Never was a cornflake girl.
This Entry ICly Private
I wish I knew what game Sebastian Shaw was playing. I mean, I know what game I'm playing, but I imagine he's got to have his own running too, for him to persist in coming by, and to actually be honest with me when I question him. Granted, it's truth about his health, not about business or politics, and probably only partial at that. But if there's one thing the fictional Greg House, M.D. is right on, it's that patients do always lie, albeit usually to themselves. Fear of your own mortality is a powerful thing. But it's not just that, it's that he seems to be making an effort not to play me, and I doubt it's because I'm just that intimidating and scary.
So because he's not making a visible effort to play me, therefore he must be playing at something. I think my brain hurts. But as long as he leaves Alyssa alone...
Now, to get Alyssa to leave Shaw alone. I'm worried about her. Worried about John, too. It's not like it's out of the ordinary for him to drop off the map for a weekend, but she hasn't mentioned him coming home yet. It could be teen angst keeping her clammed up, but I'll have to talk to the Professor. And if John's gone and done the teenaged male rebel thing and freaked out over this, well, I always had a feeling it wouldn't end well. Particularly not with so many issues unresolved over his parents, his impatience, his pique at things not being solved Right Now...
God, when did I start sounding so old? Not to mention a touch hypocritical, given my own Good Girl heritage and yen for Logan. Logan, however, is not an angsty teen, he's a brooding centenarian. What angsty teens grow up to be if they're lucky, apparently.
Speaking of Good Girl heritage, Dad showed up in the afternoon yesterday, ostensibly to check out my new lab space (Gradient Genetech, for a company name. Seems silly to call three rooms and a storage closet a company.) and really to steal me away to go eat ice cream and cheer up a bit. This is why even women who are almost thirty need fathers around. And as my real father, rather than a father-figure, the only agenda he's got for me is a purely biological one to see his genes be successful, happy and possibly have dinner with Daniel Rollins, that former grad student of his. Hell, what with being single now, maybe I will. Dan's a good man, even if neither of us are attracted to each other in that way.
Told Dad in brief passing that I broke up with Scott. That seems to be my default approach, the compromise between not wanting to talk about it, and wanting to get all the talking about it done quickly, so that I don't have to keep repeating things for months. Maybe I could send out a group email. Or call a news conference. Dad said 'Good for you.' Biased, naturally, but I don't care.
Dude! I went through all my recent logs, and everyone's posted them ahead of me. The XMM LJs rock! But, I do have one to offer! Introducing the new John, John Grey, Jean's dad. He are a history professor, so all you on-grid historians, of which I know there are at least three, should totally play with him.
X-Men MUCK - Tuesday, July 19, 2005, 10:35 PM
---------------------------------------------
< NYC > Molly's Icecream Parlor < NYC >
In a cheerful, cozy little atmosphere that almost might be better suited to Coney Island or some other such humble environment, Molly's Icecream Parlor is nevertheless a popular spot on a hot summer's day. The interior of the establishment is decorated in refreshing tones of blue and white tile, with the air conditioning ever-faithful and vases of fresh-cut flowers on every round little table. Up front, a painted wooden sign complete with little cows and ice cream cones lists the thirty or forty flavors that Molly's has to offer, while the display and freezer case along with the cashier counter rests just underneath.
[Exits : [Out]side ]
John
Neat grey hair with a gentle wave crowns the tall man's head, trimmed before it goes past the base of skull, but not as impressively thick as it once was. There is a hint, in some light, of a few sparse copper-auburn hairs clinging for dear life. The hairline has receded some in front, expanding the territory termed "forehead" more than a man with the vanity of youth would prefer. There is a certain aristocratic elegance to the high-boned features of the face. He has prominent cheek-bones and a fine straight nose. His face has not been untouched by the years; his face is lined, especially around eyes and mouth. His brows are grey and bushy; beneath them, his eyes spark intelligent and grey-green. Slim and tall, at 6'2", he has kept in trim through moderate physical activity; his lean, long-legged build supports his wiry musculature.
