Summary:Jean comes back to the Institute for Spring Break and has a long overdue conversation with Scott. Log Info:Storyteller: None |
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Jean is on spring break this week, and while she's spent much of it in the city, she did come back to the school for a little bit. As much as she talks about wanting to get out in the world and experience things, this place is home in some very special ways. As the sun starts to go down over the Institute, she's made her way out to the dock on the lake, sitting on the edge with her feet hanging down toward the water and a six-pack of hard ciders sitting next to her. Those have to be hidden from the still-students, but hey, what the point of being alumni if you can't have a drink on a Friday night?
It feels like Spring Break. Winter finally feels like it's starting to break and give way for warmer climes and longer days. And with that sudden warm turn, Scott can barely keep himself indoors. He loves the outdoors too much to begin with, and he tends to spend every moment of free time he has out back, around the lake. And as the sun sets over Xavier's Institute, casting a shimmering orange reflection upon the placid, dark waters, Scott can be seen round about the lake's edge, jogging at a brisk pace.
He's taking advantage of the weather, as well, before the nightly chill sets in. A short sleeved compression shirt clings like a second skin to his upper form. Dark blue, with yellow piping on the seams and panels of breathable black nylon to prevent him from overheating. Leggings to match the top, blue with golden piping, with black paneling on the inside of the thighs, and the rest in a shade of dark blue just shy of navy. Running shoes in black, with bright yellow accents, and fingerless gloves in blue and black.
And ruby-lensed glasses. Always the glasses.
He sees Jean as he approaches, and veers his steps off of the trail, and down towards the dock. As he arrives, his pace slows, and he starts to catch his breath in heavy gulps of air. Lifting one hand, he just says, in his deep, winded voice, "Hey. Didn't know you were back."
Jean has a knack for knowing when Scott is coming. Maybe it's the years of working together, of keeping constant mental contact. Or maybe she's just always on the lookout for him. But by the time he's turning toward the dock, she's already raising a hand to wave him over, a mental greeting sent his way before he's even close enough to hear. « Run, Forrest, run! » She's grinning when he gets over, turning to tuck one leg under herself so she can face him better.
It's still jeans and boots for her, though she's got a t-shirt under the light green jacket she's wearing, prepared for the drop in temperatures as the sun goes down. "Well, you know," she shrugs, smile crooked. "I don't like to make a big thing of it. After all, I've heard there are impressionable young students around here." She leans over enough to look toward the school before pulling out a bottle, lifting it up with a playful waggle of her brows. "Wanna play hookey, professor?"
"Impressionable?" He says, taking a glance over his shoulder with a dubious grimace on his features, as he peers through reflective red lenses at the school. Wiping the gossamer sheen of sweat from his brow and calming his breath, he gives a flickering shrug and shift of his head to one side, coupled with a smirk as he says, "I don't know that these kids are impressionable. Probably the hardest headed kids I've ever seen in my life."
A beat.
"And that's sayin' something, when you consider that we came up with Warren."
He steps up closer to her, and reaches out, taking the offered bottle by snatching it out of her hand and drawing it up near his chest, as if he were going to keep it from her. His lips start to curl into a slow, lopsided grin, before he twists at the cap and pops it off. Sinking down to the dock by crossing his ankles and bending his knees, he takes a seat, simultaneously tipping the bottle back to take a draw from it.
"Aaah," he sighs contentedly, as he turns his gaze out across the lake. "That's good."
"Right?" Jean grins, leaning her shoulder against his as she takes a sip from her own bottle. "I mean, we got into our fair share of trouble, but we managed to survive somehow." She looks out over the lake, contented. "I'm sure the kids'll be okay. At least they're not coming into this with registration hanging over their heads. That gives them a leg up on us." Leaning over, she gives him a bit of a nudge. "You were breathing awful hard there, Slim. Not getting soft with the teaching gig, are you?" she teases.
Scott smiles faintly as the physical contact is made, lowering his face in a gesture that some might see as bashful. The bottle of hard cider is rested against his thigh, held at the neck between his fingertips. As she speaks of registration and the kids, a bittersweet smile plays on his pouty lips, and he gives just a faint nod. "It's still a long, hard road ahead of them. We still have… a lot. A lot to deal with and a lot to keep working towards. They aren't gonna have it easy, so maybe that stubborness… well… maybe it'll pay off for 'em in the end."
