om_main | Jean-Paul and Scott, Backdated to Friday Afternoon

JP and Scott hang out after training. Today's agenda for Paranoiacs-R-Us is far less paranoid than usual, and way more likely to end in impromptu roadtrips. ~~They're totally bros.~~

Sometimes the teachers around here were just plain devious. When Jean-Paul had requested extra training time in the Danger Gym (Danger Room, whatever), he hadn't expected to be paired with another student who'd requested the same. Not that he minded Scott's company, it was just that he'd been hoping to get a break from the whole, "Teamwork, Beaubier! Wait for your squad, Beaubier!" annoyance. And he especially hadn't expected to be sent on a rescue mission with Kyle playing the part of the trapped normal while they had to get him clear.

In the end, it was actually rather interesting -- the set-up was to get the target free from a situation where they had to use their powers, while not revealing that they had powers. And the fact that they'd managed it left Jean-Paul in a good enough mood that he waited for Scott outside the showers post-session instead of zipping off to do whatever.

"Hey. Awesome job in there."

Scott blinked in slight surprise, though thanks to the glasses it probably wasn't noticeable. He hadn't expected Jean-Paul to wait around. Still, he was somewhat gratified; the Canadian wasn't the kind of guy who just gave out unearned praise.

"Thanks. You too." And Scott meant it, however laconic he might have been in expressing it. He was still feeling his way into this working with others thing, especially when it came to using his mutation in their close proximity, but working with Northstar hadn't been bad at all. It had almost been fun.

"Merci. Though I would argue that it's more impressive to keep a concussion beam under wraps than it is a power that already aids in stealth." Jean-Paul grinned and pushed off of the wall. "And I am not even saying that just because I'm glad we didn't kill a teacher."

"Hmm," Scott agreed, somewhat noncommittally. Every mutation had its own challenges when it came to stealth. But then he smirked, "Yeah. Personal guilt totally aside, that seems like a one-way ticket back to Nebraska. Or worse, Quebec."

Jean-Paul shouldered him in retaliation. "Oh, please. You would be lucky if they let you past the border. We have standards!"

Scott cocked an eyebrow. "Really?" He asked, feigning confusion and bewilderment at the very idea.

"Mais oui!" Jean-Paul's eyes widened with false sincerity. "You may think I am here simply for my own agenda, but the truth is, this is a philanthropic mission. This is all about bringing the light of reason and culture to the southern wilds. Why else would I spend so much time with you?"

Scott snorted. "And here I thought it was just my charming personality." Not.

"It's not without its appeal, at least to your fellow misanthropes," Jean-Paul replied lightly, "but the fact that you have a world-class butt and spend time with the weights does not hurt matters."

The amount of coughing that ensued and the sudden reddening of Scott's face was just the most obvious evidence that he'd fucking choked on his own spit at that. "Jesus, Beaubier," he huffed as he tried to get his breath back. "I was just screwing with you. You didn't have to try and kill me. Fucker."

Jean-Paul's grin was wicked, even as he gave Scott a helpful thump on the back. "What can I say? All of that competitive spirit gets the better of me sometimes. And it is a nice butt. Lil is a lucky woman."

"You're a disturbed individual," Scott commented, shaking his head. "And if Lil agrees with you, so is she. Jesus."

He'd never been great at taking compliments, however joking or insincere. "You traumatize Tam this way?"

"If you mean Simon, then yes. On a regular basis," he confirmed, with perhaps a touch of pride. "But I think he is starting to get used to it. I'd consider making you my new target, but hitting on boys with invulnerable girlfriends somehow seems a bad idea. How is that going anyway? You two certainly seem to be an item."

Now it was Scott's term to be a little proud. "Yeah. She can kick serious ass." One of the many great things about about her, though not even in his top 5 list of what he liked best about Lil. "And fine. Thanks."

It wasn't that he didn't think Jean-Paul was relatively trustworthy. He seemed like one of the people most on the level at the school, Simon too (one of the people Scott was relatively certain Jean-Paul was likely to tell shit to). But him and Lil...that was personal. Very personal. And he rarely talked about it with anyone.

The simple answer didn't seem to offend; Jean-Paul accepted it without even a shrug.

"More seriously, would you want to see Quebec? I do head back that way now and then." It was, after all, still home.

"You want to take me to the Texas of the Great White North?" Scott asked, surprised again. He couldn't really imagine anyone wanting to take him anywhere, other than Lil or maybe Alex. "How d'you usually get there?"

"I drive, of course. It's just a few hours...and not as long as it should be, the way I drive."

Scott couldn't help a smirk as he asked, "Isn't Montreal something around 6 hours from here by car? And people think I drive like a maniac."

