OOC: Two Memes and a Log:
Bwahahaha. On the Mary Sue Litmus Test, Jean scored a big, fat 95 points. I pwnz j00 all with my twinky l33t FEENIX. (Red hair, phenomenal cosmic power, multiple major characters in love with her, spunky disposition, solving everyone's problems, and an accomplished doctor, researcher, psionicist, teacher and pilot with a few months to go 'til her 30th birthday?)
Also, while I can't guarantee I'll have the time to get to everyone, if you've got a question about Jean or for Jean, ask it and either she or I will answer.
Finally, have a log.
X-Men MUCK - Thursday, August 25, 2005, 4:24 PM
-----------------------------------------------
Greenwich Apts #1500 - Jean
A departure from neighbouring apartments, this converted artist's flat has been, well, reconverted. Disdaining the gentrified wealth of the rest of the upper levels, the original residential spirit of the building has been recaptured with an uncovering of the original brick outer walls and where the plain and smooth wooden board flooring has been lovingly wax-polished rather than made harshly gleaming with modern verathanes. As many interior walls as possible have been knocked down, leaving a large open concept space with natural light streaming in from the row of square-paned windows that stretches all along the outside wall. The remaining interior wall sections off one quarter of the flat, two doors leading to a palatial bathroom and to a large bedroom with a small inset balcony: the sole traces of the gentrification allowed to remain. The main room features a U-shaped kitchen area with breakfast bar by the windows and against the interior wall, with a raised area opposite it with metal and frosted glass privacy panels to form an office area. The rest of the space is taken up with a conversation half-circle of comfortable banquettes laden with cushions and pillows, interspersed with end tables and capable of comfortably seating a large party around the open space between them and a large entertainment center.
[Exits : [O]ut ]
It's late afternoon by the time Warren makes his way home. Not nearly late enough to be turning in, but far too late to do anything worthwhile with this abyssmal day. The best thing the winged gentleman could have done, is what he had: simply flown. Flown as fast and high as he could, until lungs achedm and some small measure of energy is spent. So it is, that when he finally does turn his steps home, Warren's hair is tousled terribly, and mind is halfway between despair and exhaustion.. The anger is still there, coloring his typically well tempered thoughts, as- watching the eleator's level indicator climb, he abruptly stops one floor shy of his own. A moment's though, eyes and jaw clenched closed a moment, he steps out, and goes to knock on a certain door. She's probably not even in..
Oh, Jean is in. Late afternoon though it is, Jean is neither an empty-headed socialite out scouring the shops for the sixth straight day in search of cute shoes, 'nor engaged in work that requires her to be locked in an office. No, Jean is curled up on her couch with the latest issues of some medical journals, a cup of tea and a cat, and all three are abandoned in short order as the familiar mental presence of Warren turns up one floor below where it ought to be. A mental presence she's not felt so unsettled since-- The redhead pads for the door and opens it by the second knock. "Do you need a drink?" she wonders.
His appearance is mussed, but forcibly composed. An old friend could spot the tension in the set of his jaw, or the tightness to his speech.. otherwise his composure is held intact. It's in Warren's thoughts that the once-angel is truly shown to be a mess. Quietly, he asks, "May I come in?" Shoulders rise with a breath drawn through the nose, he takes a desperate satisfaction in the ache that deeply drawn breath elicits. At the drink offer, "Please.. as strong as you can manage."
Jean silently steps to one side and waves Warren in before heading over to the kitchen island to do just that. The beer in the fridge is ignored as she instead rummages about in the cabinet above it where her liquor collection is living. Vodka and the other componants of a mudslide, rum for daquiris, tequila for margaritas, and... ahah. "Absinthe?" A small dusty bottle collected during a European medical conference is produced and set on the counter, and then Jean sets about looking for sugar cubes, on the vague memory that one's supposed to add them to make it turn green. "I remember that we once made an agreement for an evening, no pretending between us. Should we revisit that deal?"
Warren enters, trying and succeeding to keep his breaths even. "No pretending?" He echoes, a bitter edge to his words. A long released breath. He sinks into a seat, ans leans forward, elbows on his knees, head propped up between his hands. Mind a furious tangle of 'How could she? How could HE? I'm such a fool'.. He does Jean the courtesy of keeping this as much a verbal exchange as he can- pychically, this might be a bit overwhelming to simply hop into. "Yes," he answers at last, "Absinthe would be lovely."
"Not around someone who knows you well enough to see through it, old friend," Jean replies, collecting two small glasses, (Warren shouldn't be left to drink alone.) and measuring precise aliquots of absinthe into each. Water is added, and then one sugar lump each, before she heads back to the sitting area and hands over one glass. "So, who is she, who is he, and why do you think you're a fool? Incidentally," she points out with a firm and steady look. "You aren't."
