Home again, home again, jiggedy jig
ICly in John's private journal, backdated a week or so
Jean's right about one thing. Fate does have a shitty sense of humour.
Australia. Home. It was supposed to be a cool trip, put highschool, finals homework, career plans, everything behind me and have some good times with the family and friends.
Instead it was a nightmare of funeral preparations, lines of well-wishers, fending off the intentions of these long-lost relatives. The longest 10 days of my life. Only consolation is knowing I'll never have to go through it again.
It's amazing how fast life can change. One minute, I can't wait to graduate and get on with my life. Next minute... well, I don't know what I expected. But I guess there's things... that even the great Jean Grey and Scott Summers can't anwser.
Maybe I should have stayed back in Oz a few more days, just so I could get wasted without anyone thinking twice.
It's a very long flight from Sydney to New York. But it is a direct one. It's also one at least a week earlier than previously planned, and John has put a call in to his roommate for a ride back from the airport. And as John exits the gate, he puts on his happy face (which for John, could be considered anything short of a scowl), and heads down to the baggage claim to retrieve his duffel.
As the Aussie clears the security gates, it's not his roommate's too innocent to be believable face that greets him, but rather the petite form of the school's resident firecracker, with her hands stuffed into the back pockets of cutoff shorts. She's got a smile pasted into place, but it's muted and hesitant. "Hey, Jo-Jo," she calls out, shuffling across the hall as quickly as her flip-flops'll allow, falling into step next to him.
"Jubes," John calls out, face breaking into a smile. Because there are a some small pleasures to be found in life, like a familiar face after a 20+ hour flight. He steers through the crowd toward her. "Hey, didn't expect to see you here. Bobby with you? Got a bag to wait for. Hope it won't take too long, but it was a full flight. Sleeping's almost impossible."
"Nah, Bobby tried makin' the swimmin' pool inta an ice-cube and got grounded for the night, so I'm pullin' chauffer duty." Jubilee flicks a quick look over him, pausing on his face in her search for clues to his state. "Suck," is her comment on the length of the flight. And John probably didn't get to go first class like she did on the infamous (and hush-hush) trip to Ireland.
John lifts an eyebrow at the antics. "So... summer's not even two week's out and he's grounded already. Figures. Well, thanks for picking me up. Better than trying to catch a cab or anything. I miss anything while I was gone?" Casual conversation, because she doesn't know. Right? And John's... too exhausted to start /that/ conversation.
Jubilee stretches her arms over her head and balances her arms on her head. "The grass got longer? We got another student? Scooter got arrested in a bar brawl?" Haha... so nonchalant about that, eh?
John is peering along the moving conveyor belt, looking for his black duffel, so it takes a moment before her last statement registers. He swings around to stare at her. "Scott... what?"
Jubilee grins and nods, dropping her arms and perching her hands on her hips instead. "Yeah. Totally had to have Jean spring him. Some sorta brawl at some trashy place near Clinton. He's bein' typically closed mouth," she winks, quieting down when his bag comes around the bend. By the time John'd retrieved it, she was quiet again, observing him with wide eyes.
John scoops up his bag from its circuit, then makes his way back to Jubes. "Well, who knew he had it in him. 'Course, knowing him, it was probably something to do with Jean's honor or some other noble reason like that." He glances toward the door. "Parked in the garage? I'm ready to be done with traveling for a while."
The docks, at least the docks during one of the school's intersessions, are one place one can hope to be left undisturbed. And there's a place to sit, at least, without having to deal with the forest's uncomfortable roots. And so John has found his way here, where he's currently sitting, swinging his unshod feet in the water, not really looking at anything. THe lighter's not even to be seen for the moment. A sure sign not all is well in the world of Allerdyce.
All is not well in the world of Summers, either, but as it's not his practice to take off his glasses when he's feeling low, there isn't any outward sign -- no, the dark bruise covering the underside of his cheek is proof enough that something's happened, one way or another. And his mood is, indeed, low. He's out this direction for the same reason John is, only, because John is here, Scott obviously can't find solitude, and while Scott is here, John's solitude is likewise marred . . . Scott clears his throat, struggling to remember something he heard from one of the students and in the mess of the last few days, unfortunately forgot. "John."
