02 / 07 / 11 - Jean-Paul, Madrox
Madrox brought his own tent, but for some reason, he has remained severaled, and as his tent is not a pavilion, has opted to make a theft of some surviving al-Sahra tents as well. And as dawn passes into brighter morning, Prime's "main" tent is the source of an argument between Madri. "Either make better use of us, or let us go somewhere useful. You need the manpower, don't you?" "It's been, what, a few hours since we fought al-Sahra? What's your rush?" "What /isn't/ our rush?"
After waking with the early morning light from a restless night's uncomfortable sleep, Jean-Paul has absented himself from the camp. When he returns, he is making the effort to walk quite normally. He is pale and stiff as he draws near Madrox's tent. It isn't that he is eavesdropping, really -- it's just hard to miss! "You may want to keep it down," he suggests with a note of wearied, dry humor.
One of the Madri, seated, is holding himself a little oddly, and if his pallor is not to the degree of Jean-Paul's, his complexion is arguably wan as he argues. "Look. El Rama isn't priority. Bird in the hand is. When we get back, I'll send one of you to Seattle, all right?" "You'll send /me/," demands the other Madrox, who is standing, shoulders leaned forward in a touch of aggression. "Sure, sure. Uh," the seated Madrox deflects to Jean-Paul, "Sorry. Anti-stealth, I know."
Jean-Paul glances between the two. Briefly, he measures moods, but his faint smile is turned equally between them. "Seattle, huh?" he asks the standing Madrox, before tipping his head in a nod to the seated. "Well. That too."
"We've got a friend to protect and infiltration to do," the standing Madrox directs partly toward Jean-Paul, before pointing back at the seated Madrox. "Which I'm best at." "Or your, dunno, predecessor was. It's all gotten a little dilute--" "Don't you call me dilute. What's wrong with you?" snaps the standing, who turns a 'see?' look over at Jean-Paul. "I'd be quieter, but /this/ is what I get to deal with."
"My sympathies," Jean-Paul murmurs to the standing, not entirely sarcastic -- but definitely a little sardonic in the light in his eyes. "I can see why you feel the need to raise your voice." Glancing down, he asks simply, "Why not?"
"He's being /wibbly/. He's not supposed to be wibbly any more. He promised," accuses the standing, with a malign side-glance at the sitting, who raises his - right hand in open surrender. "I'm not /against/ it. He's just being unreasonably bossy."
"You're the only person I know who needs your own couple's counseling." Jean-Paul glances skyward, and then back down. "Jamie," he addresses the standing, and oops if he is supposed to use a codename, "since you are both for it, why don't you work out a time and schedule it? There's no reason to rush into it, heedless." Glancing down, smile sliding a little crooked, he adds, "If you didn't wibble, maybe you wouldn't boss."
"It's mostly just a ritual," the seated Madrox grumbles, but the standing one quite seizes onto this scheduling idea. "The /moment/ the rest of the team is back, I'm going to Seattle. Try to absorb me before then and I'm tranqing you." "Oh, /come on/." "That's /settled/. Now you can - talk to your boyfriend. Or whatever." And off the standing one stalks, as the seated objects to Jean-Paul, "I wasn't really /wibbling/."
"That's -- that's not what I meant," Jean-Paul says, exasperation quiet under his breath as standing stalks off. He glances after that particular Madrox with a resigned humor. "Think he'll really tranq you?" he asks rather than answer the objection.
Madrox snakes two fingers up under his scalp and scratches. "Oh, I'm quite sure he's serious. Sorry. All this wide-open space, they get excitable."
"Yeah." Glancing up at the arch of the sky, Jean-Paul says, "Hopefully he settles down. It's not something you should charge into, heedless, though it is worth pursuing. Sorry for--." He breaks off and lifts a few fingers (on his left hand; the right is dead weight) in a low gesture.
Madrox is, for his part, favoring his right hand with his scratching, unusual for a dedicated lefty, but it's Jean-Paul's dead weight he focuses on. "If he doesn't settle, I'll risk the tranqing. That's really bothering you, isn't it?" He nods to the arm.
"Risk the tranqing. Jesus Christ." The flicker of his smile shuts down at the question, sulky-like. "It's fine," Jean-Paul says with a hint of prickly snap, discomfort in injury and illness not exactly subtle. There's a grumble in his voice, a renewed note of sulk, as he says, "Bruises are always worse the next day, when your muscles go stiff. It will be better when I warm up."
