xp_logs | LOG: [Scott, Haller] It's the thought that counts, right?

Why you never leave birthday presents until the last minute.

This was really not his element. Jim's forehead creased as his mismatched eyes darted from the paper in his hands to the assortment before him, scattered between the islands of bowls, measuring cups and mixing utensils. A pan gleamed with cooking spray.

"Flour, butter, nuts, cream cheese," the telepath muttered under his breath, "cool whip, lemon pudding, milk, sugar . . ." he gave the label a quick glance just to make sure, "powdered, right. Okay."

Scott had given up on the contents of his and Jean's kitchenette, and had come downstairs to see if there was anything interesting to be found that could be tossed into a blender. The whole liquid diet thing was beginning to wear on him, seriously. He spotted Jim with various ingredients laid out before him and raised an eyebrow.

"Cooking?" he inquired.

Jim started guiltily, then relaxed when he realized who it was. "Um, yeah," he replied, gesturing vaguely to the culinary accoutrements. "It's for Lorna's birthday, which it still is. Technically. I thought I'd try to make something for her for once." Which might have been a little more meaningful if Jim had remembered the date more than two hours earlier, but he hoped the hasty sketch of Lily and her puppies would spare him from serious injury.

Glancing back at Scott, Jim nodded at the brace on the older man's jaw and quirked an eyebrow. "Hey, do you want me to . . ?" he tapped his temple suggestively.

Scott's lips twitched. "Wouldn't mind. Resorting to monosyllables, lately..." And apparently he was making people uncomfortable with the lack of talking, but it was just too much of a pain in the ass.

Jim nodded and settled a light telepathic hand over Scott's mind. He'd never had the pleasure of having his jaw wired shut, but he imagined it was something like living every day with a dentist who kept striking up a conversation while his hands were in your mouth.

"This is lemon delight, or . . . something," Jim explained as he scooped a cup into a flower bag. "Um. Mostly I picked it because the chances of burning were minimal. Also we had all the ingredients."

I'm sure she'll appreciate it. Scott's mental 'voice' was a lot clearer than most non-psi's would have been, but then, he had a lot of practice. I wish I'd remembered... I have just not been with it lately. He eased himself down into one of the chairs at the table; his ribs still didn't like quick movements, and neither did the stitches.

"I wish she'd remind people. At least you have the injury-excuse." Jim grimaced as he shook a pre-cut cube of butter out of its waxy paper and into a glass measuring cup, which he inserted into the microwave and programmed to his best estimation. Moving back to the table, he measured out a couple pulverized pecans and tossed them in to join the flour. "Also, there was a kidnapping. One of those screwed me over with Betsy's birthday, too."

As kidnappings go, this one wasn't so bad. The kidnappees seemed more irked than anything else. Although I wish someone had been able to turn up something on these Exemplars. Unanswered questions always seemed to come back to bite them. As for Lorna, she doesn't like to make a fuss, at least not when it's her. I owe her for the singing cake.

The microwave dinged. With a soft snort Jim dutifully went to recover the melted butter. "Yeah, we all know how many people here like to draw attention to themselves . . ." He tipped the semi-solid butter into the mixing bowl and started wrestling with the plastic seal on the cream cheese. "Do you think the random crazy groups bother to warm-up before they start picking off students and alumni, or do they just go right for us? I guess Xavier's is kind of a one-stop shopping place for variety in mutation, but christ . . ." The telepath shook his head. "I'm this close to adding a spot for tallies to the academic records."

No, let's not start keeping track. I think it could lead to despair and other unproductive reactions. There was a spark of real humor in Scott's eye as he sent the thought, however. This is me speaking, who used to obsess over these trends. I can testify to how ultimately unproductive it is. Far better to roll with the punches and look for a way to punch back.

8 ounces. That was convenient. Jim scraped the container's entire contents into the bowl, where they landed with a disconsolate plop. "Yeah, I know. At this point I try to focus on what it means that nine times out of ten, the kids can handle themselves. I wish they didn't have to, but, um . . . yeah." The younger man gave a half-smile. "Maybe we should add basic survival skills to the core curriculum. I mean, we might as well. Stuff like trapping'd come in handy if they're ever stuck in a prehistoric arboretum again."

Not a bad idea, and we do have some people with the necessary skills on staff. Telepaths were such wonderful people. He'd missed having easy conversations. Maybe I could plan something like that. Teaching's not much of an option with my jaw like this - the kids are being pains in the ass, nagging me to repeat things.

"Voice software, maybe?" Jim suggested as he began accosting the powdered sugar with a measuring cup. The sugar was soft and slippery. "Although . . . yeah. Carrying a keyboard everywhere isn't that convenient. Um. Extensive Powerpoint files?"

I'm sure I'll make it through the rest of the term. And by January, I'll be fine. It wasn't quite as bad as being on crutches, but close. Scott frowned slightly as he watched Jim. Uh, if you don't mind me asking, what exactly are you making? Cheesecake? But he was putting everything in together...

Jim didn't look up from his patient spooning of the next set of ingredients, which happened to be cool whip. "Just this lemon thing. It looked pretty easy. Mostly it sets in the refrigerator, and . . ." By chance, his eyes happened to fall back on the recipe, at which point mortification ensued.

". . . I have definitely mixed the crust with the first layer."

And I just sat here and watched you do it. What a pair we make, Scott sent back ruefully. Got enough in the way of ingredients to redo?

"Not really." Jim grimaced. He looked down into the sad lump of ingredients. It was looking back at him. Staring. Mocking. Then, as if to accentuate the futility of the situation, a clump of flour slowly rolled into the pool of melted butter.

"Um," he said, "you think there's any chance Jean could, you know . . . strain it?"

Both of Scott's eyebrows went up. You could ask, he said, with a perfectly straight face. She might even try it. But she'd never let you live it down, and she might even tell Lorna. I'm thinking the bakery might be a better option, Jim.

"Yeah." Jim sighed and brushed a floury hand through his hair, then collected his efforts for an unceremonious burial in the kitchen trash. "Oh well. Happy birthday, Lorna. I hope you like store-bought."