's fast. He's a mutant. Superhuman. He should be taken down by lasers and gamma bombs, not a simple, goddamn bullet any moron could buy and load and fire.
He squeezes Jean-Paul's limp hand, and murmurs something to John about going to get a Coke. He needs more than that.
Down in the ER, there are still protesters waiting to have minor wounds attended to, and angered conversation abounds. Ex-senator Robert Kelly is holding the hand of a lost, blue-skinned girl, and discussing the fate of the injured protesters with no health insurance. All around, students and teachers from Xavier's are doing their best to help, to call families, to answer questions…
Doug wants a computer. He wants to blow something up.
He returns to the room with an ice-cold soda can in each hand, and whispers something in Kon's ear before sitting back down and passing the Dr. Pepper to John. "Anything?"
John shakes his head, but squeezes Doug's hand. "Thanks, babe."
Five minutes later, with a whoosh of air, the room is filled with the unmistakable scent of poutine, straight from Montreal.
One thing at a time.
Doug should be making milkshakes.
It's what's expected of him in a crisis these days. Caught between John and Jean-Paul's highly passionate personalities, he's so often called upon to be the peacemaker, the joker, the one member of their makeshift little family who never takes anything to heart.
Sitting in Jean-Paul's hospital room, watching his lover sleep, his fingernails are about to draw blood from his palm.
He'd fared better than most in the sudden chaos of the protest, used to not being able to rely on powers to protect himself. He'd been shoved and elbowed, but he'd managed to round up his students and get them to safety before searching for his friends. He'd assumed - foolish, so very foolish - that Jean-Paul could more than take care of himself. More worried that John would let his anger get the better of him, he'd looked out for a hoodie in the surging crowd, but he'd heard the shot before he could reach either of them.
A bullet. It's so stupidly retro he could laugh. Jean-Paul might not be bulletproof like Kon, who is now guarding the door against any further attacks, but he's fast. He's a mutant. Superhuman. He should be taken down by lasers and gamma bombs, not a simple, goddamn bullet any moron could buy and load and fire.
He squeezes Jean-Paul's limp hand, and murmurs something to John about going to get a Coke. He needs more than that.
Down in the ER, there are still protesters waiting to have minor wounds attended to, and angered conversation abounds. Ex-senator Robert Kelly is holding the hand of a lost, blue-skinned girl, and discussing the fate of the injured protesters with no health insurance. All around, students and teachers from Xavier's are doing their best to help, to call families, to answer questions…
Doug wants a computer. He wants to blow something up.
He returns to the room with an ice-cold soda can in each hand, and whispers something in Kon's ear before sitting back down and passing the Dr. Pepper to John. "Anything?"
John shakes his head, but squeezes Doug's hand. "Thanks, babe."
Five minutes later, with a whoosh of air, the room is filled with the unmistakable scent of poutine, straight from Montreal.
One thing at a time.