xp_logs | Nathan and Jean, Thursday evening

Backdated to Thursday evening. Nathan and Jean realize they need to start expanding their investigation of why he can't seem to shield worth a damn these days.

"Son of a..." He needed to go back to the boathouse and being buried in a metric ton of Russian military records. That was the ticket. Tottering a little, Nathan made his way into the student lounge -thankfully empty at this hour - and half-sat, half-fell onto the couch. Had he been spending so little time out of the boathouse, to have this type of reaction to being in the psychic thick of it up here in the mansion? Nathan wondered a bit dizzily as his shields fluttered like curtains in the wind. He supposed he maybe had. He'd passed off all his meetings to Joel this week, saying that he wanted to focus on those files...

The buzz, of course, Jean was familiar with. The disorienting pain echoing back at it was new. Jean followed it back to it's source, frowning at the man more-or-less collapsed on the couch. "So... not doing so well?" she asked.

"Kill me," was the slightly feeble-sounding reply. "Today's designated babysitter-victim didn't bring Ray back down to the boathouse yet, so I thought I'd just pop up here and get her... bad call." Nathan rubbed at his temples, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment. "All of a sudden, I have tissue paper for shields again."

"You know this is, like, anti-progress, right?" Jean asked, settling onto the arm of the couch. "I don't understand it, Nate. We've been working so hard."

Nathan let out his breath on a sigh, opening his eyes and staring up at the ceiling. "Tell me about it. Honestly, I think my active telepathy is maybe even a little sharper than it was before Farouk made a mess of things." He offered her a crooked smile. "So, you know, it is doing some good. Just not as much as it should be."

"It really makes no sense," Jean said. "It really does feel like... some thing's blocking you. Other than you, I mean." The face she made was wry.

"Brings us back to the nastier possibility that it's something physical. My seventeenth concussion, or something..." Yet his shields were stabilizing, at least a little. Maybe just because he'd stopped to try and concentrate? The other issue was that the weakness seemed to wax and wane, and not always just under the pressure of other minds. He was honestly baffled. "Maybe I should come down and let you scan ye olde noggin sometime soon." They'd been waiting on that, to see if meditation and practice solved the problem.

"It's definitely not out of the question as far as causes go," Jean agreed. "Although I'd think you'd be having other problems if that were the case. Do we set an appointment?"

"Yeah, why don't we. I can impress Moira by being proactive about my own health," Nathan said, a helpless laugh slipping out as he rubbed at his temples again. "Wow, I'm getting old and domesticated. It's kind of sad, really. I have this urge to bust out and go do something crazy."

"Speaking as a wife, it's not actually a bad thing to be domesticated. Speaking as your friend, we should go out and cause a ruckus." Jean grinned, letting the banter cover over some of her worry.

"Sounds like a plan. Paint the town, etcetera..." Although he didn't know how much painting the town he was really up for doing right now, so the comment came out sounding kind of half-hearted. He shrugged at Jean, the crooked smile coming back. "I'll consider that the reward for submitting to the poking and prodding and brain-scanning."

"We may have to paint the town somewhat restrainedly," Jean said, echoing his thoughts unintentionally for once. "What with you becoming so old and stogy and all."

Nathan snorted. "I think the state of my shields displeases Ray, by the way - when she catches me in a bad moment, she glares. Like I've done something to mortally offend her or some such thing."

"Well, I imagine it's more than a bit disconcerting for her to see you like that," Jean pointed out. "She's used to you being this massive mental presence in her life."

Nathan made a face. "Yes, she is," he muttered. It wasn't that he didn't consider his own welfare a matter of concern, but he really, really didn't like the idea of what Rachel might pick up from him if he couldn't get his shields back to where they should be. His little mimic could always acquire bad habits, too, and that was so not acceptable. "I have got to get this sorted out."

"We will. I have faith. Can you set aside a couple of hours this week to go through a whole passel of tests?"

"And let you take me away from all the Russian military records? Wait-" Nathan held out both hands, palms up, as if weighing the options. "Brain scans. Russian military records. Well, six of one, half-dozen of the other..."

Jean stuck out her tongue at him. "You want some company and some help getting back to the boathouse?"

"I would love that. If nothing else, I think Rachel had a painting she wants to give you. You have a white coat and a giant needle in one hand, and you're laughing maniacally..."

Jean laughed. "Your daughter is alarmingly clever. One wonders where she gets it. Come on," she said, offering him a hand and, when he took it, wrapping her own layer of light shields around his. "Up you get."

The tension around Nathan's eyes lessened, and he gave her a slight smile - and her hand a squeeze of thanks. "Her mother," he said. "Without a doubt. The brains seem to come as part of the package deal with the red hair."