John glances up the throat-clearing and name, startled. No, he's not the most observant today. Which, one supposes, could earn a brief reprimand, were this a training simulation. Not that John has much experience with those, mind you. "Oh. Hi," he offers in return. Two words for your one. Sounds fair 'nuff.
"How are you?" Nice, bland question to ask, maybe John will say something to refresh Scott's memory of ... of this. Something bad, which Scott reacted negatively to, only to have it pushed aside by Alex and the arrest and . . . Busy. Yes. Things have been busy.
"Fine," John shrugs. Damn Bobby. Damn Jubilee. It's hard to say who knows now. But John's not sure if he's ready to spill his emotions ... like ever. "Got anything needing done in the garage? Might as well earn my keep here until I find a place of my own."
"Hmm," Scott says, willing to leave it there. It's not his job to prod out students who don't want to be therapized. He'd probably just make it worse, especially lately. "There's always tune ups, oil changes . . . you can work with me. I'll give you a weekly list of what needs to be done. How's that?"
"Might only be a week or two, but that works. Thanks," John says, glancing back at the waterfront. "Got two potential jobs, and if they hire me on. Should be enough for rent. More than enough if I find a roommate. Got some research to do. Homework never ends."
"No, it doesn't. Only gets harder, I'm afraid," Scott's words are all comfort. "But you're always welcome here, of course." Ah yes, there was something. "How was Australia?"
"It was... not what I remembered." Here the strain slides into John's voice. There's a telltale tonal quality that occurs when one is desparately trying /not/ to have emotion in one's words. Which, of course, is rather self-defeating.
Oh, it ... /oh./ John's parents are dead. Right. In Australia, right. The memory comes back with undue force, almost like it were Scott's own parents, more than fifteen years ago. Scott's brow furrows involuntarily as he squeezes it away from his consciousness. Too much. This isn't going to help. "I see. I'm sorry," is all he manages to say.
John is silent for a long time, staring out over the lake. "Uh... thanks. Jubilee told you then?" he finally asks. Because before you go talking about something like that. Good thing to know you're on the same page.
"I was told." And after the burst of unwanted emotion, everything is too terribly vague and muddied again for Scott to pick out if Jubilee told him or not. Maybe. Liably. Unimportant. "It's . . . not easy, I know." Scott is trying to be comforting this time.
"Oh," John begins, adding a muttered, "Wish Bobby knew how to keep his mouth shut," which isn't dropped enough to really make it unintelligable. Only slightly more respectful. "My aunt and uncle wanted me to stay. They 'know a great councilor who specializes in gried.' Godamnit," John head jerks away, apparantly overcoming any need for respectful, showy words. "I'm not this little kid to get the 'Bad things sometimes happen to good people' lecture. It happened. It can't be undone. The bastard is in some local cell for the time being, probably going to get off with a deportation verdict, and that's the end of it. The end of it," he repeats, eyes widening slightly. Yes, he did say... and swear all that aloud. "Sorry."
"No apologies necessary," Scott has the off feeling that he should sit down companionably next to John and pass him a sympathetic roasted marshmallow, only that could prove complicated, as they are at the docks. Thus, he remains standing, if quietly out of his depth. Metaphorically. "I'm not a counselor. I have lost parents. No, it can't be undone. It doesn't go away. Perhaps it helped that I had no one to be angry at, except my parents for not bringing enough parachutes, for flying in the storm . . . but no drunk driver, no saboteur. No villain. Nothing to focus on. Just loss. But it doesn't matter. For you're right. Nothing done to that driver would make your parents come back."
A fool to his folly ignores such wise counsel. And John snatches bits of that to respond to, the rest just sailing out over the water through tunneling ears. "Just makes... all my plans, Apartment hunting, Job hunting. Seems... really pointless now."
"It's not." Scott is now trying to be simply reassuring. Of course, he was eight when he lost his parents, and job hunting was rather pointless. Never mind. "Although if you want to let it sink in for longer than a couple of weeks, you are, again, welcome to."
"Thanks. I'll see. If," John starts, "If only my parents had gotten tickets to graduation. Maybe it was there time. But at least then it would have happened here. After I'd seen them. And... the guy who did it would have at least had a real trial."
"There's not much use in if onlies," Scott says. He's full of advice tonight, despite that still present unease with the situation. "What happened, happened. Might have beens . . . only make it worse."