"Call it five." But Jean-Paul looked pleased enough with the maniac designation. "And maybe I am just intimately familiar with the quickest routes."

"You seem alive enough that that's only moderately concerning," Scott decided.

"Are we talking powers or traffic tickets now?"

A dismissive sort of snort. "If you want to pay traffic tickets, that's not my problem. And either you've got some, or you're on an awkward first name basis with a bunch of highway patrol-people," Scott said dryly. "But I figure you've got quicker reflexes than most."

"And a winning personality." Jean-Paul lead the way to the kitchen. After a workout, he needed to refuel almost as much as he needed to rehydrate. "And very weird luck."

"Just please tell me I'm not going to listen to you tell every police officer in New York what a nice ass he has. When they choke to death, I don't want to have to help dispose of the bodies." He followed the other boy, heading right for the fridge once they'd reached the kitchen.

"Please credit me with some taste! I'd make a pass at Lensherr before I'd go after a cop." Jean-Paul smirked over one shoulder. "And that sounded suspiciously like you are accepting my invitation."

"Did it?" Scott asked, voice innocent. He pulled out a red Gatorade. "You want anything?"

"Just water. Though I could ask you the same question. I'm about to throw together some pasta."

He grabbed a bottle of water, shutting the fridge after him. "When you say 'throw together some pasta,' do you mean pasta that could be found at a hole in the wall in New York? Or pasta that can be found in four-star restaurants with ingredients I've never heard of?"

Scott tossed the water bottle over.

Jean-Paul caught the lobbed missile easily. "It will taste good either way, so why does it matter?"

"I feel bad eating something that should be shrieking at me that I'm not worthy."

"It's chicken, mushrooms, spinach, garlic and butter. If any of those are new to your experience, Scott, then I am going to have to tie you to a chair and expand your culinary horizons." Jean-Paul took a swallow of water, then headed for the fridge. "Besides, it sets bad precedent to let food bully you."

"I actually recognize those words, so sure; if it's not anymore work for you. No need to go dominatrix on me or anything." Scott assured the chef. "Anything I can do to help?"

"Nothing comes to mind. However..." Jean-Paul deposited an armful of produce on the counter. "If you wish to observe and learn this simple recipe, it might score you boyfriend points."

Lil didn't taste food the way most people did, not without seriously punching up the spices and stuff, but Scott still stepped over to the counter. It wasn't as though learning to cook could hurt. Besides, she'd be amused as hell if he told her that Tam's boyfriend had been giving him boyfriend lessons. Not because either Simon or Jean-Paul lacked the expertise or anything, but rather because Scott knew she didn't see herself as being quite on par with either of them.

Scott was working on it.

"I guess boyfriend points can't hurt," he commented. Scott surveyed the raw materials now deposited on the counter, and was admittedly somewhat bewildered by how all of them were going to be transformed into something edible. "So, do we start with witchcraft?"

"We start with a skillet." Jean-Paul ducked under a counter, then held up a sturdy specimen of cookware for Scott's perusal. "How health-conscious are you?"

"Is that a serious question?"

"Absolutely! For starters, it brings up the question of it we'll be using olive oil or butter for this lesson."

"I had frozen corndogs that I heated up in the microwave for breakfast," Scott said. "Which probably answers your question. But, just for the sake of thoroughness, what's the difference between olive oil and butter?"

"From the health side of things, it's a matter of calories, salt, and what kind of fats you're taking in. In general, it's about taste and how heavy you take your meals." Jean-Paul shrugged. "Personally, I go for butter."

"I've got a brother that's been threatening to hold me down and force-feed me while comparing me really flatteringly to a string bean," Scott commented dryly. "I'm sure butter will be fine."

"People keep telling me how great this family business is, and yet I remain unconvinced. Anyway..." He snagged a knife and cutting board, then lay out the chicken thighs he'd taken from the fridge. "So you start your butter melting in the pan, then dice your meat. You want to get them cut as uniformly as possible, so you don't wind up with bits that end up pink in the middle."

"Poisoning is so last century," Scott agreed, deadpan, though he did actually watch how Jean-Paul began to cut up what had previously been birds and would soon be why he could never join PETA; that shit just tasted too good. "And I find Jeanne-Marie a little easier to handle than Alex, but that might just be because I'm not related to her."

"It's all a matter of how much right they feel they have to meddle," Jean-Paul agreed. "When they have their attention on someone else, it's not nearly as grating. So, then you add your chicken to the pan and let it start cooking. Could you get me a pot of water?"

Scott grabbed a large pot and filled it to about 2 inches short of the rim. "Something happen with her, or are you just musing on how annoying siblings are generally?"

"She let Simon know how horrible he is for not being out and proud and how much he's hurting me in the process." Jean-Paul's tone was neutral in a way that suggested he was keeping his temper only because Scott didn't deserve to be snapped at. "Go ahead and get that pot on a lit burner, then go get whatever pasta you like from the pantry."