An arched eyebrow. He waits until Jean has set down the drinks, and any breakables, before replying, "She is Emma Frost, he is Scott Summers, and I am a fool for having walked into the aftermath of the one's infidelity, achieved with the other. I'm not a jealous man, Jean-" Teeth grit and there is a rising wash of injury and outrage, that just does'nt peak as high as it did an hour ago..
Jean has unfortunately picked up her drink by the time Warren drops the verbal bomb that is Scott's name. Her hand clenches spasmodically around it, and it's by sheer rigid self control that her powers are left uninvolved and she's left without a handful of glass shards. Brittle, brittle is her expression, and it's a moment before she can speak, punctuated by a dashed sip of the absinthe. "And I no longer have any claim over who he sleeps with or where, but I'm experiencing a strong desire to slap the both of them. -God-," she bites out. "And there's no way she didn't know exactly what she was doing, either. To pick -Scott-."
The absinthe is put down quickly, on Warren's end. "And it's not as though our relationship is an exclusive one, but-" Again words cut off, behind terse self control. "They *both* knew what they were doing." Words unspoken are not lost.. The insolence and flippancy when confronted with his knowledge.. That mocking bow from Scott- Damn them both. He wants to scream, and rant, and rail.. but there's no anger left. "I am a fool," he mutters quietly. << I still love her, Jean. >>
Quietly, controlled, the absinthe bottle, carafe of water and sugar cubes float over to settle on the coffee table, Jean bleeding off angered tension in focused action rather than fitful and powerful flares. She pours Warren another drink. "You are -not- a fool." she states again. "Love is never foolish, and whether someone is loved has very little to do with whether they deserve it or not." By the snap to her tone, two people are very firmly in the 'or not' category right now. "And you also have a right to being less than controlled right now."
"If it were anyone else," Warren mutters, swallowing once, dry, before accepting the second drink. "*Anyone* other than Scott," the name is spoken with hard edged spite. "What now, will she go back to Sebastian, too?" Frustrated exasperation steps into the void left by faded anger. A shake of his head, and humorless smirk, "Money, power, intellect, loyalty.. And I'm still second best to a petulant boyscout." A released breath shakes slightly.
"Either that, or she's attempting to test your devotion to her," Jean allows with a black-edged smile and another sip of her drink. (Realization: Absinthe tastes vile.) "To destruction, if necessary. How much can you take?" she questions rhetorically, from Emma's apparent point of view. "How far can she go? But I doubt very much that this is about you, Warren. She's always had a default setting of considering herself first, and don't tell me you're not blind to that. Fate's chosen a difficult woman for you, my very old friend."
"She did'nt mean for me to find out," Warren states quietly, noting idly in his mind that the active element in absinthe, when not diluted- doubles as a poison. Another slow breath taken. "She was'nt prepared.. and she was'nt sorry." *That* much might have just been her defense mechanism, he is sensable enough to recognize, but even so..
<< This is medicinal. >> is Jean's thoughts on artemsia and their intake of small amounts of it. Mind coloured with more black-edged humour, she tips her glass and takes another tiny sip. "So she didn't mean for you to find out. That supports the theory that this isn't about you at all." she points out, shifting so that she's now sitting on the same banquette as Warren, all the better to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "So you're not coming in second to Scott, no matter what you may be feeling right now. That she's not sorry simply means that she's Emma Frost."
A hand of Warren's own is placed over Jean's on his shoulder, wing spread instinctively as she moves to sit beside him. "No, it isnt about me," Warren admits, quietly. "It's about Scott. And it's about her. Why can't anyone let him go?" At that, the cracks in his composure split, and under he hand, his shoulder shakes with a first sob.
Jean shhhhs soothingly and quietly at this first breach of Warren's formidable defences, squeezing his shoulder and then letting her hand drift down and around to wrap around his waist in a hug. "Because if you ever love Scott Summers, you'll love him 'til your dying day," she admits with a rueful sigh. "If you leave, or if he leaves, you'll still have questions. You'll still care about him. And it takes a lot of honesty and a lot of practise to get over him, and it takes admitting to yourself that some part of you will always be concerned about how he's doing. It doesn't matter how he neglects you," she rambles, watching the middle distance as she draws on her own thoughts and memories. "It doesn't matter how he hurts you through his own repression and self-disgust. But I've got Logan, and Emma has you," she concludes. "You move on. But God only knows how little Emma knows about actually dealing with her emotions. So, it's my guess she'll keep doing utterly -stupid- things like this until she faces them. And you will continue to get hurt by it as long as you stand by her."
Tears drip down the length of Warren's nose by the time Jean has finished. Not trusting his voice to be steady, the once-Angel relies on thoughts alone to carry his sentiment, wing closing lightly at Jean's back to return the embrace she puts about his waist. << Then I'll be hurt, for a very long time. >> In this moment, though there is the counterpoint, that true to Jean's words, will always remain- right now, he wants very much to hate Scott.