"Maybe someday I'll meet a probability mutant who can change the past then," John says dryly. And now out comes the lighter. It's the new one, its edges quickly grown comfortable in his hands. Half the time, he probably doesn't realize he's holding it even. "So... how come it's not pointless then?" Ah, the question to life, the universe and everything. So elequently put.
"Because you're alive and you can still do something with yourself." Duh. Scott knows that.
"So were they, a week ago," John says bitterly. "Not I'm going to commit suicide or anything," he adds. "Don't need to call them for the straitjackies just yet."
Well, yes. But now they're not. So . . . "I didn't consider it," Scott is succinct on this point. Er. << Jean . . . have you talked to John yet about this parental death thing he has going on? Not that I want to bother you if you're busy, but he is rather upset. >> All very subdued and reasonable in mind tone. As if they were discussing bizarre cupcakes. But Jean really is rather better at this than he is. "You have every right to be upset."
"Really?" John's eyes widen. "Didn't expect that to come fro-- oh, upset. Not angry, hmm?" John stares off again. "I don't know what I should say or feel. People want me to cry. Or maybe even yell. Makes it easier for them if I do, I think. For a week, all I got was 'It's okay to cry, St.John.' I don't /want/ to cry. Don't even know if I want to yell. Just... Dunno."
<< WHAT? >> comes the reply from across the hallway in the medical bay. << What parental death? Who...? John? Do you want me to come over? >> It seems that someone forgot to send a memo.
"You can be angry. Upset. It's all one. Listen, I don't cry either." Scott just has to clarify that. "I tend to sit at the computer and run tactical simulations, actually." This is still comforting, however. "It passes." See, comforting. Gaaah. << John. Yes. His parents were killed in a car wreck. I could use your help. >> Scott is somewhat abashed that he forgot to tell Jean, of all people. But, again, busy. He could have sworn he told her . . .
Like it needed clarifying even for a moment. "The worst part is having to /tell/ people. And soon. Because I can't very well say, 'oh, it slipped my mind.' But I've had a week of people telling me they're sorry and I'll be okay and let them know if they can do anything."
"Of course, there's nothing they can do," comes a matter-of-fact voice from the doorway. It resolves itself into Jean, hands in her lab coat pockets, and a wry and negative-nostalgic expression on her face. "And half the time they're not really asking out of concern for you, they're asking because they feel powerles and want to do something. Death always does funny things to the people left alive -- I should know."
"You don't have to tell anyone," Scott sounds almost apologetic for knowing. "If people get angry at you for not sharing, then they're acting selfis--" Scott breaks himself off as Jean makes her entrance, even stepping aside, slightly. "Yes," he says after it. "She's right, of course."
Cue the Startled Reprise. John's head jerks back up at Jean's voice. "How can I /not/ tell anyone?" he resigns himself to the fact. "Yeah, I know," he says in response to Jean's assessment. "Except it... just makes things worse. Because I have to deal with them too. So... you know too then? Any idea who else does? Just so I know."
"I only know now because Scott just told me," Jean confirms, walking over to take a seat on the hood of a nearby car. "My telepathy activated at the age of ten. My best friend Annie was killed by a hit and run driver in front of my house where we'd been playing. I don't want to try and one-up your experience, but I've been where you are, and I know what your parents would have gone through. I'm not going to try and tell you everything will be all right. It's true, but it's not going to make you feel better, or change anything. And I'm not going to sign you up for counselling. But I'm around if you want to talk without having to explain anything." That speech made, she settles into a comfortable silence, having made her statement for the record.
Scott just quietly plants himself even further off to the side. The more in the background he is in such things, the more comfortable he feels. Sure, let him be a symbol -- all that entails is being engraved somewhere prominent and staying put. He does, again, look mildly apologetic, this time for telling.
'Thanks' would be an appropriate response. But it's beyond John at the moment. "They... didn't die from the wreck," he says, voice fairly level, even though internally the thoughts and emotions are bouncing to high heaven. Or The Other Place, as you like. "They died because the engine exploded. The car caught fire. Couldn't get them out in time." See, that's /nothing/ like having your best friend hit by a car at ten. Right?
