Scott and Jean, Monday evening
Apr. 28th, 2008 06:10 pm![[identity profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/openid.png){kind=small}
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xp_logsBackdated to Monday evening. Scott and Jean's suite, 24 hrs after a mission gone wrong.
He ought to be in the office, or in the Situation Room. Doing something, in any case, that didn't involve slouching on the couch staring at the TV. It wasn't even the news, which might have been semi-excusable. But he'd turned off the news when they'd covered Garnoff's death in a "suspected car bomb", and then immediately started talking about the latest escapades of one of the legion of vacant-eyed pop singers.
The mundanity of her classes today had helped, Jean decided. It had been vaguely sureal, in that way that it always was after difficult missions - the lack of significant damaged X-Men meant the students didn't know anything at all out of the ordinary had happened, and in a way that helped. Coming back to the suite, however, and finding Scott watching reruns of M.A.S.H., though, was probably not a good sign. "I'm home," she said quietly.
The only response she got was a monosyllable, not quite a grunt. Des, who had been sitting on the back of the couch. stood up, stretched, and then jumped down, trotting over to Jean. The little cat paused to glance back over her shoulder at Scott, and then promptly came over and rubbed her head against Jean's leg, in the gesture of a sadly neglected feline.
"Oh, dear..." Jean said, leaning down and scooping the cat up to cradle her and scritch her head. "You, cat, clearly deserve some milk. Scott? Want a beer or something?"
Scott looked away from the television, eyeing the highly unusual sight of his wife holding a purring cat. "Beer," he said after a moment, almost contemplatively. "Yeah, I guess." Manners kicked in a moment later. "Um. Thank you."
Oh yeah, it was gonna be a bad night... Two bottles were pulled out of the fridge along with the milk, a small splash of which went into a saucer on the floor for Des. "There you go, fuzz. Now you've got what you want you can stop being nice to me," Jean said, patting the cat one last time, then collecting the beers and heading over to the couch. "Here you are," she said, handing one over.
Scott took it, but didn't make a move to drink any of it. His attention strayed back to the television. "I think I liked the earlier seasons better. Where it was funny. War dramas are kind of lost on me, these days..."
"You, I will point out, are the one who turned it on," Jean said, settling onto the couch sideways, leaning against the arm rest and considering her husband.
"I had hopes of comedy. There was a man in a dress." Scott shifted, wincing as the arm Moses's blast had clipped protested. He was lucky nothing was broken. He was rather impressively black and blue in the shoulder area. "Maybe it's just that nothing's really seeming funny, today."
"Which is certainly reasonable," Jean said, reaching over and catching the hand which held the remote. She squeezed his hand and then stole the remote, switching off the tv.
"Hey," he protested, not particularly enthusiastically. Although the quiet that descended over the suite was less than comfortable, and he made a face. "You turned off my white noise. Well, at least I still have my beer."
"No, I just insist on a better quality of white noise," Jean said and, glancing over at the cd player she switched it on; apparently they'd left a jazz compilation in there. "Beer and music. Sooner or later I'll figure out what to do for dinner."
Scott was quiet for a moment, listening to the music. "I'm getting tired of watching people die," he said finally, almost inaudibly. "I do too much of it." He paused, then took a long sip of his beer. "I think we all do."
"I think that's one of those things where any is too much," she said quietly. "It's possible you get inured to it after a while, but that's not really a good thing..."
"I blew it, too." There was only the faintest hint of unsteadiness in Scott's voice, but it was still quite obviously there. He took another sip of his beer. "I was trying to do too much at one time. I should've had Kurt get Garnoff out of there right away and handled the rest of it later. I split my attention."
"Don't second guess, Scott. You didn't know." Jean rolled the cold bottle between her hands distractedly.
Scott didn't persist, but neither did he agree. He fell silent, his shoulders more hunched than they had been and his presence on the link so tight that it couldn't be anything but overcontrolled.
Jean had known for years that sometimes, all you could do was allow that someone was upset - it was what she was most worried about Laurie learning. Sometimes, what was healthiest was to accept it, and them, and be there for them when they were ready and wanted you. She didn't need to project her love and concern to Scott; he knew how she felt and, if he ever doubted it was all there on the link for him. For now, she leaned over and pressed a kiss to his temple, then stood up and went back into the kitchen to find something for dinner.