Well, this was clearly a situation Scott shouldn't touch with a ten-foot pole unless wearing a haz-mat suit. He lit one of the burners, set down his pot of water, and went over to one of the cupboards. He had no idea what the fuck the difference was between different types of pasta, other than shapes, but something about the twisty one called to him.

"You wanna talk about it, or am I five words away from being chewed out in Quebecois?" He asked, setting the bag of dry noodles next to the master chef.

"There is not so much to talk about. I let her know it was not appreciated or appropriate. Go ahead and start your pasta boiling, then come stir the chicken. You'll know it's done when it has that golden brown color. Good rule of thumb in cooking: no color means no chemistry is taking place, which means no flavor." Jean-Paul flipped the cutting board and began chopping garlic and onions. "It's just that Simon didn't deserve to be chewed out by someone with no idea what she was talking about."

"The road to sibling hell is paved with good intentions," Scott murmured. He poked at the chicken for a moment, trying to figure out if there was any way to get around admitting the fact, but he didn't want to make himself sick. He didn't want to make Jean-Paul sick either; the fucker was his friend.

"And I...don't see in color. So unless you've got some other marker to use, I might not be a good choice for chicken-watching."

Jean-Paul blinked, then smacked the heel of his palm against his forehead. "Merde! Sorry, Scott. You finish chopping the onion, I'll make sure the chicken is dead enough."

"No problem. I wasn't wearing my 'colorblind' shirt today," Scott shrugged. He took the knife and started chopping the onion that was left. Or he would call it chopping. Most people would call it 'mangling.' "You and Jeanne-Marie okay, though?"

"More or less, I think. I can't make her change her mind, but I can make her lay off Simon." Jean-Paul shrugged and transferred the chicken from the skillet to a plate. "Garlic, onion, and mushrooms, s'il te plait."

"English, Beaubier." Scott tipped the vegetables into the skillet, because...that was what he was supposed to do, right? "I don't speak martian."

"Manners are wasted on the Ugly American," Jean-Paul said, heaving a dramatic sigh. "But congratulations! Your flailing turned you in the right direction. So!" He gave the mix a stir, then pointed with his spoon. "First salt and pepper to taste, then you let those cook until the onions get translucent and a little soft. After that, you add the spinach, put a lid on the whole thing and wait about two minutes for it to wilt. Add the chicken back in, cook for another minute, then serve over pasta. Easy as that."

"And here I'd always heard wilting was a bad thing," Scott said, watching the skillet curiously. "And, okay, maybe this isn't as hard as I might've guessed, but I'm betting the microwave is still easier."

"Wilting because your food is old and decaying is bad. Wilting because you want it to wrap around your fork easily is fine."

Scott shook some salt into the pan where the onions were doing their clear-ish thing, and then ground in some pepper (really? A grinder? What was wrong with the stuff that came in a box?). "Okay, so we've cooked all pigmentation out of the onions, so now we disguise spinach as old and decaying food?"

"Scott, mon petite pomme de terre, you feel like Simon is getting too much of my time, you can just ask for my attention. There is no need to insult the food. But yes, you can put the lid on now."

"English, Pepe Le Pew," Scott reminded, setting the lid on. "And stop making me sound like some kind of yappy dog that flakes out and rips up the furniture."

"English would defeat the point." Jean-Paul left Scott to spinach watch and went to drain the rigatoni. "And that is pretty much it. It's an easy recipe to adapt."

"I'm nothing if not adaptable," Scott returned, though he still watched the food as though it might bite him.

Less than a minute later, the two were leaning against the counter and digging into deep bowls of pasta.

"Not bad, non?"

"If I compliment the food, its only going to inflate your ego." It was good, though. That much was true. "But thanks for making it."

"Thanks for being only a mildly annoying sous chef." Jean-Paul chewed and swallowed a mouthful. "We should get some more people in on the next rescue mission. Do something more direct."

"How do you mean?"

"Not all the mutants out there are going to be the good little boys and girls we are...and half of us are bastards. We should experiment with more versus scenarios."

Scott rolled that around in his mind, chewing and swallowing. He didn't disagree - it all came back to the choice they'd eventually have to make, to confirm or deny how dangerous they were. Denying would mean they policed their own, and they should prepare.

On the other hand... "We would need Foley there."

"And a good argument on hand for the headmasters."

Scott smirked. "My charm won't be enough?"

"All your charm resides in your hinder parts," Jean-Paul said, grinning around his next mouthful. "Go for logic."

Scott shuddered and pretended to gag. "If either of those old men is checking out my ass, room and board or not, I will drag that ass out of here."