My Lady D'Arbanville, why do you sleep so still?
This Entry ICly for close friends only (I.e., mostly the X-Staff plus an addition or two)
I suppose listening to a song where a minstrel is grieving for his dead lady is hardly the best thing to be doing when I'm still stuck on bed rest due to something that Hank still informs me is 'causes unknown'. But the guitar is just beautiful, and the current government has just recently denied Cat Stevens access to the country as a potential terrorist threat (Does he have some sort of mutation for songwriting ability? Or is it his change of religion? Bah, politics.) This is Dr. Grey being subversive and listening to whoever she wants, kids.
I hate this.
My brain has gone haywire, with a form of epileptic vertigo gripping me whenever I try to use my powers, or at random intervals when I'm walking around. My mental barriers are either nonexistant, so that I feel everything, or so high that I may as well be headblind, and if I try and exert some sort of concious control... the vertigo hits again. And with it, nausea. I feel constantly cold, and my heart and respiration rates are up, as if I'm in the grip of a fever, but despite the nausea, my appetite is also up, which makes me think that my metabolism is being jerked around too.
In short, my brain is failing me, but my mind is unaffected. And I'm going quietly nuts as a result. I'm an active woman, and I can't get up and be active, or I end up falling over. I tried using one of the Professor's old wheelchairs to get myself down to the kitchen and get some coffee, but even that bit of exertion was enough to leave me more worn out than I'd like to say.
I thought this was just Cerebro after effects, but now I'm not so sure. Particularly with all of these other 'accidents' happening around the mansion. But it's ridiculous... all my blood screens came back negative, and it started shortly after I got back from contacting Logan over in Cameroon.
Logan...
The bad boy that girls flirt with is sticking around, while the good guy is off shacked up with the bad girl, and pops in every couple days to take Nate with him, or bring him back. Of course, I don't know if anyone's told him just what's wrong with me.
But Logan. He stays and sits by me, watches by my door like my own personal guard to keep everyone away when I need rest, or when my telepathy's flared and everyone's thoughts are screaming at me. Growls and glares at people who want me for something. Makes me rest, makes me eat... and yet somehow, I don't feel like a child like I always did when Scott was fussing. Adult to adult, putting me in my place, without putting me down.
I need to get over this, I need to figure out what's going on, why there's suddenly so much electrical activity in my brain, or why my brain can't handle the normal levels. There's so much that needs doing. Hank's stressed, Jareth's still stuck in the network, so many students need medical attention. Shit! Senator Lowe!! I was supposed to meet with him for a discreet talk over coffee this week.
Oh God... what if this is permanent?
OOC: And have a log. Of
X-Men MUCK - Thursday, September 23, 2004, 10:15 PM
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<< XS >> Kitchen - Lv1
Meant to service a large number of people, this kitchen is vast, with more than one oven and several stainless steel work surfaces. Inset into the ceiling are fluorescent glow strips, throwing everything into bright, if somewhat harsh light. At meal times, kitchen workers scurry to and fro with pans and food and various other sundry items. But out of those times, everything is in its place, and there's even a tray of cold snacks for those who might come in search of a bite to eat.
[Exits : [Pat]io, and [H]allway ]
It's been a good while since the soft electric hum of an expensive and well-maintained wheelchair has been heard in the halls of the school, but it's echoing down them now, headed towards the kitchen by the increasing sound. But, as it rounds the corner and rolls in, it's not a distinguished, if follicularly challenged, older gentleman at the controls, but Dr. Grey instead, still in her silk dressing gown and pyjamas, but with her hair neatly brushed, and with fuzzy slippers on her feet. And with a quiet whisper of << Coffee. Coffee. Coffee... >> following her down the hall. Yep, those barriers are still twitchy.
Hank is in the kitchen, guilty inhaling what was left of the dinner leftovers. Which aren't leftover any more. He's sitting there, wolfing down food as though he isn't taking the time to taste it, but his eyes are curiously unfocused in that *way* he gets when he's plunged deep into some scientific problem or other. His ears twitch at the sound of the wheelchair and he hastily finishes the cobbled together dinner and gets up to put his dishes in the dishwasher, apparently hoping that nobody will see him (of all things) eating.
