Log - Jean and Scott and a lot of yelling

[x-jeangrey.livejournal.com]

After getting Jim's email, Jean finesses her way into the team area to have a blazing row with her wayward husband.



God only knew what Lorna had thought when she'd let Jean into the basement. The email from Haller had left Jean annoyed. Finding out her access to the team areas had been revoked made her aggravated. In the time it took to find a team member (since half of them it seemed were still down there) and get to the Situation Room her mood went from poor to bad all the way to downright scary, and when she found Scott pouring over the computer, a full coffee pot within easy reach, she snapped.

"Scott Summers, it's midnight. The alarm is set for six and I know for a fact that you've been changing it after I go to sleep for the past week so you're waking up earlier than I think. Which means you're already not getting enough sleep. You want to explain why I'm hearing you're planning on being down here until three?"

"I have a lot of work to do," Scott said almost brusquely, ignoring the sharpness of her tone - even though it gave him an odd, butterflies-like feeling in his stomach, some sort of visceral response to fighting with Jean. "Remedial thinking scenarios to plan."

"Grand," Jean said shortly. "Do it tomorrow."

"No, I think I'll do them tonight. Because I'm planning to run at least one of them tomorrow," he said, just as bluntly. "So they kind of have to be done tonight. It's one of those pesky 'logic' things."

"Oh, right, logic. Yes, that's clearly what's at work here. Excuse me for not recognizing it before. But then again, your logic is not earth logic. Remind me now, that major breakdown you had where you started yelling at Charles and finally decided that you need therapy almost as much as I do, that was what, a week ago, right? Oh, but that had nothing to do with being tired and stressed about the team and leadership and all of that, of course." She was hitting below the belt. Hell, she was doing it on purpose.

Scott flushed, looking away from the computer and at her, finally. "It doesn't matter if I'm tired and stressed and need a break," he said, considerably more heat in his voice. "Shit keeps happening. Kids are stupid, my team is stupid when we go to rescue them... I'm not going to be able to sleep until I get something set up for tomorrow!" Why couldn't she understand that? She'd always understood it before.

"Oh, yes, clearly. That's why you need a full pot of coffee to keep going, right? Yes, the shit keeps happening, and it keeps happening, and it. Keeps. Happening! And if you don't take care of yourself, then you really won't be able to deal with it. You're worried about what will happen between now and when you get the damned scenario done, fine. Lock the kids in their damned rooms if it will help. I'm worried about your complete and utter inability to internalize the lesson that you're MAKING YOURSELF CRAZY!"

He was not going to respond with 'look who's talking'. She'd slap him again. "That's not what I meant!" he snapped back at her restlessly. "I don't think anything's going to happen between now and when I get the scenario done... I just..." Okay, what did he mean? Work, brain. "I need to get it done!" he finally retorted, defiantly. "There are things that have to get done, so that other things can get done, and if we don't do them then they just all pile up!"

He didn't have to say it, he was tired enough that it came across in his look. But then, Jean fully admitted she was crazy. Well, now she admitted it. "Circular argument," she snapped. "It has to get done because it has to get done. Fine. It doesn't have to get done now."

"This is not your debate class! You don't get to critique my argument!" Why was he barking at Jean? Barking at Jean was bad, wasn't it? But she was down here, getting into his face - and she had to have bullied someone into letting her in, given that they'd revoked her access back when she was the Black Queen and not yet restored it - and he was tired, and his ribs hurt, and why would people not leave him alone to do his work?

"Well hell, Scott," Jean said. "If you weren't half dead on your feet there wouldn't be anything to critique. Go to bed, Scott." Given the mood she was in, Jean was half considering sleeping on the couch so she wasn't about to say 'come to bed', but the point stood.

"I am not dead on my feet!" Scott snarled at her, taking too deep a breath - and immediately stopping, wincing and going noticeably white as one hand went to his side. "...shit." He breathed a bit unevenly for a moment or two, his bruised ribs complaining, but what came bursting out then sounded more frustrated and upset than angry. "I can't concentrate! Look at what I did on Sunday!" Or didn't do. "Ororo's right, the team's not functioning properly, and I can't figure out what to do!"

The obvious pain in his face chilled Jean's anger for a moment, but the fact that dispite whatever injury had he was still pushing himself like that just made it worse. "So ask! Find out what ideas other people have. Try things. You're the only one who demands you be perfect and you already found out that that's killing you. For fuck's sake, Scott. Just... stop. Just for a while. I'm not asking you to take a vacation. Hell, I'm not even asking you to leave the mansion. Just sleep!"

Scott was up and out of his chair like a shot - too fast, because the room was not entirely stable around him, and no, he was not teetering. Seriously. "Fine," he said disjointedly, yanking the plug on the coffeemaker. "Fine, I'll sleep," he said, and headed for the door, letting her follow if she wanted. What passed for his depth perception, bad enough under the best of circumstances, decided that now was a good time to play tricks on him, and he ran into the doorframe with his shoulder, just like he had in the locker room on Sunday. He managed not to reel backwards.

"Sleep," he muttered, "and I'll wake up in the morning and go back to work-"

"Oh yeah, this is a great way to convince me you're fine." Sighing, she stepped forward the anger gone, replaced by the worry and fear it had been covering. "Will you let me help you? Please, Scott, you've got to stop doing this to yourself."

"I'm sorry." Less disjointed, more miserable, and as she reached out to him, he did the same. "I just... I should have given that misson to Ororo," he said hoarsely, which stung like hell to admit. "I'm an idiot. But I can't..." He pressed the heel of his hand against his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut and trying to steady his breathing. "I have no sense of proportion anymore," he finally said, his voice steadier, but almost inaudible. "Dr. Barnett said that. I keep throwing everything into even the tiny problems."

"I'm sorry, too," she said softly, wrapping an arm carefully around his waist. "I'm worried about you, Scott."

"I'm fine. I'm just tired." He gave her a ghost of a smile. "I know," he said, before she could respond. "There's an answer to that." He kissed her - on the cheek, and then looked in the direction of the door. "Let's go to bed? Presuming I'm not looking at a very justified 'sleeping on the couch'..."

"You're not fine," she started, then shook her head. "No, you're right, let's go to bed. You're too tired and seemingly too sore for the couch. We can talk about this later when I'm not feeling like such a queen bitch and you're awake enough to argue."