Even the dignity of the schoolroom must bow to the New York summer: the short-sleeved polo shirt, with two buttons at the collar, is cream-coloured and bears no incriminating crocodiles to make it a golf shirt, but otherwise the resemblance is uncanny. The white canvas pants are *not* shorts, but they are fairly loose, held up by a black belt through their loops. His white dress sandals are a bit scuffed, but still definitely wearable; visible through the slots in the closed-toe sandals are his white socks. A silver-metallic-looking pen glitters in the front pocket of his shirt. There is a brown leather glasses'-case making a gentle bulge in the material beside it.
Jean
Beautiful in a slight and academic way, Jean is hardly one to go too far out of her way for her looks. The straight, shoulder length fall of her auburn hair is tied back out of her face in a messy sort of bun, sections too fine and wispy to be considered sidelocks falling loose to soften the line of her jaw. Green eyes are sharply intelligent beneath sculpted eyebrows, observing the world with a scientist's cool gaze softened and humanized by deep rooted convictions and passions that lend mobility and expression to a regally cast face with its aquiline nose and a mouth often slightly pursed in concentration or thought. She stands five feet, eleven inches and no spare change, muscles lean and a whipcord strength belying her slim frame with its almost anime-long legs.
Straight leg jeans in classic denim blue are broken in to a comfortable fit, showing off the good doctor's considerable amount of leg, but with a casual air suggesting she'd be rather surprised if anyone remarked on that fact. A black button-down shirt is worn open over a black tank top, either tucked in or left loose to suit her fancy, but combining with an old-fashioned choker to give a general impression of dressed-down class. Jean's also wearing black leather boots with a two inch platform heel, but don't let that fool you into thinking she can't run in them.
There's just something about monstrous ice cream sundaes that brings out the kid in anyone. Eating monstrous ice cream sundaes with your father just takes it a step further and immediately plugs you into the group consciousness of all fathers and their offspring who have ever sat in ice cream parlours, eating ice cream sundaes. Or at least this is the theory that Jean has been busy facetiously floating to her father as she sits on a tall stool, twining her legs around it as she twirls a long-handled spoon in an attempt to spin cooling melted fudge sauce around an inner core of vanilla ice cream. "I think there's a paper waiting for some enterprising sociologist or anthropologist in this." she concludes, smiling easily at the man beside her and looking far more girlishly relaxed and lively than she was when he found her an hour ago.
John Grey prods at his massive sundae with the provided long spoon, looking a little out of place on the ice cream shop - or at least feeling like he does. There's something about a man of his stature and tall stools that strikes him as incongruous. "Probably an especially hungry sociologist or anthropologist. One that *really* wants to spend a *great* deal of time hanging about in ice cream shops," he observes. Massive amounts of very cold sugar and fat aren't really his 'thing', but then again, it's not as though he gets to spend a lot of time with his offspring. Exceptions must be made.
Jean is exactly three inches shorter than her father, and is sitting on her stool like an Amazon queen. Of course, along with her father's activism, Jean also inherited Elaine Grey's ability to look poised wherever she happens to land. And there's massive amounts of very cold sugar, perfect for recharging her mental batteries. "Grad student, then," she amends, smile growing crooked. "Not only are they hungry, they're probably desperately in need of a sugar high because of late nights grading... incidentally, who did you shuffle term papers off onto this time?" she wonders, green eyes dancing slightly.
John straightens up, pretending affront. "Are you suggesting that I would neglect my responsibilities in order to skip off to the city and eat ice cream?" The pretense is abandoned almost as soon as it develops, however, as the slight quirk to his mouth gives it the lie. He spoons some ice-cream into his mouth, licking an errant particle of warm fudge from one of fingers. "Carolyn was only too happy to. Think she might be trying to curry favor, what do you think?"
"Yes." replies Jean with a frank grin, sending her spoon on a quest for peanuts attempting to avoid detection and extermination by hiding themselves in the melted ice cream hot fudge slurry at the bottom of her dish. "You adore intelligent grad students, but despair of bored freshmen hoping for a bird course, and this is summer session, where bird courses run rampant. And she probably is." she decides, slaughtering the absent Carolyn's character with one sweep of her spoon. "Is she the one studying Aztec culture, post-Conquistador invasion?"
