Monday afternoon, Pietro and Jean

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Going out doesn't do either Pietro's temper or his face much good; Jean patches him up and introduces him to one of the small consolations of his new gender.



Paperwork. Paperwork, Amelia had said, waited for no man, woman or Jean. It was rare enough when the Russian woman cracked a joke, so Jean had decided not to kill her. Jean was not really in the mood to be doing lab-paperwork, but she had to admit, joke or no, Amelia had a point.

The infirmary door swung open a moment later to admit Pietro: shirt torn, bruises and scrapes down the left side of his face and his left arm and side. Neither the injuries nor the gender-switch had done anything to dim the glare he directed at Jean, daring her to comment. "I'm not going to restrict myself to norm-speed just because this sorry excuse for a body has poorly-designed hip joints," he very nearly snarled.

Jean started up at the sight of Pietro, waving her towards one of the examining tables as he collected antiseptic, gauze and the like. "Hasn't," he said as he worked. "You just don't know how to... er... well, normally I would object to the phrase 'run like a girl', but it applies."

"I haven't tripped over my own feet at speed since I was fourteen," Pietro said sulkily, trying not to wince as Jean cleaned the scrapes. "Though I am starting to understand the whole female body-image issue. I haven't been stuck with this for three days yet and I hate it already."

Jean discreetly did not notice the pout that was forming. "Well, you did all your growth spurts and awkward learning bits as a guy. And now every thing's all messed up. It's not you tripping, not really. And, thankfully, it will go away soon."

"Soon to you, maybe." The pout was fully in evidence until Pietro's eyes widened and he transmuted the expression into a scowl. "The goddamned mood swings are the worst part. I'm completely out of control. How do you people get through the day like this?"

"Er... chocolate?" Jean suggested. "Group bitching sessions." She shrugged. "Practice, mostly."

"Chocolate. Maybe I'll try that." Pietro sighed. "Dinosaurs and gender-switching. You people are making me miss the paranoia and constant threat of death I had at my old job."

"At least we're not repetitive? Every day there's something new and crazy at Xavier's..." The scratches and cuts on his face were all small enough to stick with plasters, but the arm definitely needed some wrapping.

"The novelty makes it worse. After about the eighth month of having to remember that Creed would rip my spleen out through my ribcage and eat it if I smelled wrong, it sort of faded in with the rest of this . . . white-noise suppressed terror." Pietro grimaced. "Here it's one new thing after another, you never get the chance to get used to anything."

Jean cocked his head at Pietro. "Ok, yes, that's a point. The only thing I can think of to do, though, is offer you some of the chocolate I've got stashed in my desk."

"Hm. Well, that might help. I'll try just about anything at this point." Pietro reached up gingerly, exploring his face. "At least I just changed mass, not composition. Fetching up against that tree at less than my accustomed bone density would have been . . . problematic."

"Yeah, we'll be very, very glad about that." A bag of chocolate peanut butter cups came floating into the room, heading towards Pietro. "Do you want painkillers?"

"Couple aspirin, maybe. I think." Pietro made a vexed noise as he unwrapped a peanut butter cup. "I don't know enough about how this excuse for a body reacts to pain." He popped the candy into his mouth, then froze absolutely still, chewing slowly. "Damn. I always thought that was a cliche. Or commercial propaganda."

"Generally, a higher long-term pain tolerance, but a lower pain threshold, although that varies. A lot. And no, definitely not propaganda. Honest to god chemical reaction in the brain." Jean grinned. "Chemical reaction of joy. Literally."

"Not worth the trade," Pietro said firmly. "But, ah . . . do you mind if I have another?"