The ribbing, though, has him making a snorting sound, while he leans far over to the side as if the nudge were a forceful blow. Catching his balance on one hand, he shakes his head and gives an upnod across the lake. "Okay, big city school girl. Let me see you run four miles, with half of that up the side of the mountain and not need to catch your breath. Soft? You should feel these abs, Jean. I found some old videos called Abs of Steel. I'm rockin' it."
"Yeah?" Jean leans over, poking with one finger. "I mean, I think if it's abs of steel you're supposed to steel it, not rock it. If they're just abs of stone, it's all disappointing. Or something." She pokes again, then to another side, grinning. "Also, I've have you know that I was doing seven and a half minute miles the other day in the park. I mean, it wasn't a mountain, but it was enough to make me happy."
"That…" Cyke says, going still and scowling in seemingly deep thought. "That makes no sense! What?"
He starts to laugh, though each poke is accompanied by a full body flinch. He almost knocks over his bottle of cider in the process, so she gets a finger pointed in her direction as he lifts the bottle and takes another drink. After it's been downed, he says, "Watch it. You almost made me commit a party foul."
Righting himself, he sets the bottle between his thighs and bends one knee, resting his arm on it, and upon that, his chin. He breathes in deep, basking in the smell of the lake and the surrounding greenery, and the crisp air washing down from the hills that surround them. His voice, soft and deep, speaks more quietly as he says, "It's good to have you here. The place just isn't complete without you."
"Scott Summers, you wouldn't know how to commit a foul if someone gave you a diagram and instructions," Jean laughs, smile crooked as she settles back to leaning against him and takes another drink of her own. "I miss you too," she says in a softer voice of her own, setting a hand over his. "School's great. The city's great. I still…want more than only this. But I'm also starting to think that maybe it wouldn't be the worst thing in the world to be here a little bit more. I mean…graduation's in a couple months, you know."
"I can't help it if my aim is too good," he remarks with an air of affected smuggery, beaming from ear to ear. As she settles against him, however, the smile fades. Not entirely. Just a bit. There is a tension in him, though. Every muscle fiber in his lean, athletic body tensing almost imperceptibly under the weight of her. His nostrils flare, as he breathes in deep, letting her scent fill his nose and carry him away in a tidal wave of comfort and nostalgia. As her hand settles over his, he feels the tips of his fingers tingle with the need to turn them up and entwine them with hers.
But he refrains.
"Only this…"
Those words come out soft, and warm, but there's a hint of apprehension there. As if there were some hidden serpent lying just under the darkness of the placid, inky waters of the lake that is laid out before them. "I don't get that. It's as if this is something so small. So…"
His lips curl into a frown, and he raises his face to peer into the last dying vestiges of the sun as it creates a fiery halo around the crest of a forested mountain top. "This is… so very vast. The institute. The mission. The kids. It's everything. And it's not like we're just stuck to this little plot of land, or anything. We travel the world, going on these insane adventures and doing incredible things. Then, we come back here, and we teach these kids how they're incredible, too. We're making a better tomorrow."
He gives a huff of air that sounds like a rueful chuckle, and adds, "You make it all seem so quaint. But… I guess that's kind of appropriate, though. You're the best of us. You really are destined to be bigger than… all of this. You're a shining star on the rise."
He shrugs the shoulder that she's not leaning against, and says, "And I'm just a guy hiding behind a pair of glasses, hoping that he can play some small part in history. I'll… always be only this."
"Only…Oh, Scott, no." Jean sets the bottle aside, turning to face him all the way, cross-legged on the dock. "Hey." Her hand tightens on his, her other coming to cup it as well and give it a tug to try to draw his gaze back to her.
"Scott, you are…" Sometimes, being able to read minds can make it very hard to choose words. After all, how do you put something as vast as a lifetime of feelings into a few words? "You are the professor's dream. Doug said to me a couple weeks ago that he thought everyone thought I was supposed to follow in the professor's footsteps, but honestly, all I could think was that obviously it was you. It's always been you. Because you believe in this place down to your soul."
She releases his hand with one, instead resting her palm against his chest. "And not just the dream. You believe in every practical step along the way. You know how to make it happen. And that's not 'only' anything. I'm sorry if I ever made you feel that way."
Her features soften, a heavy sigh parting her lips as she looks back to the water. "I wish I was as certain as you are. I think…No, I don't think. I know. I was afraid that if I stayed here, I'd always wonder if I could have found something else. And by wondering, I'd ruin this, too, you know?"