"In the end, death is death. Come he slow, or come he fast, Death doth come for all at last." Jean replies. "And, in the end, it leaves the living to deal with it. As imperfectly, awkwardly and painfully as we deal with anything. But it's easier with friends, and you've got those, John. Don't hesitate to use us if you want it."
Scott nods, slowly, feeling like an afterthought, with a quick and equally quiet spike of neglected, not-enough anger of the same variety and tone that caused so much trouble just before Emma. But it's suppressed and gone. He did, after all, choose not to be enough for the students in this aspect. He can be . . . silent support.
"Yeah, I guess. [Pause] Thanks," John adds belatedly. He slips the lighter into his pocket, folding his arms. Yes, there are things that even Jean Grey can't fix. And times when the stalwart silence of Scott Summers actualy does fit the scenario--and you find it's not really what you were looking for. "Guess I knew life wasn't all daisies and buttercups. Woulda been nice to not happen days after graduation."
"Fate has a shitty sense of humour," Jean agrees, giving John a steady look, and then nodding once to herself. No, this isn't the time or place to go around offering hugs and cookies. Instead, she rises from her lean against the car, and brushes his shoulder on the way out. "You're a graduate now," she points out as a parting gift. "You've got full access to the Danger Room now, if you want it. And if you want a place where you don't have to think for a while."
"I strongly suggest it," Scott adds helpfully. Then he lapses back into silence, watching Jean go, but remaining where he stands for another minute, at least.
John (OOC) says, "The car."
John (OOC) says, "lol"
John (OOC) says, "Poor Jean."
Scott (OOC) says, "We can fix it. :D"
John nods as Jean takes her leave, attempting a smile. Points for effort at least, even if results are hopeless still. "I'll... talk to you about it sometime then," he says. Because any non-thinking time would be good. And despite what the situation warrants, there's a three year differential between home and getting some liquid non-thinking in New York. A moment later, he adds, "Not that I don't appreciate it but... I think I need to be alone for a bit." Because of course it's all about John and Scott wouldn't have his own things on his mind. But John was here first. Nyaa.
"Yes, of course," Scott says, and does not allow the slightest hint of relief to enter his voice as he starts off, not after Jean, but in some other away-from-dock direction.
Jean's right about one thing. Fate does have a shitty sense of humour.
Australia. Home. It was supposed to be a cool trip, put highschool, finals homework, career plans, everything behind me and have some good times with the family and friends.
Instead it was a nightmare of funeral preparations, lines of well-wishers, fending off the intentions of these long-lost relatives. The longest 10 days of my life. Only consolation is knowing I'll never have to go through it again.
It's amazing how fast life can change. One minute, I can't wait to graduate and get on with my life. Next minute... well, I don't know what I expected. But I guess there's things... that even the great Jean Grey and Scott Summers can't anwser.
Maybe I should have stayed back in Oz a few more days, just so I could get wasted without anyone thinking twice.
It's a very long flight from Sydney to New York. But it is a direct one. It's also one at least a week earlier than previously planned, and John has put a call in to his roommate for a ride back from the airport. And as John exits the gate, he puts on his happy face (which for John, could be considered anything short of a scowl), and heads down to the baggage claim to retrieve his duffel.
As the Aussie clears the security gates, it's not his roommate's too innocent to be believable face that greets him, but rather the petite form of the school's resident firecracker, with her hands stuffed into the back pockets of cutoff shorts. She's got a smile pasted into place, but it's muted and hesitant. "Hey, Jo-Jo," she calls out, shuffling across the hall as quickly as her flip-flops'll allow, falling into step next to him.
"Jubes," John calls out, face breaking into a smile. Because there are a some small pleasures to be found in life, like a familiar face after a 20+ hour flight. He steers through the crowd toward her. "Hey, didn't expect to see you here. Bobby with you? Got a bag to wait for. Hope it won't take too long, but it was a full flight. Sleeping's almost impossible."
"Nah, Bobby tried makin' the swimmin' pool inta an ice-cube and got grounded for the night, so I'm pullin' chauffer duty." Jubilee flicks a quick look over him, pausing on his face in her search for clues to his state. "Suck," is her comment on the length of the flight. And John probably didn't get to go first class like she did on the infamous (and hush-hush) trip to Ireland.
