05 / 17 / 11 - Jean-Paul, Tom
=SC= Lexington Reservoir - Santa Cruz Mountains - California
Deep in the Santa Cruz mountains is a lake dammed by a low concrete rise. The reservoir is bordered on all sides by mountains, and for a short expanse by a high metal fence marked HIGH VOLTAGE. A thin gravel road meanders its way along the lake's edge between water and fence for some distance, leading to a gate and a gatehouse which is ominously labeled 'Use of deadly force authorized.' Just beyond the gate, a secured boathouse is visible to the side of the road.
A sandy shore and thin blades of grass lay between road and lake, an inviting stretch of beach for those who can ignore the looming presence of the secured fence. A turnoff leads to a small dirt parking area nearby, with a paved boat ramp that extends down toward the water to a small dock. Several yards away, an elevated wood cabin and shed overlook the shimmering blue waters and sit beside another small dock.
At the close of daylight's aggressive flirting with summer temperatures, the dusk comes with the cooler breath of breeze and fading pastel colors on the horizon. Tom pauses in his stride out of the forest, his hand on the solid bole of a trunk, and looks out toward the mountains to the west beyond which the sun is sinking. Then he moves toward the strip of beach and the extension of the dock with his hands tucking into the pockets of his jeans, his aspect thoughtful and his step slow.
Flat on the dock, staring up in the sky, Jean-Paul is easy to overlook at first. As Tom nears, he resolves into a more distinct blob. He turns his head toward the noise and shifts, sitting up in a lean on his elbow. His expression wavers before settling in neutral, wary welcome. "Tink."
Shielding drawn close and tight over Tom's telepathy, and distracted by some inner vision besides, Tom notes Jean-Paul only as he draws closer. He looks up and finds him there with a flick of his gaze, face lighting by a smile whose presence is perforce brief. He says, "Pan," and pauses on his approach to the dock before climbing up onto it, with his weight balanced on his heels.
Reaching back, Jean-Paul absently brushes at detritus sticking to his clothing. The stretch and twist of his arm, range of movement unlimited by injury, continues to be a delight. His expression is watchful, without a return smile, but not particularly suspicious. "Hey."
Tom returns him a "Hey," too. He tips his head slightly to one side, a shade of uncertainty in his gaze as he considers Jean-Paul. He blinks, glance falling away, though the barest hint of frown lingers about his brow. "You know," he says after a beat's pause, "I thought I liked it outside /before/."
Jean-Paul says, "Yeah." While monosyllabic, the attention he gives Tom -- the thoughtful expression, the uncertain shift of his posture -- communicates a little more clearly. He sits forward, as a prelude to standing. "I bet."
Weight shifting from foot to foot where he stands before the jut of the dock, Tom bites at the inside of his cheek as he looks to Jean-Paul. His own rising uncertainty plain in his expression, he says, "Am I chasing you off?"
"I don't know." Jean-Paul doesn't yet stand, but he sits poised on the edge of movement.
"Jean-Paul," Tom says, and the startle is not confined to the shift of his expression. It resolves to baffled hurt, becoming a plainer stare as he looks across the brief distance between them. "I'm -- you /know/ I'm shielding."
Looking up at Tom, Jean-Paul's jaw tightens with a twist of his features. He settles into a stubborn expression, tightly reserved. "Actually, no. I don't know that. I can't. I will never know what you do, or what you don't do."
For a moment, Tom stands there and doesn't say anything. The skip of his gaze, first away and then back; a searching look, as though he is thinking very quickly behind the smooth finish of his practiced shields. "You do know," he says. "You know me." He stops again, his throat working in a swallow, as though he would marshal an argument, but his reason is trapped behind the immediate emotional response, too clogged to escape.
"I thought I did." Jean-Paul pushes to his feet now. Absently, he brushes at the thighs of his jeans.
"A telepath did that to me," Tom says, standing tense and straight with something strangled in his voice. "Two telepaths. They're gone now. What they did is gone. It's fixed. It's finished."
Leaning back on his heels, Jean-Paul faces Tom directly. His words are crisp. "Maybe. But it wasn't someone else looking through your eyes, someone else speaking with your voice -- someone else using your power. It was you."
"It was me," Tom agrees. He draws himself up. "Everything I did was mine. My idea. My impulse. Because they took away my power to say no. They took away my ability to /choose/. My desires are /naked/ to the sky." Hands drawn out of his pockets, he opens them wide, showing his palms in a sweep. "You have always known I would help if anyone wanted it. I've always known no one wants it. As long as we've known each other. What's different /now/?"
"Yeah. You knew it. But you still did it." Anger speeding the pace of his words, Jean-Paul says, "It sounded like they /didn't/ take away your ability to choose. You weren't /forced/ into it, against your will. They just made it easier for you say yes."
"How do you choose not to do something if the part of your brain that tells you it's wrong isn't /there/?" Tom demands in fierce consternation. "Are you telling me there's nothing you are tempted to do, that you don't do, that you would be ashamed of if you did?"
His hands open and close at his side, but Jean-Paul otherwise stands quite still. When he speaks, it is low and controlled: "If you want someone to treat you like an innocent, blameless victim, I'm sure Isabel will be glad to coddle you. I have nothing else to say to you." He shifts, pushing forward toward the beach.
"Jean-Paul," Tom says again, with a note in his voice less like the dour sullen creature with all his hot rage of the past weeks and more like -- scrabbling panic, colored more with entreaty than with any inner fire: "If you blame me for having the idea in the first place, then you're right. But if you blame me for the /doing/, you're /wrong/."
"You /did it/, Tom. You know how people felt, you know how /I/ felt, and you still did it." Jean-Paul lashes out, sharper in response to that scrabbling entreaty. "Call yourself a victim, deny you responsibility all you want. You wouldn't be the first. But you did it. You didn't /listen/ when I told you to talk to people. And now you ask me to just forget it, water under the bridge, because it totally wasn't your fault? You weren't compelled. You chose."
"I /didn't/ choose!" Tom says, his fists balled at his sides, his eyes wide. "I /wouldn't/ choose that. I wouldn't /do that/. You think I wanted /this/? You think I ever wanted this?"
Lips thinning, Jean-Paul says, "You did." He walks on.
Tom stands behind him, shaken by a quiver of a rising and incredulous fury. He stares at his departing back, just a little like he is at war with himself. And then, slowly, he turns on his heel and walks on quiet, measured paces to the edge of the dock, shoves his hands in his pockets, and stares into the dark water alone.
Set last night! MAKING UP. ...er.