He doesn't resist her guidance. When her hand tightens, he relaxes his own. When she guides his gaze back to her, he relents, looking up at her. After all, she can't see his eyes. His curse is his shield, in times like these. And he's thankful for that. All she can see is the stoic demeanor in the set of his jawline, and the thinning of his normally so full lips. She can't see the tumultous emotions that roil behind those ruby lenses. Just her own reflection staring back at her.
And he puts on his best smile.
"I'm glad you think so, Jean. I really am," he says, after a moment. "The thing is, telling me that I'm all of that just equates me to being all of this. And in the end, you're still just saying that all of this? It's not enough for you. Now, let's just be clear here. You're not wrong, Jeanie. Not by a long shot. You will find something else. You're too spectacular not to. But…"
He shrugs his shoulders.
"It is what it is. You said it yourself. This is me. I'm the Professor's dream, and the one to follow in his footsteps. I'm the one who believes in this place with all of my heart and soul. I'm destined for this. And you're destined for more. You're destined to find something else. Something bigger and greater and more fitting and worthy of you."
He smiles again and cocks his head to the side. "So that leaves me just trying to find someone who can be content with this, and me. You have to find your "something else", and I… have to let you go so that I'll be able to find my own something else."
"That's not-" Jean frowns, brows furrowing with it. "That's not what I mean, Scott. That's not- That's not what I'm saying, it's what your-" She purses her lips, setting down his hand to reach up and take his head between her hands. "Just listen for a minute."
Of course, it's not 'listening' that she's really after. She closes her eyes, pulling him closer to press her brow against his as she opens up her mind to let a roil of thoughts, feelings, and memories spill over into his mind.
In her memories, the school is a haven, but also a prison. Early fears of the world outside being too much, of being told either she couldn't handle it or that she might be a danger to the people outside. Of not knowing her place and where she might fit. But then there's the team. And not just the team, but Scott himself. A knight in shining armor, something to aspire to. Someone to trust. He's bigger than life in her mind, a brighter light than he might have realized. A lodestone.
But under it all, always, there's the quiet fear of who or what she is, of the damage she might do. A recognition of the fears and the faults inside of him as well, and the terror that she might ever let them become more to him than the good things.
As soon as her forehead touches his, Scott sucks in a breath between his teeth and holds it. He knows what she means by "listen" at this point. He's prepared for the ride, as it were. He relaxes his mind, and perhaps she'll just now notice that he's been closed off nearly entirely this whole time, save for the barest surface thoughts. Shielding himself from her.
He follows her on this journey through her mindscape. His own thoughts have a way of bleeding in. Like when a VHS tape has been taped over multiple times, and every now and again, the image wavers and distorts and you see a clip of something else behind it. Her thoughts of the school as a haven and prison are interjected with the visage of the school as a fortress where people are safe from a world on fire outside of its walls. Her questions of her place are spliced with images of her, resplendent in warm tones of orange creme light, with flowers in her hair, running through a field in a white sundress. Of her standing at his side, powerful and majestic, with the others that they came up with just behind them.
But it's not all good. He's opened that door and let her in. He's touched on her mind and allowed his own to be touched as well. And it bleeds the good with the bad. She envisions him as a knight in shining armor, and that visage suddenly begins to leak black ichor through the seams in the armor. It melts away, dismantling that fine plate which becomes sludge. It reveals a tiny and wretched thing inside. Weak, shriveled, and stunted with twisted limbs, and an oversized, single red eye in its bulbous head. It rears back it's head and cries a silent scream into a whirlwind of shadows, clawing desperately to hold on to the ground for fear of being swept up and carried away.
But it's all in vain. It's a futile task. He's so weak. So pathetic. He's just a tiny, ugly thing playing at being something wondrous. He doesn't have strength, he has fear. He doesn't have beauty. He has pain. He's a charlatan.
And just when his black, slimy fingers are about to be ripped from their hold on the earth, a fire burns through the shadows. Brilliant and golden. It brings warmth and light. It cascades around his bubbling, blackened flesh. It feels gentle and serene. And when that mishapen creature raises its balloon head, with its swollen, blinking ruby eye, it sees a smiling angel with emerald eyes and scarlet hair.
And then it is gone.
Scott pulls his head back, and recoils from her, turning in the process to face her, even as he leans away, back on his hands. The bottle of cider tips over, rumbling as it rolls across the wooden deck beneath it, spilling its contents in a long line that starts to seep out and spread in every direction, and begin to drain down in the seams between the boards.