John lifts an eyebrow at the antics. "So... summer's not even two week's out and he's grounded already. Figures. Well, thanks for picking me up. Better than trying to catch a cab or anything. I miss anything while I was gone?" Casual conversation, because she doesn't know. Right? And John's... too exhausted to start /that/ conversation.
Jubilee stretches her arms over her head and balances her arms on her head. "The grass got longer? We got another student? Scooter got arrested in a bar brawl?" Haha... so nonchalant about that, eh?
John is peering along the moving conveyor belt, looking for his black duffel, so it takes a moment before her last statement registers. He swings around to stare at her. "Scott... what?"
Jubilee grins and nods, dropping her arms and perching her hands on her hips instead. "Yeah. Totally had to have Jean spring him. Some sorta brawl at some trashy place near Clinton. He's bein' typically closed mouth," she winks, quieting down when his bag comes around the bend. By the time John'd retrieved it, she was quiet again, observing him with wide eyes.
John scoops up his bag from its circuit, then makes his way back to Jubes. "Well, who knew he had it in him. 'Course, knowing him, it was probably something to do with Jean's honor or some other noble reason like that." He glances toward the door. "Parked in the garage? I'm ready to be done with traveling for a while."
The docks, at least the docks during one of the school's intersessions, are one place one can hope to be left undisturbed. And there's a place to sit, at least, without having to deal with the forest's uncomfortable roots. And so John has found his way here, where he's currently sitting, swinging his unshod feet in the water, not really looking at anything. THe lighter's not even to be seen for the moment. A sure sign not all is well in the world of Allerdyce.
All is not well in the world of Summers, either, but as it's not his practice to take off his glasses when he's feeling low, there isn't any outward sign -- no, the dark bruise covering the underside of his cheek is proof enough that something's happened, one way or another. And his mood is, indeed, low. He's out this direction for the same reason John is, only, because John is here, Scott obviously can't find solitude, and while Scott is here, John's solitude is likewise marred . . . Scott clears his throat, struggling to remember something he heard from one of the students and in the mess of the last few days, unfortunately forgot. "John."
John glances up the throat-clearing and name, startled. No, he's not the most observant today. Which, one supposes, could earn a brief reprimand, were this a training simulation. Not that John has much experience with those, mind you. "Oh. Hi," he offers in return. Two words for your one. Sounds fair 'nuff.
"How are you?" Nice, bland question to ask, maybe John will say something to refresh Scott's memory of ... of this. Something bad, which Scott reacted negatively to, only to have it pushed aside by Alex and the arrest and . . . Busy. Yes. Things have been busy.
"Fine," John shrugs. Damn Bobby. Damn Jubilee. It's hard to say who knows now. But John's not sure if he's ready to spill his emotions ... like ever. "Got anything needing done in the garage? Might as well earn my keep here until I find a place of my own."
"Hmm," Scott says, willing to leave it there. It's not his job to prod out students who don't want to be therapized. He'd probably just make it worse, especially lately. "There's always tune ups, oil changes . . . you can work with me. I'll give you a weekly list of what needs to be done. How's that?"
"Might only be a week or two, but that works. Thanks," John says, glancing back at the waterfront. "Got two potential jobs, and if they hire me on. Should be enough for rent. More than enough if I find a roommate. Got some research to do. Homework never ends."
"No, it doesn't. Only gets harder, I'm afraid," Scott's words are all comfort. "But you're always welcome here, of course." Ah yes, there was something. "How was Australia?"
"It was... not what I remembered." Here the strain slides into John's voice. There's a telltale tonal quality that occurs when one is desparately trying /not/ to have emotion in one's words. Which, of course, is rather self-defeating.
Oh, it ... /oh./ John's parents are dead. Right. In Australia, right. The memory comes back with undue force, almost like it were Scott's own parents, more than fifteen years ago. Scott's brow furrows involuntarily as he squeezes it away from his consciousness. Too much. This isn't going to help. "I see. I'm sorry," is all he manages to say.
John is silent for a long time, staring out over the lake. "Uh... thanks. Jubilee told you then?" he finally asks. Because before you go talking about something like that. Good thing to know you're on the same page.
"I was told." And after the burst of unwanted emotion, everything is too terribly vague and muddied again for Scott to pick out if Jubilee told him or not. Maybe. Liably. Unimportant. "It's . . . not easy, I know." Scott is trying to be comforting this time.