"Well, what am I supposed to do? Let him barrel off to Seattle?" Madrox drops his hand out of his scratch, and smiles to the sulk, with a kind of warm amusement. "True. My shoulder's not feeling so hot either. But it /bothers/ /you/."
"No barreling," Jean-Paul agrees with a carefully halved shrug. He wrinkles his nose at the prying question, and, grudging, gives an answer: "Yeah. In everything I do, I rely on my body to carry me through. Before as an athlete, now as an agent. It /hurts/," is probably not as whiny as it could be, but it is still kind of whiny, "to move. And that's even lucky, too. Just a bruise."
"I have more of a life of the /mind/," Madrox says, half-teasing, and, "Uh, well. I guess it bothers me, too. I don't like feeling helpless."
"Yes." Dry reply only lightly edged, Jean-Paul says, "You live the life of the intellectual in the ivory tower of the hub." He tips his head back, glancing unsquinting into the bright sky. "No one does. We came off light, though."
Madrox cants his head, and says, rather lower, "Let's be honest. I'm a field agent who plays at being in the hub." A moment and, "And I suppose so. We didn't die. Two agents essentially useless, though."
Glancing back at Madrox, Jean-Paul blinks once as his eyes adjust. "You do okay." Faint smile drawing to a thinner line, he says, "They'll heal."
"My heart is where the gunfire is, not the spreadsheet." Madrox runs two fingers together, his own expression at that too-neutral. "They will heal. Yes. There could've been deaths."
"What a way to put it." But with his own heart so clearly happiest wherever injury is likeliest, Jean-Paul does not argue overmuch. "I'm glad we have Lowell, at least."
"Well," Madrox says, and lets it fade. "We do have Lowell. That's important. And the area around the portal is clear. Arguably more important." Madrox adds, though, "My concern . . . is that Silvio and Ji seemed to be unable to open the portal." This is dropped quite quiet, quite hesitant.
Silent in response, Jean-Paul glances down. He lifts his left arm, wrapping it over his front to hook on his right elbow. The hold is careful. Bruises, bleh. After that quiet hesitation, he lets quite the pause draw out himself before saying, "We don't know why. We don't know -- we don't know anything."
"We don't," Madrox owns. "We don't know anything." He levers himself standing, awkward, and stiff himself.
"Lowell might know." A low note in Jean-Paul's voice asks that Madrox leave that illusion, at least, for as long as it will stand.
"Yes. We'll ask her," Madrox says, forcing confidence into his voice. He even touches Jean-Paul's arm as he says it. "It'll work out."
Smile drawn uneven across his lips, pulled askew by sardonic recognition, Jean-Paul says, "Thanks."
Madrox keeps his hand there. SUSTAINED touch. Dangerous. "We'll make it work out."
"Everything will be fine," Jean-Paul replies, humor drawing dry and a little dark.
"We'll stay here until it is," Madrox says, almost coaxing, if it weren't for that thread of tension.
Jean-Paul lifts his hand to lay it over Madrox's in a light clasp. It is no fervent interweaving of fingers, but rather a curled grasp over top with the stroke of his thumb to scoot it a step away from purely platonic. "Just have to keep al-Sahra out, so that they don't get a warmer welcome than they want."
"We can do that," Madrox says with a smaller smile and moves as if to shoulder-bump before he remembers. "Anyway, uh, anything you need?"
"Ibuprofen." Smile a tight twist at the edge of his lips, Jean-Paul tips his head back in the direction of his own things.
"Then you'd /better/ have some of your own. I'm hogging mine," Madrox says with a half-snort.
"Selfish." Smile breaking wider, Jean-Paul squeezes Madrox's hand before dropping his back to his side. "I would've shared."
"You're the superior person. News flash," Madrox says, as his hand withdraws and his smile widens back.
"You do okay," Jean-Paul says once again: new favorite phrase to describe Madrox in all ways, in all things. It is the note of affectionate humor that keeps it from quite being all damning with faint praise. "Let me know if you hear anything from town." With that, he turns, off to find painkillers since Madrox is greedy.
"I'll let you know," Madrox says, and sends Jean-Paul farewell with a wave.
Morning.