He ought to be in the office, or in the Situation Room. Doing something, in any case, that didn't involve slouching on the couch staring at the TV. It wasn't even the news, which might have been semi-excusable. But he'd turned off the news when they'd covered Garnoff's death in a "suspected car bomb", and then immediately started talking about the latest escapades of one of the legion of vacant-eyed pop singers.
The mundanity of her classes today had helped, Jean decided. It had been vaguely sureal, in that way that it always was after difficult missions - the lack of significant damaged X-Men meant the students didn't know anything at all out of the ordinary had happened, and in a way that helped. Coming back to the suite, however, and finding Scott watching reruns of M.A.S.H., though, was probably not a good sign. "I'm home," she said quietly.
The only response she got was a monosyllable, not quite a grunt. Des, who had been sitting on the back of the couch. stood up, stretched, and then jumped down, trotting over to Jean. The little cat paused to glance back over her shoulder at Scott, and then promptly came over and rubbed her head against Jean's leg, in the gesture of a sadly neglected feline.
"Oh, dear..." Jean said, leaning down and scooping the cat up to cradle her and scritch her head. "You, cat, clearly deserve some milk. Scott? Want a beer or something?"
Scott looked away from the television, eyeing the highly unusual sight of his wife holding a purring cat. "Beer," he said after a moment, almost contemplatively. "Yeah, I guess." Manners kicked in a moment later. "Um. Thank you."
Oh yeah, it was gonna be a bad night... Two bottles were pulled out of the fridge along with the milk, a small splash of which went into a saucer on the floor for Des. "There you go, fuzz. Now you've got what you want you can stop being nice to me," Jean said, patting the cat one last time, then collecting the beers and heading over to the couch. "Here you are," she said, handing one over.
Scott took it, but didn't make a move to drink any of it. His attention strayed back to the television. "I think I liked the earlier seasons better. Where it was funny. War dramas are kind of lost on me, these days..."
"You, I will point out, are the one who turned it on," Jean said, settling onto the couch sideways, leaning against the arm rest and considering her husband.
"I had hopes of comedy. There was a man in a dress." Scott shifted, wincing as the arm Moses's blast had clipped protested. He was lucky nothing was broken. He was rather impressively black and blue in the shoulder area. "Maybe it's just that nothing's really seeming funny, today."
"Which is certainly reasonable," Jean said, reaching over and catching the hand which held the remote. She squeezed his hand and then stole the remote, switching off the tv.
"Hey," he protested, not particularly enthusiastically. Although the quiet that descended over the suite was less than comfortable, and he made a face. "You turned off my white noise. Well, at least I still have my beer."
"No, I just insist on a better quality of white noise," Jean said and, glancing over at the cd player she switched it on; apparently they'd left a jazz compilation in there. "Beer and music. Sooner or later I'll figure out what to do for dinner."
Scott was quiet for a moment, listening to the music. "I'm getting tired of watching people die," he said finally, almost inaudibly. "I do too much of it." He paused, then took a long sip of his beer. "I think we all do."
"I think that's one of those things where any is too much," she said quietly. "It's possible you get inured to it after a while, but that's not really a good thing..."
"I blew it, too." There was only the faintest hint of unsteadiness in Scott's voice, but it was still quite obviously there. He took another sip of his beer. "I was trying to do too much at one time. I should've had Kurt get Garnoff out of there right away and handled the rest of it later. I split my attention."
"Don't second guess, Scott. You didn't know." Jean rolled the cold bottle between her hands distractedly.
Scott didn't persist, but neither did he agree. He fell silent, his shoulders more hunched than they had been and his presence on the link so tight that it couldn't be anything but overcontrolled.
Jean had known for years that sometimes, all you could do was allow that someone was upset - it was what she was most worried about Laurie learning. Sometimes, what was healthiest was to accept it, and them, and be there for them when they were ready and wanted you. She didn't need to project her love and concern to Scott; he knew how she felt and, if he ever doubted it was all there on the link for him. For now, she leaned over and pressed a kiss to his temple, then stood up and went back into the kitchen to find something for dinner.
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