Jean looks rather stately as she arrives, an effect quickly ruined by the fact that she's still trying to figure out how to maneuver the wheelchair, and accordingly goes sailing right into the edge of the kitchen island with a resounding thunk, and an "Ow! Dammit!" as her slipper'd toes are all well and truly stubbed. There's a flare of pain projected unconsciously, and then Jean behaves herself beyond some silently mouthed further 'ow's. A moment later, she looks up to give Hank a sheepish look. "He always made it look so easy. Is there coffee?"
Hank turns, and arches a thoughtful eyebrow at Jean as she projects, but says nothing save, "It shouldn't take too long to make a new cup or two, I shouldn't think. You stay there, wheelchairs can be dangerous things, and we've had enough accidents around here for a few days. I'll get it." As he reaches for the gourmet stuff, he comments, "Charles had the greater part of his life to learn that particular skill." Thump. The bag falls. Hank catches it in a large 'paw', careful not to poke the bag with his black claws. Talons. Whatever. "I hope this. . . Jamacian Roast is acceptable? And why are you drinking coffee at this time at night? Or coffee at all, in your state? Besides the palliative powers of caffine, of course."
"Jamaican's just fine." Jean assures, eyeing the bag and the Beast holding it like manna from heaven. "God knows I can save a man's life, but I can't make a decent pot of coffee if -my- life depended on it... and I like coffee?" she offers her raison d'etre, or at least her raison d'etre dans la cuisine. She fiddles with the wheelchair controls while Hank works, adjusting seat height, and then discovering, with a chuckle, that there's a massage unit built into the back rest. She leaves -that- setting on, and watches the other doctor, wondering a "How about you? What's got -you- skulking around the kitchen?"
Hank reprimands very gently as he stuffs the filter into the contraption, poking it with the pads of his fingers. Filling the pot up with water, he watches, satisfied, as it drips, then, "You'll be up all night, you know." Turning and leaping in the same fluid motion, he crosses his legs on the island and looks at Jean critically. "Doctors are the worst patients." Sigh. "Myself? I am . . . " Again, that hangdog look crosses his features. "I am eating dinner. Or I was."
"I'll be up anyways, thanks to the anticonvulsants and antiemetics." Jean notes, quite comfortably indeed as she leans into the back massage the chair is offering her, eyes ghosting shut. "So I may as well have my one remaining vice to help keep me company... is everything all right?" she questions, weak and drained, but still entirely Jean Grey, and therefore incapable of not noticing Hank's look.
Hank continues to look a little guilty, though mindful of Jean's mental state, he carefully smoothes his face into Pleasant Neutral. "Of course. Why wouldn't everything be fine. After all, I have a full medlab, plus walking wounded such as yourself, I'm keeping busy!" he says, cheerfully. Of course, the "I don't want to make you worry" cheer may make her worry more, but he nods. "I'm sure you've felt this way too. I just feel slightly guilty about leaving everything alone for a meal, is all."
Jean listens to the false cheer with her chin slightly tilted and her eyes settled on the furry blue scientist with a steady clarity that's been too often gone from them these past few days. She switches off the wheelchair and simply sits, head leaned back against an optional neck support fitted on after she requested the wheelchair be brought up from storage. "I have, and I still do now and again, but you have to learn to value yourself, Hank. And to be, well, arrogant enough to know that if you're not in tip-top form, with regards to keeping your energy up, then you can't save lives."
Hank arches that eyebrow again, though this time it's rather ironic. "And better yet to have an empty medbay all the time. Would you care to learn that your blood tests -- ALL of them -- came up normal? Aside from whatever recent jostling your body might have encountered, which I already knew and set aside? There is nothing to fix. I cannot save Jareth's life, I cannot help you heal, I am merely *waiting* for Ceta to awake, and more than that, I cannot stop whatever will happen from happening. Surely I can save lives, after the attempt to steal them has already happened. I drive myself hard because I have to."
Jean shrugs a little, covering for a flicker of concern about Hank's words. "That just means that it's either Cerebro leftovers, like I've been saying all along, or it's something that standard blood screenings aren't going to pick up. It hardly means you've failed. And for the others, again, having to wait doesn't mean failure. What good will it do them or me if you drive yourself into the ground?" Folding her hands on her lap, Jean tosses her head gently to shift some of her hair out of her eyes. "You need to look after yorself, Hank. You've just come back from a jungle survival experience where you were severely injured, and you've been thrown in offf the deep end here. It's -good- that you're taking time to eat... if you go down, we'll have to call in Moira all the way from Muir."