John spoons another mouthful of ice cream into his mouth at a less than opportune moment, but instead of freezing his teeth and esophagus trying to answer immediately, he offers a facial shrug and a languid pause before responding: "Christine's the one with the Aztecs, I think ... Carolyn's the one obsessed with Shaka and the Zulus. We really need a bigger department." His fingers hover hesitant over the pile of napkins on the little table for a moment before he flicks them dismissively, the idea abandoned for the moment. He's only going to get messier before he's through. Just a flicker of grump: "I can't continue to be the only person in all of upstate New York who knows what *imperialism* means."
Jean crinkles her nose at the mention of "Shaka," before admitting that "Of course, the serial murder course I remember taking as an elective once was pretty fascinating stuff, so I suppose I can see it. And I know what imperialism means," she points out with a wink. "Of course, I'm probably the only person in all of upstate New York who got caught up past bedtime with a flashlight, trying to understand her father's academic paper on it. I should send you a copy of my PhD. thesis, return the favour," she offers, ever so casually, and as if she's -not- somewhat close to giddy about the thought of showing her father what she's done. We are not six years old, Jean, and this is not a finger-painting.
John offers a small flash of a grin, an appreciative glint in the grey-green eyes. "Well, I think I can forego the flashlight, but I think an examination of your thesis might well prove interesting even without one," he says, the tone deceptively mild, but there's little doubt that he's proud of her achievements and would wave her PhD. thesis paper around at any of his colleagues that would hold still for it, should he be provided with a copy.
"And be sure to email me with any requests for having terminology explained." Jean orders. "I realize we molecular biologists sometimes sound like we're speaking a foreign language. But I've got a box full of bound copies back at my flat, so we can swing by there. I promise there'll be no surprises," she assures, pitching her tone carefully light all of a sudden. "Scott and I broke up again, so there's not so much as a toothbrush out of place at the moment. So, Christine and the Aztecs... is she planning fieldwork?" Mmm, subject changes. She devours more of her ice cream with single-minded purpose.
The eyebrows sweep upwards, despite Jean's evident readiness to breeze past the topic. "I believe," John says slowly, "that she might be coordinating a trip to Mexico with the anthropology department." He tilts his head slowly to one side, poking his spoon absent-mindedly into the sundae, although he's paying the dessert very little heed, trying to come up with a way to ask any number of questions that won't be welcome on a topic he's not sure he's entirely comfortable with. "I do hate those sneaky errant toothbrushes," he says, blandly, instead of inquiring.
Jean did, however, bring up the topic at all. And considering she initially brought up that whole strange and bizarre kidnapping incident that eventually led to Nate in much the same way... "I packed it all up in a box, and had Logan take it back to the Mansion to give it to him," she recounts, looking dry. "I suppose that was a little petty of me, but... and does the anthropology trip need any volunteers? I know some people who'd play porter if it meant poking around the Mexican jungles."
John shrugs his shoulders a little, shifting on the stool. "I imagine there will be more than enough volunteers for a trip to the gloried land of sun and sand and bottled water," he says. "Especially if she manages to arrange for it to happen sometime after the peak of August heat." He applies one of the napkins to his hands, judiciously. "Did something in specific spark this, ah, decision?"
Jean decides to address easier topics first, munching another spoonful of ice cream. "Will you be one of them? I know Mum was saying something about Cancun the last time I called home." Granted, the last time Jean and her mother spoke at length was about three months ago. She surveys the wreckage of the sundae and decides a slow and strategic withdrawl is necessart. Which means it's time for answers. "The same as before, he's got all sorts of issues. This time, though, he tried to unload them all on me. And you and Mum raised me not to stand for -that-."