"Oh, Scott." Jean's fingers curl at his cheek even as he leans back, trying to hold on without actually holding. When she opens her eyes, there are tears brimming there, her own echo of his pain and doubt. "Scott. I know." And entangled as they are, minds still slightly linked, he can no doubt feel her sudden concern as soon as the words are out of her mouth, lunging forward to set both hands on his shoulders before he can run. "Not like that!"
"Wow, I'm the worst at this, aren't I?" She scrubs a hand over her face, letting out a huff of breath. "I know what you're afraid of. How you see yourself. I've known that for a long time, Scott. And I've never believed it."
His chest heaves under the tight fitting blue, gold and black shirt that stretches across it, his breathing coming in rapid, ragged gasps, on the verge of hyperventilation. His fingers curl, clawing with his nails until they scrape up gouges into the wood. One snaps to the quick. When Jean first reaches back out for him, he flinches, turning his face to the side. Her hands come to his broad, hunched up shoulders, and he lifts a hand up into the space between them as if to ward her off.
"I'm fine."
He takes another quivering breath.
"It's fine. Everything is fine."
Slowly, he pushes himself forward, lifting his weight from his hands and seating himself upright. Lowering his face, he pinches the bridge of his nose. "You just see… what I wish I was. What I want to be. That shining knight business? That's not me, Jean. I'm not some prince gallant riding around righting the wrongs of the world and saving damsels in distress. That's the stuff fairy tales are made of."
"You're my fairy tale."
Jean's voice is soft, her shoulders dropping as she lets her hands fall, twisting one thumb in her lap. "You always have been." It's a terrifying thing to say out loud, to risk. But it's far less terrifying than letting him believe the darkest things about himself.
"…"
How does one even respond to something like that? Even coming from anyone at all, how does someone respond to that? Much less when it's the girl you've had a crush on since you were both kids. What does he even do with that? He wants to have something meaningful to express to her in response, to give something meaningful back. But he has nothing.
That's not true. He does have something. He has All Star from Smashmouth running through his head. What even the hell, Summers?
"I ain't a fairy tale," he finally says, his voice deep and rumbling with barely contained emotion. "I wish to god I could pretend that I was, and that I could be that for you, Jean. I couldn't wish for anything more if my life depended on it. But I'm not. I'm just…"
An ogre in the swamp. That's why he's hearing Smashmouth.
"I dunno what I am, but it's not that. And if I was that, then why would you leave me?"
Suddenly, he thinks about Zatanna Zatara. His gaze drifts off to the side, and he shakes his head. "I don't know what to do here. I thought that I was getting somewhere to where I could try to make something work for once, but now… I just don't know what to do."
It's a hard thing to surprise the psychic. He can probably count on one hand the number of times he's seen Jean look absolutely gob-smacked. But he can add one to that now. She's similarly wordless as she stares back at him, mouth opening and closing like a fish out of water.
"Why didn't you ever- Leave you? I went to college. Like an hour away! I still come home on weekends!"
When Jean comes out of the shock, she leans forward to swat at him with each exclamation. "I'm a psychic! You didn't even have to say something you just had to- to not- to not lock it all up, you stupid, stupid, stupid, stubborn- !"
"Oh c'mon!" he exclaims, waving off her swatting hand. "College? Like an hour away? We live in a school that covers higher education! You were just wanting to get away from here. To go out into the world and make a life free from all of this. What am I going to do? Stop you?"
He scowls and his shoulders drop in time with the sudden hanging of his head.
"Why would I do something like that? I'd have to be some kind of real selfish piece of work to try to keep you to myself. Not when you want to be free. And even if you didn't, there was still Warren and the others, and… I'm just saying that you can go anywhere, be anything and have the whole world, Jean Grey. Who the hell am I to try to stand in the way of that?"
Jean leans back, crossing her arms over her chest and arching a brow. "And do you think that if I wanted to do something, you could stop me? If I decide to do or not do something, it's not because of you, Scott Summers, it's because I wanted to! Or didn't want to! Or-" She huffs, giving him a narrow-eyed look. "But I can't exactly make the decision if I don't have all the information, now can I?"
Lips pursed, she leans over to pick up his spilled bottle, more to distract herself for a moment and buy time to think than from any hope of saving the contents. "Maybe I want all of it. Maybe neither one means anything without the other. Did you ever think about that?"