"Oh," John begins, adding a muttered, "Wish Bobby knew how to keep his mouth shut," which isn't dropped enough to really make it unintelligable. Only slightly more respectful. "My aunt and uncle wanted me to stay. They 'know a great councilor who specializes in gried.' Godamnit," John head jerks away, apparantly overcoming any need for respectful, showy words. "I'm not this little kid to get the 'Bad things sometimes happen to good people' lecture. It happened. It can't be undone. The bastard is in some local cell for the time being, probably going to get off with a deportation verdict, and that's the end of it. The end of it," he repeats, eyes widening slightly. Yes, he did say... and swear all that aloud. "Sorry."
"No apologies necessary," Scott has the off feeling that he should sit down companionably next to John and pass him a sympathetic roasted marshmallow, only that could prove complicated, as they are at the docks. Thus, he remains standing, if quietly out of his depth. Metaphorically. "I'm not a counselor. I have lost parents. No, it can't be undone. It doesn't go away. Perhaps it helped that I had no one to be angry at, except my parents for not bringing enough parachutes, for flying in the storm . . . but no drunk driver, no saboteur. No villain. Nothing to focus on. Just loss. But it doesn't matter. For you're right. Nothing done to that driver would make your parents come back."
A fool to his folly ignores such wise counsel. And John snatches bits of that to respond to, the rest just sailing out over the water through tunneling ears. "Just makes... all my plans, Apartment hunting, Job hunting. Seems... really pointless now."
"It's not." Scott is now trying to be simply reassuring. Of course, he was eight when he lost his parents, and job hunting was rather pointless. Never mind. "Although if you want to let it sink in for longer than a couple of weeks, you are, again, welcome to."
"Thanks. I'll see. If," John starts, "If only my parents had gotten tickets to graduation. Maybe it was there time. But at least then it would have happened here. After I'd seen them. And... the guy who did it would have at least had a real trial."
"There's not much use in if onlies," Scott says. He's full of advice tonight, despite that still present unease with the situation. "What happened, happened. Might have beens . . . only make it worse."
"Maybe someday I'll meet a probability mutant who can change the past then," John says dryly. And now out comes the lighter. It's the new one, its edges quickly grown comfortable in his hands. Half the time, he probably doesn't realize he's holding it even. "So... how come it's not pointless then?" Ah, the question to life, the universe and everything. So elequently put.
"Because you're alive and you can still do something with yourself." Duh. Scott knows that.
"So were they, a week ago," John says bitterly. "Not I'm going to commit suicide or anything," he adds. "Don't need to call them for the straitjackies just yet."
Well, yes. But now they're not. So . . . "I didn't consider it," Scott is succinct on this point. Er. << Jean . . . have you talked to John yet about this parental death thing he has going on? Not that I want to bother you if you're busy, but he is rather upset. >> All very subdued and reasonable in mind tone. As if they were discussing bizarre cupcakes. But Jean really is rather better at this than he is. "You have every right to be upset."
"Really?" John's eyes widen. "Didn't expect that to come fro-- oh, upset. Not angry, hmm?" John stares off again. "I don't know what I should say or feel. People want me to cry. Or maybe even yell. Makes it easier for them if I do, I think. For a week, all I got was 'It's okay to cry, St.John.' I don't /want/ to cry. Don't even know if I want to yell. Just... Dunno."
<< WHAT? >> comes the reply from across the hallway in the medical bay. << What parental death? Who...? John? Do you want me to come over? >> It seems that someone forgot to send a memo.
"You can be angry. Upset. It's all one. Listen, I don't cry either." Scott just has to clarify that. "I tend to sit at the computer and run tactical simulations, actually." This is still comforting, however. "It passes." See, comforting. Gaaah. << John. Yes. His parents were killed in a car wreck. I could use your help. >> Scott is somewhat abashed that he forgot to tell Jean, of all people. But, again, busy. He could have sworn he told her . . .
Like it needed clarifying even for a moment. "The worst part is having to /tell/ people. And soon. Because I can't very well say, 'oh, it slipped my mind.' But I've had a week of people telling me they're sorry and I'll be okay and let them know if they can do anything."