Hank gives Jean a look, then reins in whatever he was going to say. She's sick. One does not upset sick patients. Nevertheless, something in the immediate shuttering of expression suggests that bringing up Hank's own recent experiences might not have been the best thing to say. "I'm fine," he replies to that, shortly. "There is nothing to discuss."
"You're anything but." Jean presses further, perhaps unfairly playing the sick card that lets her say what she wants, but forces Hank to try and mind his tongue, but playing the hand she's been dealt. "I'd say you're a prime candidate for developing post traumatic stress syndrome, and if I wasn't about ready to wobble over and land with my head across my knees, you know I'd dig deeper." she warns. "But... I'll just say that if you want to talk, I want to listen. And is that coffee ready yet?"
Hank turns and slides off the counter. "I can handle it on my own, thank you," he replies, courteous as ever. Even if he is clamming up harder than an oyster. "I am not prone to mental disorders. What happened in the jungle is nothing compared to turning into this grotesque shape overnight." Whoops. He hadn't meant to mention that. He goes and pours her a cup, turning to hand it to her. "Careful, it's hot. Very. Shall I get you a lid?"
"It doesn't have to be a major stress to be the one that broke the camel's back," Jean points out, not entirely convinced. Or... at all, really. Her gaze sharpens at the 'grotesque shape' line, and it's very clear that Jean's now got herself some data to come up with some theories about. But she doesn't press like she normally would, instead nodding that "A lid would be great thanks," and apparently letting the subject drop, tone gone quiet.
Hank sighs as he rummages around in the drawers, trying to find the molded plastic he is *sure* is here. He can smell it. Ah-HA! "Here," he says, bringing it to her. "I'm sorry. Perhaps we can delve into my psyche at you leisure when I have an empty medbay and you are back on your feet."
Jean snaps the lid into place and takes a restorative sip of the coffee, looking up to give Hank a very quick grin as she reaches over to take his hand and squeeze it briefly. "You realize I'm going to take that offer as tacit permission now." she notes. "As well as incentive to get myself better. Take care of yourself, all right?" she asks, before goosing the control stick of the wheelchair, and heading out down the hallway again.
Hank sighs. "And here I was just trying to be polite. . . "
I suppose listening to a song where a minstrel is grieving for his dead lady is hardly the best thing to be doing when I'm still stuck on bed rest due to something that Hank still informs me is 'causes unknown'. But the guitar is just beautiful, and the current government has just recently denied Cat Stevens access to the country as a potential terrorist threat (Does he have some sort of mutation for songwriting ability? Or is it his change of religion? Bah, politics.) This is Dr. Grey being subversive and listening to whoever she wants, kids.
I hate this.
My brain has gone haywire, with a form of epileptic vertigo gripping me whenever I try to use my powers, or at random intervals when I'm walking around. My mental barriers are either nonexistant, so that I feel everything, or so high that I may as well be headblind, and if I try and exert some sort of concious control... the vertigo hits again. And with it, nausea. I feel constantly cold, and my heart and respiration rates are up, as if I'm in the grip of a fever, but despite the nausea, my appetite is also up, which makes me think that my metabolism is being jerked around too.
In short, my brain is failing me, but my mind is unaffected. And I'm going quietly nuts as a result. I'm an active woman, and I can't get up and be active, or I end up falling over. I tried using one of the Professor's old wheelchairs to get myself down to the kitchen and get some coffee, but even that bit of exertion was enough to leave me more worn out than I'd like to say.
I thought this was just Cerebro after effects, but now I'm not so sure. Particularly with all of these other 'accidents' happening around the mansion. But it's ridiculous... all my blood screens came back negative, and it started shortly after I got back from contacting Logan over in Cameroon.
Logan...
The bad boy that girls flirt with is sticking around, while the good guy is off shacked up with the bad girl, and pops in every couple days to take Nate with him, or bring him back. Of course, I don't know if anyone's told him just what's wrong with me.
But Logan. He stays and sits by me, watches by my door like my own personal guard to keep everyone away when I need rest, or when my telepathy's flared and everyone's thoughts are screaming at me. Growls and glares at people who want me for something. Makes me rest, makes me eat... and yet somehow, I don't feel like a child like I always did when Scott was fussing. Adult to adult, putting me in my place, without putting me down.
