Scott and Jean, Monday morning

[x-cyclops.livejournal.com]

Jean contemplates her past week's wardrobe. Scott continues to make like a rock.


Jean stared at the pile of clothes they'd brought over from the closet in the room she'd been staying for the past week, the look on her face partway between bemusement and horror. Neon bright shirts, stone washed jeans, sweaters that had been mutilated to hang off her shoulders... She'd even found leggings somewhere. Bright, floral leggings. If there were pictures of her in this shit anywhere she was going to find them and burn them. And possibly commit ritual suicide. Sighing, she ran a hand through her hair - three washes in a row and she could swear she could still feel the hairspray. "The 80s were an abominiation," she muttered to herself. This shit wasn't even worth taking to Goodwill.

"I don't know," Scott said from the doorway. "I think they had a certain charm." He moved forward into the bedroom, going to the nighttable on his side of the bed and bending over the drawer as he opened it. "I say that in the most... non-sexual way imaginable. Nothing but platonic feelings here towards your eleven year-old self, seriously..."

"My brain," Jean muttered darkly, "is a minefield of doom. Why do you put up with me again? In the past two years I've gone quite thoroughly crazy, what, three times? Four? You should have me committed. Really. I hear voices in my head, you know..." She couldn't even just burn the clothes - there was more lycra in the pile than anything even vaguely natural.

Scott found the watch he'd been looking for and rose - only to sit down on the edge of the bed, repressing a sigh. Damn, he was tired. How much had he actually slept, this past week? "Part of your charm," he muttered, slipping the watch on. Knowing he was being repetitive. "How's the head, anyway?"

"Noisy," which was good. She actually had her shields thinned out, filtering the specifics but not the mental sound, like a radio played too low to make out the music, but keeping things from being silent. "Which makes it hurt some, but I don't mind. It is possibly alarming how very much I don't like being the only one in my head anymore. When did that happen?" She remembered when she'd first manifested, how much she'd hated never having any space inside her own head. For years all she'd wanted was for her telepathy to go away.

Scott looked back over his shoulder at her with a slight, reflective smile that still somehow managed to have a lot of love in it. "Oh, you foul creature. How dare you come to terms with your telepathy... what a bad example for all the baby psis you make."

Jean stuck her tongue out at him, then smiled. "Really, though, I completely missed when that happened. I mean, I've been ok with my mutation for, oh, decades, but if two weeks ago someone had asked if I'd rather be a telepath or have a root canal... I'd probably have taken the root canal. It just never mattered, cause it's not possible and I dealt with that. But... it's too quiet in my head without my powers. Even putting aside the thing where I thought I was eleven and thus the whole world was all about me anyway, it was disconcerting. Or maybe it is now disconcerting in retrospect. I don't know. My point is more that I don't think I realized I came to terms with my power, and that's weird."

"Weird, or natural?" Scott's voice was low, patient, oddly gentle. Jean wasn't as... debilitated by her experience as some of the others, but she'd been through a lot, just like them. "The epiphanies come gradually, I find. Life gives you some reason to notice, and suddenly you realize that you're standing on ground more solid than you remembered."

"Bah. Stealth coping. I don't approve." At a gesture the pile of clothes was swept off the bed and dumped into a pile next to the closet, both the messy pile and the fact that she fell back on using the hand motion signs that, while she was possibly less traumatized than the others, she definitely was unsettled. Turning around she flopped back onto the bed, the move oddly reminiscent of the way she'd tended to sprawl on furniture when she was eleven (both times).

Scott laid down beside her, shifting onto his side and gazing down at her for a long moment. He leaned down and kissed her - lightly, but not particularly chastely. "I do," he said, drawing back and smoothing a stray lock of red hair back away from her forehead. "A happy you is a happy thing. It's part of the husbandly code."

"Here's to the husbandly code, then," Jean said, turning to curl into him, "and to you, going above and beyond the call of duty and dealing with me being all crazy. And giggly. Ugh."

"I like you when you giggle," Scott said, his arm going around her and pulling her close. Their bedroom had been a lonely place, this past week. A cat ostentatiously sleeping on Jean's pillow didn't really count. "And as crazy goes, it was a pretty innocuous sort of crazy. I saw no craters saying 'Jeannie wuz here'."

Snuggling was good. Snuggling was more than good. More than snuggling was more than good. She pressed a kiss to the side of his neck, inhaling the very comforting scent that was Scott. "I think I will be very glad that my subconscious decided to shut off my TK as well. And that nobody tried to throw me in the lake. I don't want to think about the confrontation between my inner psychotic and my not-so inner child."

"Yeah, let's not. Let them have tea in your subconscious and let us be, huh?" Scott was trying not to grin at what he was sensing on the link. "You know, I was getting ready to go face the day..."

"No, you weren't," Jean said, arms tightening. "You thought you were, but you were entirely wrong. Amazing, really, how wrong you were. Thinking you were going to leave when you were really going to kiss me..."

"Demanding harpy," he said, but did as he told. Let's agree on biannual episodes of crazy, all right? he sent down the link, as he kissed her. Hard on my nerves, otherwise...

Jean smiled into the kiss. I'll do my best, but you know it's your turn next, right?

It actually shocked him right out of the kiss. He gave a startled look - which turned almost immediately to hilarity. "No!" he protested, shifting over so that he was on top of her and trying manfully to hold back the snickering. "I am the sane one, damn it!" He kissed the side of her neck. Sane! That is my mantra!

Jean couldn't help giggling at his outrage. "I think you need to share the sane one title. I want a turn. Please? Pretty please with a cherry on top?"

"We can share, Red. You just can't take it away from me - or I'll cry like a little girl."

Well, we can't have that, Jean sent, seeing as her mouth was a little busy. I'm definitely the only one allowed to cry like a little girl.