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xp_logsJean and Haller catch up on a lazy Saturday afternoon.
It took a telekinetic jerk while stabilizing the board with both hands to finally free the dart. <I>Do you have to go so hard on everything?</I> asked a voice.
"You have to volunteer us for yard work?" Jack muttered to Jim, releasing the dartboard. Hitting the bullseye wasn't a problem, it was modulating the force of the impact. Xavier had once tried to explain it as a consequence of a power shaped by the need for self-defense. Stopping shrapnel and catching bullets was as natural to Jack as breathing, but when it came time to instigate a sharp, decisive action his instinct was to do it with everything he had. This became even harder to mitigate when he was forced to acknowledge Xavier might have a point.
Jack returned to the other side of the room, took a few deep breaths, and queued up the dart again.
"Don't mind me. Just borrowing the game system for a bit," came a voice as Jean wandered her way into the rec room. She was not prepared to leave the mansion for at least 2-3 days and dressed the part in a pair of pajama pants and an old Columbia university t-shirt with her hair up in a scrunchie.
The dart went wide and buried itself a quarter-inch into the wall directly beside the dartboard.
"Oh -- hey Jean," Jim said, immediately back up front. His eyes flicked between the doctor and the future drywall repair. "No problem. I was just . . . practicing."
Jean raised her eyebrows, meeting his eyes just as he looked back from the wall. She held back a laugh.
"I can see that. What did the wall do to you?"
"Wasn't six inches to the left, I guess." He walked over to the board and managed to pry the dart free with one hand. "I may have volunteered to help Alani with some chores," he explained, giving the dart a rueful look. "I'm rusty. I don't use TK much on Muir beyond blocking projectiles."
"What does she have you doing that requires practicing with darts?" Jean said curiously, turning around to rest her elbows on the back of the couch so she could get a good vantage.
"Or are you just trying to get everything back up into shape?"
"She implied a lot of heavy lifting, but really the latter, I guess. Sooraya asked if I was thinking of getting active on the team again." Jim gently pushed the dart into the cork and rubbed his neck. "I'm thinking about it. It's probably not a bad idea."
"Quiet-ish life gotten that boring?" Jean said with a light smile. "You've come back to the right place."
"There's been quite the variety of trouble to get into depending on what you're in the mood for."
Jim snorted. "On the team or generally? Because generally speaking I haven't exactly been batting a thousand lately."
"Little bit of both," Jean admitted. "And me too. So at least you'll be in good company."
"Rough few years?" Jim asked, moving to join her by the tv. He sank into an armchair and gave her a lopsided smile. "Other than repairing the universe, I mean."
"Mm," Jean said with a slight nod as she folded her arms. "Considering an evil version of me is the one that broke it...seems almost poetic that I could help fix it."
She glanced away. "But this one's full of its own demons..." Literally.
Grabbing the controller, the television turned on and a 'Dog Cops: The Game' title card splashed across the screen.
"How've you been?"
He thought he caught a slight edge in Jean's voice. <I>A</I> version of her, Jim thought. Not his version. But he let that thought remain in his head.
"Demon-free, amazingly," he said, glancing at the screen and recalling that Gabriel had also mentioned something about demons. He hoped it wasn't a trend. "At least in the literal sense. Muir has its own" he managed to head off another invasive thought, "challenges. What is this game?"
"I remember. Same ones or new flavor?" Jean said. She glanced over to the screen.
"They came out with a game based off of the TV show. I've been dying to play it. Apparently you play one of the dog cops."
"Huh," Jim said, watching with bemusement as a title screen featuring a lovingly rendered mutt started up. "And no, it's the same ones. Those have always been bad enough for me." He wondered, briefly, if he should tell her how much trouble he'd been having lately. Jean knew the work, she would understand. He shook off the thought. No, it was under control, at least for the most part, and he didn't have the energy for a Serious Conversation. He'd had too many of those lately.
Jean nodded. "I felt that enough working for Claremont before I left. But since they're your patients...you always feel responsible."
"Yeah. Even the ones where you know it's coming." Jim watched the lushly colored graphics, thinking maybe Davey might like to try it some time. He shook his head. "Anyway, gardening seems like a nice change of pace. Although one of the chickens did attack me."
"Gardening and farm work seem like two different things," Jean said with a laugh. "Did one of you do something to provoke it?"
The telepath spread his hands. "Probably? Alani swore it's not normal, but I don't understand animals. Which is why I very specifically volunteered for gardening and not animal husbandry." He stared at the screen for a few more seconds. "They send baby chicks through the mail," he said, in slightly haunted tones. "Did you know that?"
Jean's eyes widened as she sat with that fact for a couple of moments. "No. That's something I was entirely unaware of until now," she murmured, then blinked the thought away.
"New topic please. I am now sad."
Jim sighed with relief. "Okay, thank you. Alani acted like it was normal and I thought I was losing my mind."
"Does she....normally get a lot of chicks through the mail? How many chickens do we have now?" Jean said curiously. She remembered the ones Kyle got, but she didn't really take care of them.
"I think . . . eight or nine. I took delivery for four, and she mentioned a pack that accidentally came with a rooster." Then, with the intensity of a man who'd been sitting on a horrifying piece of information for too long, he burst out, "And -- okay, I googled keeping chickens afterwards, and it turns out some places actually make them wear blinders so they don't peck each other to death. They look like tiny plastic glasses. For chickens. Because chickens are excited by the sight of blood." There. Finally someone else would be cursed by this knowledge.
Jean's eye twitched a little before she grabbed a pillow and whacked him in the face with it, then handed him a second controller.
"You play Sergeant Whiskers."