I need to get over this, I need to figure out what's going on, why there's suddenly so much electrical activity in my brain, or why my brain can't handle the normal levels. There's so much that needs doing. Hank's stressed, Jareth's still stuck in the network, so many students need medical attention. Shit! Senator Lowe!! I was supposed to meet with him for a discreet talk over coffee this week.
Oh God... what if this is permanent?
OOC: And have a log. Of
X-Men MUCK - Thursday, September 23, 2004, 10:15 PM
---------------------------------------------------
<< XS >> Kitchen - Lv1
Meant to service a large number of people, this kitchen is vast, with more than one oven and several stainless steel work surfaces. Inset into the ceiling are fluorescent glow strips, throwing everything into bright, if somewhat harsh light. At meal times, kitchen workers scurry to and fro with pans and food and various other sundry items. But out of those times, everything is in its place, and there's even a tray of cold snacks for those who might come in search of a bite to eat.
[Exits : [Pat]io, and [H]allway ]
It's been a good while since the soft electric hum of an expensive and well-maintained wheelchair has been heard in the halls of the school, but it's echoing down them now, headed towards the kitchen by the increasing sound. But, as it rounds the corner and rolls in, it's not a distinguished, if follicularly challenged, older gentleman at the controls, but Dr. Grey instead, still in her silk dressing gown and pyjamas, but with her hair neatly brushed, and with fuzzy slippers on her feet. And with a quiet whisper of << Coffee. Coffee. Coffee... >> following her down the hall. Yep, those barriers are still twitchy.
Hank is in the kitchen, guilty inhaling what was left of the dinner leftovers. Which aren't leftover any more. He's sitting there, wolfing down food as though he isn't taking the time to taste it, but his eyes are curiously unfocused in that *way* he gets when he's plunged deep into some scientific problem or other. His ears twitch at the sound of the wheelchair and he hastily finishes the cobbled together dinner and gets up to put his dishes in the dishwasher, apparently hoping that nobody will see him (of all things) eating.
Jean looks rather stately as she arrives, an effect quickly ruined by the fact that she's still trying to figure out how to maneuver the wheelchair, and accordingly goes sailing right into the edge of the kitchen island with a resounding thunk, and an "Ow! Dammit!" as her slipper'd toes are all well and truly stubbed. There's a flare of pain projected unconsciously, and then Jean behaves herself beyond some silently mouthed further 'ow's. A moment later, she looks up to give Hank a sheepish look. "He always made it look so easy. Is there coffee?"
Hank turns, and arches a thoughtful eyebrow at Jean as she projects, but says nothing save, "It shouldn't take too long to make a new cup or two, I shouldn't think. You stay there, wheelchairs can be dangerous things, and we've had enough accidents around here for a few days. I'll get it." As he reaches for the gourmet stuff, he comments, "Charles had the greater part of his life to learn that particular skill." Thump. The bag falls. Hank catches it in a large 'paw', careful not to poke the bag with his black claws. Talons. Whatever. "I hope this. . . Jamacian Roast is acceptable? And why are you drinking coffee at this time at night? Or coffee at all, in your state? Besides the palliative powers of caffine, of course."
"Jamaican's just fine." Jean assures, eyeing the bag and the Beast holding it like manna from heaven. "God knows I can save a man's life, but I can't make a decent pot of coffee if -my- life depended on it... and I like coffee?" she offers her raison d'etre, or at least her raison d'etre dans la cuisine. She fiddles with the wheelchair controls while Hank works, adjusting seat height, and then discovering, with a chuckle, that there's a massage unit built into the back rest. She leaves -that- setting on, and watches the other doctor, wondering a "How about you? What's got -you- skulking around the kitchen?"
Hank reprimands very gently as he stuffs the filter into the contraption, poking it with the pads of his fingers. Filling the pot up with water, he watches, satisfied, as it drips, then, "You'll be up all night, you know." Turning and leaping in the same fluid motion, he crosses his legs on the island and looks at Jean critically. "Doctors are the worst patients." Sigh. "Myself? I am . . . " Again, that hangdog look crosses his features. "I am eating dinner. Or I was."
"I'll be up anyways, thanks to the anticonvulsants and antiemetics." Jean notes, quite comfortably indeed as she leans into the back massage the chair is offering her, eyes ghosting shut. "So I may as well have my one remaining vice to help keep me company... is everything all right?" she questions, weak and drained, but still entirely Jean Grey, and therefore incapable of not noticing Hank's look.