"Me?" John snorts a little. "Good God, no." It's not so much that he has an objection to Aztecs; it's more the idea of taking Elaine on a trip full of graduate students down to Mexico. Blending his graduate students and his wife does not generally lead to hugs and puppies. The last time his associate Rollins was over for dinner was proof enough of that. "I am more inclined to see if I can't convince some poor soul that the French Riviera has tremendous historical significance." Ahh, abuse of authority, how delightful. He pauses a little, then sets down his spoon - once and for all, is the decisive accompanying thought - and leans across the table to rest his hand lightly on Jean's forearm. "Good for you," he adds in quiet earnestness.
"I'm sure there's got to be some. Claim you're studying its use during times of occupation." Jean suggests regarding the Rivera. "Occupation by imperialist forces, of course. You could sip imperialist Seabreezes." Tone light and full of banter, she's nonetheless a bit more relaxed, the lightness far less feigned, than it wa earlier in the day. "Thanks, Dad." is said quite softly.
John pats her arm lightly and then withdraws his hand, never having been inclined to be the *most* physically demonstrative of fathers, and yet sometimes touch is the best communication. "I'm on your side, kiddo. It's in the contract they hand out when you get to be a father," he says lightly, facetious but for the affection glinting in his eyes. "I'll bet I could get someone to write their master's thesis on the Maginot line. I've always wanted to see someone try and do that."
A lack of physical demonstration needn't mean a lack of feeling. It just makes those gentle arm pats mean something more than they otherwise would. Jean smiles to herself, feeling the intangible warmth of family settled over her shoulders, and then nods towards her ice cream that she's bee ignoring. "Want to head back to my place, then? We can discuss travel on the university's dime over a glass of brandy."
John thieves another napkin from the supply on the table and wipes his mouth. "Sounds like a plan," he says, crumpling the bechocolated and sticky napkin and tossing it in the remains of his sundae. He glances briefly at his watch, and then back up at Jean. "Shall we?"
"We shall," Jean confirms, making use of her own napkin and then rising to settle in on John's arm, Professors Grey Sr. and Jr. out for a post-prandial stroll to where she's left her car. "Anyways, I know Curie misses shedding on you."
I wish I knew what game Sebastian Shaw was playing. I mean, I know what game I'm playing, but I imagine he's got to have his own running too, for him to persist in coming by, and to actually be honest with me when I question him. Granted, it's truth about his health, not about business or politics, and probably only partial at that. But if there's one thing the fictional Greg House, M.D. is right on, it's that patients do always lie, albeit usually to themselves. Fear of your own mortality is a powerful thing. But it's not just that, it's that he seems to be making an effort not to play me, and I doubt it's because I'm just that intimidating and scary.
So because he's not making a visible effort to play me, therefore he must be playing at something. I think my brain hurts. But as long as he leaves Alyssa alone...
Now, to get Alyssa to leave Shaw alone. I'm worried about her. Worried about John, too. It's not like it's out of the ordinary for him to drop off the map for a weekend, but she hasn't mentioned him coming home yet. It could be teen angst keeping her clammed up, but I'll have to talk to the Professor. And if John's gone and done the teenaged male rebel thing and freaked out over this, well, I always had a feeling it wouldn't end well. Particularly not with so many issues unresolved over his parents, his impatience, his pique at things not being solved Right Now...
God, when did I start sounding so old? Not to mention a touch hypocritical, given my own Good Girl heritage and yen for Logan. Logan, however, is not an angsty teen, he's a brooding centenarian. What angsty teens grow up to be if they're lucky, apparently.
Speaking of Good Girl heritage, Dad showed up in the afternoon yesterday, ostensibly to check out my new lab space (Gradient Genetech, for a company name. Seems silly to call three rooms and a storage closet a company.) and really to steal me away to go eat ice cream and cheer up a bit. This is why even women who are almost thirty need fathers around. And as my real father, rather than a father-figure, the only agenda he's got for me is a purely biological one to see his genes be successful, happy and possibly have dinner with Daniel Rollins, that former grad student of his. Hell, what with being single now, maybe I will. Dan's a good man, even if neither of us are attracted to each other in that way.