Scott just looks at Jean as she has her miniature aneurysm, remaining silent and still. When she finally narrows her eyes at him and huffs, one eyebrow slowly creeps upward in response. But he still says nothing. Does it matter to even try to say something? She knows why he would hold back. She knows better than anyone. He's not good enough. He's not Charles Xavier. He's not smart enough. He's not Hank McCoy. He's not handsome enough. He's not Warren Worthington. He's not charming and fun enough. He's not Bobby Drake. He's not strong enough. He's not Logan. He's not… enough. She could literally go in any direction and find something better than him. She knows it. And she knows that he knows it.
"I…" He starts. He's not really certain how to answer that. "I don't know what that means. I don't know what that looks like, Jean."
"Well me neither, but-" Jean sighs, some of the wind going out of her sails as she sets the bottle upright and reaches up to push a hand through his hair. "But I graduate in two months and it'll be time to make decisions again. And since we didn't talk about it last time, because someone locks things down tighter than the professor, then I guess I'll say it."
She unfolds from her cross-legged stance, standing up and tipping her chin up so that she's looking even further down her nose from the height advantage she gets from standing. "I choose you, Scott. I choose. But that means all of you, the good and the bad, the strengths and the weaknesses, and you know I know all of them. So all you have to do is be willing to be chosen. Because I love you the way you are, so I'm not going to try to fix what's not broken."
The hand in his hair makes his eyes flutter closed behind those obscuring ruby-quartz glasses. His chin rises, shifting just a bit so that he pushes his head more firmly against the palm of her hand, forcing her fingers to sink into the thickness of his brown hair. But when she starts to talk, he opens his eyes again, peering up at her as she rises.
Is she really doing that? Is she actually dropping this bomb here and now? And why now? He feels a twisting knot in the pit of his gut. Feels the roar of his pulse racing in his ears. His palms are instantly sweaty. His heart has somehow managed to worm its way into his esophagus and is now firmly lodged in his throat.
He stands. Pushing himself up, the gangly mess of long limbs doesn't seem to impede him in the slightest as he ascends to his full height before her. He reaches up, and lets one of his gloved hands come to rest on her cheek, with the tips of his fingers circling around to the back of her neck, buried in the vibrant ginger hair at the nape. The pad of his thumb brushes just outside of the corner of her lips, and for all the world, despite the obfuscation of his spectacles, his gaze is burning right through hers.
"I really want to kiss you right now," he confesses, his voice barely more than a whisper. That quiet, intimate tone that is reserved only for those special moments shared in the spaces between the scenes when lovers have only one another for company and couldn't be more happy with the world. "But… I want to know why? Why now? Why did you wait until I met Zee to…"
Now, of course, Scott hasn't made any direct overtures to or about Zatanna. He hasn't even so much as kissed her. They've only had a single date, albeit one that was a general success. But he does rather enjoy her company, and he's not the type to try playing different fields to see which one he likes better.
And there's also Rogue, who had seemingly taken the news of his date with Zee as particularly infuriating. Two weeks ago, Scott could not have even begun to think that he'd be placed in a position like this. He was pretty certain he was going to fall quietly into that "confirmed bachelor" territory, where eventually rumors would spread that he and Xavier were a closeted couple or something to that effect.
Still, cupping her cheek, Scott now realizes that he's leaned in close, craning his neck down with his head tilted ever so slightly, so that his lips hover so achingly close to Jean's own. His own have parted, half prepared for the oncoming meeting of lips against lips, but he draws back.
"Sorry. I… Sorry."
"Oh my god, Scott." Up until that last moment, Jean waited. She stayed carefully still, as if he were some delicate woodland creature that might bolt if she moved too suddenly. But when he draws back, it uses up the last of her patience. When he starts to pull back, she reaches up to take his head between her hands, all but grabbing him by the ears to close the distance between them.
For all her impatience, for all her insistence, the kiss is still clumsy - a raw emotion in it untempered by experience or too much thought. It's not that she's never kissed anyone before. It's just that she's never meant it like this.
It doesn't last too long. A heated press of lips, meant as much to make a point as for its own sake. But when she pulls back, she's breathing as hard as he was after his run, just inches away, her cheeks flushed enough for him to feel the heat on his own.