Hank continues to look a little guilty, though mindful of Jean's mental state, he carefully smoothes his face into Pleasant Neutral. "Of course. Why wouldn't everything be fine. After all, I have a full medlab, plus walking wounded such as yourself, I'm keeping busy!" he says, cheerfully. Of course, the "I don't want to make you worry" cheer may make her worry more, but he nods. "I'm sure you've felt this way too. I just feel slightly guilty about leaving everything alone for a meal, is all."
Jean listens to the false cheer with her chin slightly tilted and her eyes settled on the furry blue scientist with a steady clarity that's been too often gone from them these past few days. She switches off the wheelchair and simply sits, head leaned back against an optional neck support fitted on after she requested the wheelchair be brought up from storage. "I have, and I still do now and again, but you have to learn to value yourself, Hank. And to be, well, arrogant enough to know that if you're not in tip-top form, with regards to keeping your energy up, then you can't save lives."
Hank arches that eyebrow again, though this time it's rather ironic. "And better yet to have an empty medbay all the time. Would you care to learn that your blood tests -- ALL of them -- came up normal? Aside from whatever recent jostling your body might have encountered, which I already knew and set aside? There is nothing to fix. I cannot save Jareth's life, I cannot help you heal, I am merely *waiting* for Ceta to awake, and more than that, I cannot stop whatever will happen from happening. Surely I can save lives, after the attempt to steal them has already happened. I drive myself hard because I have to."
Jean shrugs a little, covering for a flicker of concern about Hank's words. "That just means that it's either Cerebro leftovers, like I've been saying all along, or it's something that standard blood screenings aren't going to pick up. It hardly means you've failed. And for the others, again, having to wait doesn't mean failure. What good will it do them or me if you drive yourself into the ground?" Folding her hands on her lap, Jean tosses her head gently to shift some of her hair out of her eyes. "You need to look after yorself, Hank. You've just come back from a jungle survival experience where you were severely injured, and you've been thrown in offf the deep end here. It's -good- that you're taking time to eat... if you go down, we'll have to call in Moira all the way from Muir."
Hank gives Jean a look, then reins in whatever he was going to say. She's sick. One does not upset sick patients. Nevertheless, something in the immediate shuttering of expression suggests that bringing up Hank's own recent experiences might not have been the best thing to say. "I'm fine," he replies to that, shortly. "There is nothing to discuss."
"You're anything but." Jean presses further, perhaps unfairly playing the sick card that lets her say what she wants, but forces Hank to try and mind his tongue, but playing the hand she's been dealt. "I'd say you're a prime candidate for developing post traumatic stress syndrome, and if I wasn't about ready to wobble over and land with my head across my knees, you know I'd dig deeper." she warns. "But... I'll just say that if you want to talk, I want to listen. And is that coffee ready yet?"
Hank turns and slides off the counter. "I can handle it on my own, thank you," he replies, courteous as ever. Even if he is clamming up harder than an oyster. "I am not prone to mental disorders. What happened in the jungle is nothing compared to turning into this grotesque shape overnight." Whoops. He hadn't meant to mention that. He goes and pours her a cup, turning to hand it to her. "Careful, it's hot. Very. Shall I get you a lid?"
"It doesn't have to be a major stress to be the one that broke the camel's back," Jean points out, not entirely convinced. Or... at all, really. Her gaze sharpens at the 'grotesque shape' line, and it's very clear that Jean's now got herself some data to come up with some theories about. But she doesn't press like she normally would, instead nodding that "A lid would be great thanks," and apparently letting the subject drop, tone gone quiet.
Hank sighs as he rummages around in the drawers, trying to find the molded plastic he is *sure* is here. He can smell it. Ah-HA! "Here," he says, bringing it to her. "I'm sorry. Perhaps we can delve into my psyche at you leisure when I have an empty medbay and you are back on your feet."
Jean snaps the lid into place and takes a restorative sip of the coffee, looking up to give Hank a very quick grin as she reaches over to take his hand and squeeze it briefly. "You realize I'm going to take that offer as tacit permission now." she notes. "As well as incentive to get myself better. Take care of yourself, all right?" she asks, before goosing the control stick of the wheelchair, and heading out down the hallway again.
Hank sighs. "And here I was just trying to be polite. . . "