Told Dad in brief passing that I broke up with Scott. That seems to be my default approach, the compromise between not wanting to talk about it, and wanting to get all the talking about it done quickly, so that I don't have to keep repeating things for months. Maybe I could send out a group email. Or call a news conference. Dad said 'Good for you.' Biased, naturally, but I don't care.
Dude! I went through all my recent logs, and everyone's posted them ahead of me. The XMM LJs rock! But, I do have one to offer! Introducing the new John, John Grey, Jean's dad. He are a history professor, so all you on-grid historians, of which I know there are at least three, should totally play with him.
X-Men MUCK - Tuesday, July 19, 2005, 10:35 PM
---------------------------------------------
< NYC > Molly's Icecream Parlor < NYC >
In a cheerful, cozy little atmosphere that almost might be better suited to Coney Island or some other such humble environment, Molly's Icecream Parlor is nevertheless a popular spot on a hot summer's day. The interior of the establishment is decorated in refreshing tones of blue and white tile, with the air conditioning ever-faithful and vases of fresh-cut flowers on every round little table. Up front, a painted wooden sign complete with little cows and ice cream cones lists the thirty or forty flavors that Molly's has to offer, while the display and freezer case along with the cashier counter rests just underneath.
[Exits : [Out]side ]
John
Neat grey hair with a gentle wave crowns the tall man's head, trimmed before it goes past the base of skull, but not as impressively thick as it once was. There is a hint, in some light, of a few sparse copper-auburn hairs clinging for dear life. The hairline has receded some in front, expanding the territory termed "forehead" more than a man with the vanity of youth would prefer. There is a certain aristocratic elegance to the high-boned features of the face. He has prominent cheek-bones and a fine straight nose. His face has not been untouched by the years; his face is lined, especially around eyes and mouth. His brows are grey and bushy; beneath them, his eyes spark intelligent and grey-green. Slim and tall, at 6'2", he has kept in trim through moderate physical activity; his lean, long-legged build supports his wiry musculature.
Even the dignity of the schoolroom must bow to the New York summer: the short-sleeved polo shirt, with two buttons at the collar, is cream-coloured and bears no incriminating crocodiles to make it a golf shirt, but otherwise the resemblance is uncanny. The white canvas pants are *not* shorts, but they are fairly loose, held up by a black belt through their loops. His white dress sandals are a bit scuffed, but still definitely wearable; visible through the slots in the closed-toe sandals are his white socks. A silver-metallic-looking pen glitters in the front pocket of his shirt. There is a brown leather glasses'-case making a gentle bulge in the material beside it.
Jean
Beautiful in a slight and academic way, Jean is hardly one to go too far out of her way for her looks. The straight, shoulder length fall of her auburn hair is tied back out of her face in a messy sort of bun, sections too fine and wispy to be considered sidelocks falling loose to soften the line of her jaw. Green eyes are sharply intelligent beneath sculpted eyebrows, observing the world with a scientist's cool gaze softened and humanized by deep rooted convictions and passions that lend mobility and expression to a regally cast face with its aquiline nose and a mouth often slightly pursed in concentration or thought. She stands five feet, eleven inches and no spare change, muscles lean and a whipcord strength belying her slim frame with its almost anime-long legs.
Straight leg jeans in classic denim blue are broken in to a comfortable fit, showing off the good doctor's considerable amount of leg, but with a casual air suggesting she'd be rather surprised if anyone remarked on that fact. A black button-down shirt is worn open over a black tank top, either tucked in or left loose to suit her fancy, but combining with an old-fashioned choker to give a general impression of dressed-down class. Jean's also wearing black leather boots with a two inch platform heel, but don't let that fool you into thinking she can't run in them.
