backdated log - Jean and Pietro

[x-jeangrey.livejournal.com]

Wayback when, Jean stopped by to be neighborly and welcoming and, owing to the virtue of sarcasm, Pietro doesn't throw her out. Cookies also help.



Shifting the bag she was carrying onto her hip, Jean reached out and tapped on the door she stood in front of. The bag was closed at the top, but the smell of fresh cookies was making it out anyway - clearly a house warming sort of thing, although the look on her face when the door actually opened wasn't nearly so easy to interpret. "Hello," Jean said, offering Pietro the bag. "Cookies. Also wine. Fruit cake would probably have been more traditional, but I wouldn't inflict that on anyone."

"For which I thank you," Pietro said curiously, taking the bag. "Come in." He swung the door wider and raised an eyebrow. "Were the congratulations on your sanity premature, then?"

Jean matched him wry look for wry look. "Housewarming sort of present. Don't knock the cookies till you've tried them, and the liquor is traditional when you move into Xavier's, and it seemed like a bottle of Jack Daniel's on its own would have been a tad extreme. Plus, you're not teaching."

"And you have no idea how grateful I am for that. I can't stand most of the little hellspawn socially, I can't imagine what it must be like trying to drill information into their heads." Pietro perused the label on the bottle. "Is this the prescribed wine for cookies, then?"

"Alas, no. The wine would go rather better with a meal, and the cookies with doctored milk or cocoa, but I wasn't about to make a whole meal for just a welcoming present. My homemaking skills only go so far." Jean finally stepped into his suite, smiling at him. "So, rather bleatedly, welcome to the mansion."

"And as you were nearly on the opposite side of the globe, I'm actually going to accept that you have a legitimate excuse for tardiness," Pietro replied with a dry grin. "Even I would take a few hours to cover the distance, assuming a surface to run on. Join me in a glass? I think I have some . . ." He set the bag of cookies and the wine down on an end table and rummaged through the cupboards of his small suite kitchen, surfacing after a moment with a pair of Xavier School coffee mugs. "Not quite fine crystal, I'm afraid."

"I've had worse, from worse," Jean admitted, waving for him to pour. "But thank you for your lenience. Plus there was the bit where I didn't know you'd come, so I couldn't have rushed off home. Not that I would. Although, interestingly, it was an ex-compatriot of yours that did send me rushing about and end me up here."

Pietro snorted as he poured the wine. "I'd imagine Summers had more interesting things on his mind than telling you about me, yes. Besides, I rather like that little shocked pause when people realize who I am." He handed her a mug. "Which one of them was it? I don't remember my father having any interests in Tibet, though I am admittedly several months behind the times."

"It was Mystique," Jean said, taking the drink. "And hopefully your father will no longer have any interest in Tibet, after I broke her ribs."

"Well, I'll drink to that," Pietro said cheerfully, and suited action to words. "To Mystique's broken ribs, may they heal slowly. What did you do with her afterward?"

"Wrapped her up and left her as a present for the Chinese officials she was trying to steal from." And that they had stolen from, but Scott was right, keep that off the record. "There is very little good that can be said of the Chinese in Tibet, but amongst the bad things are their treatment of prisoners. She was definitely not going to get a nice welcome when she woke up."

"Up until the point where she bribes them and walks away, anyway." Pietro scowled into his mug. "Or worse. You do remember what happened the last time you people left her lying unconscious for someone else to clean up, don't you? The bit where she spent a few months playing Model Senate with the actual Senate, then broke my father out of prison to kill the world?"

Jean arched an eyebrow at the scowl. "As far as we can tell, she woke up before the guards got there to collect her at Liberty Island. That I can personally guaruntee wasn't going to happen, having been the one to make both her and the guards unconscious. And yes, her bribing them is a possibility. They may also shoot her in the head for making the attempt, which I think is actually more likely." She shrugged. "I admit, it may not have been the best solution, but it was what presented itself at the time."

Pietro rolled his eyes. "Yes, the Chinese are going to shoot Mystique in the head. Please tell me you actually know her better than that by now. Mystique is smart. And remember this is me saying it, and I read half your library last week. She does not commit to an operation, especially a solo operation, without plans for all the major complications. I assume you don't need me to tell you that, in Tibet, trouble with the Chinese armed forces is one of the more obvious complications to plan for?"