Jim shut up, and did.
It took a telekinetic jerk while stabilizing the board with both hands to finally free the dart. <I>Do you have to go so hard on everything?</I> asked a voice.
"You have to volunteer us for yard work?" Jack muttered to Jim, releasing the dartboard. Hitting the bullseye wasn't a problem, it was modulating the force of the impact. Xavier had once tried to explain it as a consequence of a power shaped by the need for self-defense. Stopping shrapnel and catching bullets was as natural to Jack as breathing, but when it came time to instigate a sharp, decisive action his instinct was to do it with everything he had. This became even harder to mitigate when he was forced to acknowledge Xavier might have a point.
Jack returned to the other side of the room, took a few deep breaths, and queued up the dart again.
"Don't mind me. Just borrowing the game system for a bit," came a voice as Jean wandered her way into the rec room. She was not prepared to leave the mansion for at least 2-3 days and dressed the part in a pair of pajama pants and an old Columbia university t-shirt with her hair up in a scrunchie.
The dart went wide and buried itself a quarter-inch into the wall directly beside the dartboard.
"Oh -- hey Jean," Jim said, immediately back up front. His eyes flicked between the doctor and the future drywall repair. "No problem. I was just . . . practicing."
Jean raised her eyebrows, meeting his eyes just as he looked back from the wall. She held back a laugh.
"I can see that. What did the wall do to you?"
"Wasn't six inches to the left, I guess." He walked over to the board and managed to pry the dart free with one hand. "I may have volunteered to help Alani with some chores," he explained, giving the dart a rueful look. "I'm rusty. I don't use TK much on Muir beyond blocking projectiles."
"What does she have you doing that requires practicing with darts?" Jean said curiously, turning around to rest her elbows on the back of the couch so she could get a good vantage.
"Or are you just trying to get everything back up into shape?"
"She implied a lot of heavy lifting, but really the latter, I guess. Sooraya asked if I was thinking of getting active on the team again." Jim gently pushed the dart into the cork and rubbed his neck. "I'm thinking about it. It's probably not a bad idea."
"Quiet-ish life gotten that boring?" Jean said with a light smile. "You've come back to the right place."
"There's been quite the variety of trouble to get into depending on what you're in the mood for."
Jim snorted. "On the team or generally? Because generally speaking I haven't exactly been batting a thousand lately."
"Little bit of both," Jean admitted. "And me too. So at least you'll be in good company."
"Rough few years?" Jim asked, moving to join her by the tv. He sank into an armchair and gave her a lopsided smile. "Other than repairing the universe, I mean."
"Mm," Jean said with a slight nod as she folded her arms. "Considering an evil version of me is the one that broke it...seems almost poetic that I could help fix it."
She glanced away. "But this one's full of its own demons..." Literally.
Grabbing the controller, the television turned on and a 'Dog Cops: The Game' title card splashed across the screen.
"How've you been?"
He thought he caught a slight edge in Jean's voice. <I>A</I> version of her, Jim thought. Not his version. But he let that thought remain in his head.
"Demon-free, amazingly," he said, glancing at the screen and recalling that Gabriel had also mentioned something about demons. He hoped it wasn't a trend. "At least in the literal sense. Muir has its own" he managed to head off another invasive thought, "challenges. What is this game?"
"I remember. Same ones or new flavor?" Jean said. She glanced over to the screen.
"They came out with a game based off of the TV show. I've been dying to play it. Apparently you play one of the dog cops."
"Huh," Jim said, watching with bemusement as a title screen featuring a lovingly rendered mutt started up. "And no, it's the same ones. Those have always been bad enough for me." He wondered, briefly, if he should tell her how much trouble he'd been having lately. Jean knew the work, she would understand. He shook off the thought. No, it was under control, at least for the most part, and he didn't have the energy for a Serious Conversation. He'd had too many of those lately.
Jean nodded. "I felt that enough working for Claremont before I left. But since they're your patients...you always feel responsible."
"Yeah. Even the ones where you know it's coming." Jim watched the lushly colored graphics, thinking maybe Davey might like to try it some time. He shook his head. "Anyway, gardening seems like a nice change of pace. Although one of the chickens did attack me."
"Gardening and farm work seem like two different things," Jean said with a laugh. "Did one of you do something to provoke it?"
The telepath spread his hands. "Probably? Alani swore it's not normal, but I don't understand animals. Which is why I very specifically volunteered for gardening and not animal husbandry." He stared at the screen for a few more seconds. "They send baby chicks through the mail," he said, in slightly haunted tones. "Did you know that?"
Jean's eyes widened as she sat with that fact for a couple of moments. "No. That's something I was entirely unaware of until now," she murmured, then blinked the thought away.
"New topic please. I am now sad."
Jim sighed with relief. "Okay, thank you. Alani acted like it was normal and I thought I was losing my mind."
"Does she....normally get a lot of chicks through the mail? How many chickens do we have now?" Jean said curiously. She remembered the ones Kyle got, but she didn't really take care of them.
"I think . . . eight or nine. I took delivery for four, and she mentioned a pack that accidentally came with a rooster." Then, with the intensity of a man who'd been sitting on a horrifying piece of information for too long, he burst out, "And -- okay, I googled keeping chickens afterwards, and it turns out some places actually make them wear blinders so they don't peck each other to death. They look like tiny plastic glasses. For chickens. Because chickens are excited by the sight of blood." There. Finally someone else would be cursed by this knowledge.
Jean's eye twitched a little before she grabbed a pillow and whacked him in the face with it, then handed him a second controller.
"You play Sergeant Whiskers."
Jim shut up, and did.