There's just something about monstrous ice cream sundaes that brings out the kid in anyone. Eating monstrous ice cream sundaes with your father just takes it a step further and immediately plugs you into the group consciousness of all fathers and their offspring who have ever sat in ice cream parlours, eating ice cream sundaes. Or at least this is the theory that Jean has been busy facetiously floating to her father as she sits on a tall stool, twining her legs around it as she twirls a long-handled spoon in an attempt to spin cooling melted fudge sauce around an inner core of vanilla ice cream. "I think there's a paper waiting for some enterprising sociologist or anthropologist in this." she concludes, smiling easily at the man beside her and looking far more girlishly relaxed and lively than she was when he found her an hour ago.
John Grey prods at his massive sundae with the provided long spoon, looking a little out of place on the ice cream shop - or at least feeling like he does. There's something about a man of his stature and tall stools that strikes him as incongruous. "Probably an especially hungry sociologist or anthropologist. One that *really* wants to spend a *great* deal of time hanging about in ice cream shops," he observes. Massive amounts of very cold sugar and fat aren't really his 'thing', but then again, it's not as though he gets to spend a lot of time with his offspring. Exceptions must be made.
Jean is exactly three inches shorter than her father, and is sitting on her stool like an Amazon queen. Of course, along with her father's activism, Jean also inherited Elaine Grey's ability to look poised wherever she happens to land. And there's massive amounts of very cold sugar, perfect for recharging her mental batteries. "Grad student, then," she amends, smile growing crooked. "Not only are they hungry, they're probably desperately in need of a sugar high because of late nights grading... incidentally, who did you shuffle term papers off onto this time?" she wonders, green eyes dancing slightly.
John straightens up, pretending affront. "Are you suggesting that I would neglect my responsibilities in order to skip off to the city and eat ice cream?" The pretense is abandoned almost as soon as it develops, however, as the slight quirk to his mouth gives it the lie. He spoons some ice-cream into his mouth, licking an errant particle of warm fudge from one of fingers. "Carolyn was only too happy to. Think she might be trying to curry favor, what do you think?"
"Yes." replies Jean with a frank grin, sending her spoon on a quest for peanuts attempting to avoid detection and extermination by hiding themselves in the melted ice cream hot fudge slurry at the bottom of her dish. "You adore intelligent grad students, but despair of bored freshmen hoping for a bird course, and this is summer session, where bird courses run rampant. And she probably is." she decides, slaughtering the absent Carolyn's character with one sweep of her spoon. "Is she the one studying Aztec culture, post-Conquistador invasion?"
John spoons another mouthful of ice cream into his mouth at a less than opportune moment, but instead of freezing his teeth and esophagus trying to answer immediately, he offers a facial shrug and a languid pause before responding: "Christine's the one with the Aztecs, I think ... Carolyn's the one obsessed with Shaka and the Zulus. We really need a bigger department." His fingers hover hesitant over the pile of napkins on the little table for a moment before he flicks them dismissively, the idea abandoned for the moment. He's only going to get messier before he's through. Just a flicker of grump: "I can't continue to be the only person in all of upstate New York who knows what *imperialism* means."
Jean crinkles her nose at the mention of "Shaka," before admitting that "Of course, the serial murder course I remember taking as an elective once was pretty fascinating stuff, so I suppose I can see it. And I know what imperialism means," she points out with a wink. "Of course, I'm probably the only person in all of upstate New York who got caught up past bedtime with a flashlight, trying to understand her father's academic paper on it. I should send you a copy of my PhD. thesis, return the favour," she offers, ever so casually, and as if she's -not- somewhat close to giddy about the thought of showing her father what she's done. We are not six years old, Jean, and this is not a finger-painting.
John offers a small flash of a grin, an appreciative glint in the grey-green eyes. "Well, I think I can forego the flashlight, but I think an examination of your thesis might well prove interesting even without one," he says, the tone deceptively mild, but there's little doubt that he's proud of her achievements and would wave her PhD. thesis paper around at any of his colleagues that would hold still for it, should he be provided with a copy.
"And be sure to email me with any requests for having terminology explained." Jean orders. "I realize we molecular biologists sometimes sound like we're speaking a foreign language. But I've got a box full of bound copies back at my flat, so we can swing by there. I promise there'll be no surprises," she assures, pitching her tone carefully light all of a sudden. "Scott and I broke up again, so there's not so much as a toothbrush out of place at the moment. So, Christine and the Aztecs... is she planning fieldwork?" Mmm, subject changes. She devours more of her ice cream with single-minded purpose.