Jean arched an eyebrow and replied dryly, "And please remember I'm also not an idiot. I know very well that she would have planned for trouble with the Chinese, especially as she actually ran into them and got past without the slightest problem at least once before we delt with her. She's not an idiot and the Chinese aren't the brightest. But the officers who find her are going to be angry and embarassed and looking for ways to cover their asses, and she's a gift wrapped, blue-skinned target."

"Not good enough," PIetro said flatly. "You left her for complete strangers, hoping their anger and embarrassment would outweigh their greed and curiosity. Next time, why don't you just buy her a plane ticket home?" His nostrils flared, and he sat back, unclenching his fists with a deliberate effort; he drained his mug before continuing, a hint of apology in his voice. "She hunted me, for the first month or two after my defection. We had this little contest going: she'd leave presents in my boltholes, usually a keg of nails wrapped around a brick of Semtex, and I'd get to see if my reflexes were up to avoiding it."

The defensive, angry retort was stifled as Jean mentally stepped back and recognized that the change to his tone and his mental presence was likely the closest she'd get to an apology, and that she didn't really feel she deserved one from him. "I'm sorry about that," Jean said, "and I can understand, more than, being angry with her, and upset at the lost chance. For what it's worth, we aren't thrilled with the outcome, but it really was the best we could come up with. We weren't equipped to deal with getting her back to the States, even if we'd been ready to take off that instant, which we weren't. The longer I needed to try to keep her unconscious the greater the chance that she'd be able to fight me off. Particularly when you include the fact that I was suffering from a concussion she'd given me, as was Scott." She spread her hands apart, shrugging slightly. "Neither of us were up to the task of figuring out what to do with her."

"You people need helmets," Pietro replied darkly. "All that body armor in the uniforms and you're walking around bareheaded. Mystique gets a real kick out of that, you know." He smiled thinly. "Literally, whenever possible. Ah well, there'll be other chances." He poured himself some more wine and took a thuoghtful bite out of a cookie. "These are good."

"The idea's been mentioned before," Jean admitted, "but every time it comes up your father's shining example is mentioned and the meeting ends in laughter. It's perfectly understandable why he wears the helmet, but that doesn't change how stupid it looks." But she smiled at the compliment. "Thank you. Contrary to what Scott occasionally claims, I'm not actually a bad cook. Just prone to distraction."

"Style over safety, yes, I wish I were surprised. There's that old cliche about finding good help . . ." But there wasn't any more than a token amount of bite in his voice. "Cooking, now, that I never quite got the hang of. It's difficult, you know, when even a microwave takes too long to make anything."

"I can imagine," Jean said, shrugging off the cliche. "Damn those immutable laws of physics and culinary style."

Pietro smirked. "More often than not I end up putting on some so-called 'instant' soup and reading a book or two while I wait for it to warm up. I've often thought someone should find a way to harvest whatever it is about our mutant powers that lets us treat the laws of physics as nothing more than guidelines, and then build it into home appliances."

"It would be incredibly useful," Jean agreed. "But I think you'll have to talk to Forge about it. If anyone could do it, it would be him."

Pietro winced slightly. "Perhaps if the boy weren't so desperate to prove he has important opinions about important things."

Jean's smile was gentle. She liked Forge, but Pietro definitely had a point. "Another one of the Xavier's graduates who, despite being young, never really managed a childhood. The most intelligent students always seem like that - smart enough to deal with the world on an adult level before they're emotionally ready."

"And it makes them so very tiresome." Pietro chuckled softly. "I'm tempted to tell them where idealism and ignorance can take them, but of course they're smarter than that."

She considered him closely, arching an eyebrow. "And would you take what little innocence they can afford? They grow out of the difficult time fast enough... Well, fast enough for most." And she smiled wryly at him, well aware that it was no where near 'fast' for him.

"I'd rather just sit and watch them run into their own brick walls. That way I'm entertained and I don't have to do anything more strenuous than award them points for style." Pietro smirked. "And just possibly they'll come away from the experience a little more willing to shut up when they're out of their depth."

"Different reason, same result." Jean nodded. "I'm satisfied."

Pietro rolled his eyes. "So glad I could be of service, madam."

Jean grinned smugly. "Excellent. That is exactly the right attitude to take."

Pietro glared at Jean for a moment, then snorted with amusement. "Maybe you should go work out these take-charge impulses on your husband; he presumably enjoys it."