"I'm not sorry," she murmurs, lips twitching ever so slightly as a note of humor resonates in her voice. "For that." Only then does she loosen her grip, sinking back onto her heels. "Maybe I didn't realize before. Maybe I was afraid to. Maybe I just finally realized thst waiting wasn't going to make something happen. Scott, you're my best friend. And I will always love you, one way or another. So…no pressure, okay? I just want you to know that I think you're worth it."
Despite not seeing his eyes, the shock on his face is easy enough to read when Jean suddenly grabs his face, inadvertantly smooshing his cheeks and making his lips purse outward in the process. He manages to squeak out a "Jea—!!" before her lips meet his, cutting off the admonition abruptly. His hands move to her upper arms, his strong fingers wrapping around them with a tight grasp, as if he might push her away. Who is he kidding?
Clumsy. That's a good way to describe it. Clumsy. This isn't Scott's first kiss, per say. That was stolen by a freckled girl missing a front tooth back in the orphanage he used to live in. But it's not like he has a lot of experience, himself. Just that same raw and unrestrained emotion. Lips crush against her, so very tight that they might faintly feel the vague indentations of one another's teeth through them. His jaw works ever so slightly, like he's just trying to make some friction between them. His hands loosen their Kung Fu Grip on her shoulders, and slide down her arms to loosely curl his fingers around hers. The velveteen tip of his to—She draws back, leaving Scott hanging there, with his tongue barely sticking out, like a cat making a blep face.
He lingers there for a few moments, even after he pulls his tongue back into his mouth. Even after his face has turned a deep shade of red. He finds himself clearing his throat, his eyes focused on hers from this too-close vantage of only inches away from one another.
"Hey."
He manages to mutter, just before she proclaims that she's not sorry.
"…yeah. No pressure. That was no pressure at all. Got it."
As she has sunk back and he stands back up straight, he can only give her a thumbs up and a sidelong glance with a click of his teeth that suggests he's also winking at her behind his specs.
"Hey, you're the one talking about other girls," Jean rolls her eyes with a smirk that's more bravado than real humor. Luckily for Scott, she's too busy being self-conscious to even register his awkwardness. "Seriously, though. You're never going to lose me, Scott. You can't lose me. It's impossible. No matter what you do, no matter who you are, no matter who you choose. I will still be here. So." She gives his hands a squeeze then drops hers onto his shoulders again. "Time to think about what you want."
Her hands tighten for a moment as she hesitates, then leans in to press a gentler kiss to the corner of his mouth. "I should probably hide the alcohol before some kids come out looking for something to get into on Friday night."
"Girl. Singular," he corrects. Unless she saw into his mind about the Rogue thing. Did you see the Rogue thing? Because he could probably use some help on how to handle that confusing scenario altogether. He feels… awful about that. But right now, he's pushing that back down into the back of his mind, with all the other scurrying rats of his anxieties and worries, where it will fester and scitter and lurk until something forces him to confront it later. "I don't want to lose you, Jean. And… that's what it's felt like…"
When she squeezes his hand, he lifts hers up, and brushes his lips across her knuckles. He doesn't talk about what he wants. Right now, that's just a jumbled mess of hysteria that he's going to have to sort out. In private. After breathing in to a paper bag for a few minutes, likely.
He does lean in to meet her for that kiss, his own face turning to return the gesture before she manages to pull away. Though, as she speaks, his posture erects to his full height, his shoulders squaring up. He looks down at the cider. Then out across the lake. And then back at the school. And then back at the lake. And then to the boathouse. And then, finally back to Jean.
"I would like topresent an alternative, Miss Grey. Instead, we leave the cider out. But we hide. I'll go grab an old slingblade from the mower out of the groundskeeping shed, along with the overalls. Let's see how many wet themselves when the tall machete man comes out of the lake. I mean, really, we'll be doing them a favor. It's a morality tale. The people who run off to drink and do drugs in the horror movies are the ones who die. The ones who behave themselves always survive."
"Oh, no wonder we survived," Jean muses. "Though you might need another theory for certain other classmates…" She grins, keeping his hand in hers. It's more comfortable to fall into old patterns, into the ease of years of friendship, but she's not quite ready to surrender all of the evening's gains. "I like it. Besides, I could use more practice with the whole 'these are not the droids you're looking for' schtick. Keeping us invisible until it's too late sounds like just the thing."
One more squeeze of his hand, then she reluctantly looses it to arrange the leftover bottles in a tempting silhouette against the water. "We're the worst adults ever," she announces cheerfully.
.~{:-:[ end of log ]:---------——:}~.