The eyebrows sweep upwards, despite Jean's evident readiness to breeze past the topic. "I believe," John says slowly, "that she might be coordinating a trip to Mexico with the anthropology department." He tilts his head slowly to one side, poking his spoon absent-mindedly into the sundae, although he's paying the dessert very little heed, trying to come up with a way to ask any number of questions that won't be welcome on a topic he's not sure he's entirely comfortable with. "I do hate those sneaky errant toothbrushes," he says, blandly, instead of inquiring.
Jean did, however, bring up the topic at all. And considering she initially brought up that whole strange and bizarre kidnapping incident that eventually led to Nate in much the same way... "I packed it all up in a box, and had Logan take it back to the Mansion to give it to him," she recounts, looking dry. "I suppose that was a little petty of me, but... and does the anthropology trip need any volunteers? I know some people who'd play porter if it meant poking around the Mexican jungles."
John shrugs his shoulders a little, shifting on the stool. "I imagine there will be more than enough volunteers for a trip to the gloried land of sun and sand and bottled water," he says. "Especially if she manages to arrange for it to happen sometime after the peak of August heat." He applies one of the napkins to his hands, judiciously. "Did something in specific spark this, ah, decision?"
Jean decides to address easier topics first, munching another spoonful of ice cream. "Will you be one of them? I know Mum was saying something about Cancun the last time I called home." Granted, the last time Jean and her mother spoke at length was about three months ago. She surveys the wreckage of the sundae and decides a slow and strategic withdrawl is necessart. Which means it's time for answers. "The same as before, he's got all sorts of issues. This time, though, he tried to unload them all on me. And you and Mum raised me not to stand for -that-."
"Me?" John snorts a little. "Good God, no." It's not so much that he has an objection to Aztecs; it's more the idea of taking Elaine on a trip full of graduate students down to Mexico. Blending his graduate students and his wife does not generally lead to hugs and puppies. The last time his associate Rollins was over for dinner was proof enough of that. "I am more inclined to see if I can't convince some poor soul that the French Riviera has tremendous historical significance." Ahh, abuse of authority, how delightful. He pauses a little, then sets down his spoon - once and for all, is the decisive accompanying thought - and leans across the table to rest his hand lightly on Jean's forearm. "Good for you," he adds in quiet earnestness.
"I'm sure there's got to be some. Claim you're studying its use during times of occupation." Jean suggests regarding the Rivera. "Occupation by imperialist forces, of course. You could sip imperialist Seabreezes." Tone light and full of banter, she's nonetheless a bit more relaxed, the lightness far less feigned, than it wa earlier in the day. "Thanks, Dad." is said quite softly.
John pats her arm lightly and then withdraws his hand, never having been inclined to be the *most* physically demonstrative of fathers, and yet sometimes touch is the best communication. "I'm on your side, kiddo. It's in the contract they hand out when you get to be a father," he says lightly, facetious but for the affection glinting in his eyes. "I'll bet I could get someone to write their master's thesis on the Maginot line. I've always wanted to see someone try and do that."
A lack of physical demonstration needn't mean a lack of feeling. It just makes those gentle arm pats mean something more than they otherwise would. Jean smiles to herself, feeling the intangible warmth of family settled over her shoulders, and then nods towards her ice cream that she's bee ignoring. "Want to head back to my place, then? We can discuss travel on the university's dime over a glass of brandy."
John thieves another napkin from the supply on the table and wipes his mouth. "Sounds like a plan," he says, crumpling the bechocolated and sticky napkin and tossing it in the remains of his sundae. He glances briefly at his watch, and then back up at Jean. "Shall we?"
"We shall," Jean confirms, making use of her own napkin and then rising to settle in on John's arm, Professors Grey Sr. and Jr. out for a post-prandial stroll to where she's left her car. "Anyways, I know Curie misses shedding on you."