"Of course, there's nothing they can do," comes a matter-of-fact voice from the doorway. It resolves itself into Jean, hands in her lab coat pockets, and a wry and negative-nostalgic expression on her face. "And half the time they're not really asking out of concern for you, they're asking because they feel powerles and want to do something. Death always does funny things to the people left alive -- I should know."
"You don't have to tell anyone," Scott sounds almost apologetic for knowing. "If people get angry at you for not sharing, then they're acting selfis--" Scott breaks himself off as Jean makes her entrance, even stepping aside, slightly. "Yes," he says after it. "She's right, of course."
Cue the Startled Reprise. John's head jerks back up at Jean's voice. "How can I /not/ tell anyone?" he resigns himself to the fact. "Yeah, I know," he says in response to Jean's assessment. "Except it... just makes things worse. Because I have to deal with them too. So... you know too then? Any idea who else does? Just so I know."
"I only know now because Scott just told me," Jean confirms, walking over to take a seat on the hood of a nearby car. "My telepathy activated at the age of ten. My best friend Annie was killed by a hit and run driver in front of my house where we'd been playing. I don't want to try and one-up your experience, but I've been where you are, and I know what your parents would have gone through. I'm not going to try and tell you everything will be all right. It's true, but it's not going to make you feel better, or change anything. And I'm not going to sign you up for counselling. But I'm around if you want to talk without having to explain anything." That speech made, she settles into a comfortable silence, having made her statement for the record.
Scott just quietly plants himself even further off to the side. The more in the background he is in such things, the more comfortable he feels. Sure, let him be a symbol -- all that entails is being engraved somewhere prominent and staying put. He does, again, look mildly apologetic, this time for telling.
'Thanks' would be an appropriate response. But it's beyond John at the moment. "They... didn't die from the wreck," he says, voice fairly level, even though internally the thoughts and emotions are bouncing to high heaven. Or The Other Place, as you like. "They died because the engine exploded. The car caught fire. Couldn't get them out in time." See, that's /nothing/ like having your best friend hit by a car at ten. Right?
"In the end, death is death. Come he slow, or come he fast, Death doth come for all at last." Jean replies. "And, in the end, it leaves the living to deal with it. As imperfectly, awkwardly and painfully as we deal with anything. But it's easier with friends, and you've got those, John. Don't hesitate to use us if you want it."
Scott nods, slowly, feeling like an afterthought, with a quick and equally quiet spike of neglected, not-enough anger of the same variety and tone that caused so much trouble just before Emma. But it's suppressed and gone. He did, after all, choose not to be enough for the students in this aspect. He can be . . . silent support.
"Yeah, I guess. [Pause] Thanks," John adds belatedly. He slips the lighter into his pocket, folding his arms. Yes, there are things that even Jean Grey can't fix. And times when the stalwart silence of Scott Summers actualy does fit the scenario--and you find it's not really what you were looking for. "Guess I knew life wasn't all daisies and buttercups. Woulda been nice to not happen days after graduation."
"Fate has a shitty sense of humour," Jean agrees, giving John a steady look, and then nodding once to herself. No, this isn't the time or place to go around offering hugs and cookies. Instead, she rises from her lean against the car, and brushes his shoulder on the way out. "You're a graduate now," she points out as a parting gift. "You've got full access to the Danger Room now, if you want it. And if you want a place where you don't have to think for a while."
"I strongly suggest it," Scott adds helpfully. Then he lapses back into silence, watching Jean go, but remaining where he stands for another minute, at least.
John (OOC) says, "The car."
John (OOC) says, "lol"
John (OOC) says, "Poor Jean."
Scott (OOC) says, "We can fix it. :D"
John nods as Jean takes her leave, attempting a smile. Points for effort at least, even if results are hopeless still. "I'll... talk to you about it sometime then," he says. Because any non-thinking time would be good. And despite what the situation warrants, there's a three year differential between home and getting some liquid non-thinking in New York. A moment later, he adds, "Not that I don't appreciate it but... I think I need to be alone for a bit." Because of course it's all about John and Scott wouldn't have his own things on his mind. But John was here first. Nyaa.
"Yes, of course," Scott says, and does not allow the slightest hint of relief to enter his voice as he starts off, not after Jean, but in some other away-from-dock direction.