Scott and Jean, Tuesday night

[x-cyclops.livejournal.com]

Jean's a bit rattled. Scott plays the good husband.


She was taking quite a while in the shower.

That was fair, though, Scott told himself. A nice long shower was probably in order. It wasn't as if she hadn't nearly been blown up, then had to help dig out the survivors of the explosion, then spent the next few hours going through what she'd gotten from the mind of the kid who'd blown up. Who'd nearly blown her up. His mind kept racing around and around that central fact, and the only saving grace was that it was happening behind shields as thick as fortress walls, and Jean was occupied with the hot water.

His expression perfectly composed, Scott set the mug of tea down on the bedside table on her side of the bed, then turned back the covers. The cat sitting on the dresser regarded him a bit warily, but made no attempts to get his attention by pushing anything off onto the floor. Any other night, he would have appreciated that. Tonight, he barely noticed it.

Once she'd gotten herself and Cooper out of the rubble she'd been sick, her body trying to somehow rid itself of the memory of the boy's mind as his own body disintigrated around him. Then she'd been sick again after they'd gotten all the survivors out, and been frighteningly grateful that telepathy was no use in finding buried bodies. Honestly, the only thing that hadn't made her feel ill today was the firm, reassuringly official debriefing of what she'd learned before the explosion. She'd taken an obscure comfort in the impersonality of it all.

Eventually, though, she was going to have to get out of the shower.

Tea was done, bed was ready, cat was... on her way out the door, which was nice. And Jean still wasn't out of the shower. Tentatively, Scott went over to the bathroom door, and reached down the link in something that was half a caress, half an unspoken question. Unspoken mostly because he couldn't bring himself to actually say 'are you all right'. Stupidest question in the world, really.

There was this big, fluffy terry-cloth robe hanging on the door. It had been a present ages ago, and so was in that comfortably-worn stage of perfection. All she had to do was turn off the water, get out and put it on. Then she could go, lie down and curl up with her husband. He was worried. He was being strong and reassuring and gentle on the link, which meant he was worried enough to try not to let her know he was worried. Silly, really, when he was always worried for her.

Just turn off the water.

The probem with keeping her mind comfotably blank was that a) it made it really hard to do anything and b) such random thoughts kept flowing into the empty space of not-thinking-about-it. Like that one. Surely thinking about what she was thinking because she was avoiding thinking counted as odd.

In the end, she simply bypassed the decision making and got out of the shower without deciding to. It was easier.

Scott stepped back as Jean, in the worn robe, stepped out. "Hey," he said hesitantly. "How are - I made tea?" he amended, mid-sentence. No stupid questions.

"Tea is good," she said, but instead of going to curl up and drink

it, she made a bee-line for him - wrapping her arms around him and hiding her face in the curve of his shoulder. "Hair's wet. Sorry."

"Not worried about wet hair. Trust me." His voice was low, a little gruff, and softer as he put his arms around her, holding her.

"Oh good." She was shaken, but not shaking, she told herself, and that was good, right. Although, she was still thinking about what she was thinking about instead of just thinking about it. Argh. "The problem," Jean said, not moving to look up at him, "as I see it, is that I may yet make myself crazy with the not-thinking about what happened before I get around to being able to deal with it."

"That's always the kicker, isn't it?" He could stand here just holding her all night, if she wanted it that way, he reflected. The bed would probably be more comfortable for both of them, though. "One of those charming no-win situations..."

"We do seem to get a lot of those, don't we?" Jean didn't really care where they were, so long as she didn't have to let go.

Scott shifted, rather than letting her go, and led her in the direction of the bed. "This is where I wish I was the telekinetic," he murmured. It took something of a feat of coordination to get her settled in bed without ever letting go entirely, but he managed to do it, and crawled in beside her, pulling the covers over them both. He found himself at something of a loss for words as he wrapped his arms around her. So much of what he could have said would have sounded either stupid or pointless.

"I kind of wish I wasn't, right now," Jean managed, snuggling in closer to him. "But that will pass. It always does."

Scott pressed a kiss to the top of her head. "I don't know," he said quietly. "Right now I'm awfully glad that you are."

"Yes, I guess I can't say I would have had enough time to shield if I hadn't felt him die." And the others. It wasn't the first time, but certainly the first time in such quantity. There was something unexpressibly horrible about the shrill, screaming silence of a dozen minds suddenly going silent. And now she was shaking.

Scott's arms tightened around her. Strangely, his thoughts had stopped running in circles, and he took advantage of that, lowering his own mental defenses and reaching down the link towards her, projecting nothing but steady support, love and relief in equal parts. She was here, she was all right. It had happened, and it had been bad, but she'd made it out.

It helped. The shaking slowed and then stopped all together as she lay quietly in his arms. "And the thing is," she said after a while, "I really couldn't have done anything differently. I don't know if that helps or not."

"I don't think anything can help. Not tonight." It was a bit more truthful than reassuring, but he wanted her to know that it was all right, that he understood.

"I think you're right," Jean said, and if there was a touch of fatalism to her voice, it was to be expected. "Can today be over yet?"

Scott's gaze flickered sideways to the clock. "It is, actually. Ten minutes into tomorrow." He kissed the top of her head again, then stroked her hair. "Close your eyes," he suggested softly. Even if she dreamed about it, he'd be here when she woke up.

Jean did as she was bid. She couldn't actually get any physically closer, but she clung mentally to his presence and the knowledge that she was home, safe, with him.

Scott had a strong suspicion he wasn't getting any sleep tonight. But that was all right, as long as she did. And there were far, far worse things than watching her sleep.