<< Want me to punch him in the nose for you? >> Jean wonders, completely and utterly serious. Offering to bitchslap Emma, she senses, probably wouldn't go over well, even now. "I've gotten good at that," she assures. "Just ask Logan. In fact..." Trailing off, she lets her fingers stroke gently at the nearer ones of Warren's feathers. "You might want to talk with him anyways. He's a man in your position, after all, and knows perfectly well that some part of me will always go running if Scott needs me."
<< I've done that once, >> Warren admits, not keeping his mind from running over the meeting that had turned violent after Scott's last visit to this building.. << One of these days I really should meet this Logan fellow of yours. The hand atoip Jean's tightens briefly, as the other is raised to rub at eyes from which tears continue to drip. At her 'I've gotten good at that,' bot a sob and a chuckle are given breath, before he observes, "Together again, eh old friend?"
Jean's expression at this revelation is painfully dry as she watches the middle distance and lets her arm wrap more firmly about his waist. << Considering that you'd have caught him leaving about thirty seconds after I swore at him, kicked him out of my bedroom, and told him I was changing the locks, you're not going to hear any censure from me. >> she points out, sneaking a sidelong glance at him with her head tilted and one green eye cocked. "Sort of. Things are complicated, I don't want to ruin it by rushing. But he's been climbing my fire escape and letting himself in through a window ever since I moved in, just to look out for me. And to drink the beer in my fridge. But you should talk to him," she agrees and confirms. "You're in love with a woman who was broken far before Scott ever found her. This will probably be the hardest campaign of your career, my corporate friend."
"Neither of us ever did take the easy way.." Warren observes with a shake of his head. "I'm warring with a host of ghosts, in loving her.. Scott's is simply the one that is paining me now-" << Thus I hope I'll be pardoned a measure of hatred. >> Bitter again briefly, the once-Angel simply lacks the energy to keep up the sentiment for long. "But, no.. the second hardest campaign. I've lost one campaign before, this one won't be the second." But that first loss is the one he can't bring himself to regret, sitting here as he is, wing drawn about a point of utter kindness and sanity in his chaotic world.
"Easy is for those who aren't up to the rewards of the hard way." Aphorism invented and applied, Jean lifts the hand on Warren's shoulder to run it along the edge of the wing wrapped around her, a soothing, steadying motion like one might use to comfort a frightened and upset horse. (Or parakeet. But horses are just a trifle more dignified. Pegasus, perhaps.) "And I think we can safely pardon everything up to murder from you, at least for a time. But be sure you don't put all your anger onto Scott," she warns, tone gone considering. "Scott himself did that with Logan, rather than be angry with me, his perfect paragon of womanhood, and it did neither him 'nor I any favours, and led to several nasty fights later."
Warren's now freed hand draws it's heel across his eyes, one at a time, as he murmers, "Oh, don't worry.. I've enough ire to go around." Mind turned to the subject, he begins considering- only now, specifically why this wounded him so deeply.. and how he'll approach confronting Emma. The desperate tension of the past day bleeds off in another half laugh, "Besides, Emma and I will have fodder enough for argument without me adding any further errors." Yes, this is going to result in a spectacular fight, most likely..
"Well, don't let her convince you that you're in the wrong," Jean warns, darkly and protectively, metaphorically poised to leap to her friend's defense. "As a woman and a telepath myself, I know exactly how easy it is to do that and make it sound reasonable. But you've got every right to be hurt and every right to be angry, and if she doesn't so much as admit to that, then give me a call, and I'll happily get into a catfight with her." Cue an appearance of a helpful, hopeful, only half-joking smile. "We can call the tabloids and arrange a vat of mud and everything. But no matter how it all plays out, remember that I'm here for you. As is my couch and my liquor cabinet."
"Well that's one way to solve this.. I'll arrange an udnercard of myself and Mister Summers with pistols at fifteen paces." Jean's half joke does again tug at his regretful expression though, and earns a mental projection of Scott and Warren in proper nineteenth century attire (including ascots), standing back to back. More for amusement than gravity. "I can't face her just yet.." Warren murmers after drawing a deep breath. "I need to- be sure I won't lose my temper again." A sigh and pair of raised brows as he looks to Jean beside him. "I'd thank you for that couch, Jean.." There are still a few things of Emma's in his room. Little reminders he'd trather not face until tomorrow.
Jean smiles at the image, and adds a few tweaks of her own, mostly along the lines of how Scott would actually handle being in period costume. There is furtive fidgeting and a look of minor constipation involved. "Alternately, you could always try paintball, or I could ask the Professor to give you two some time in the Danger Room," she adds aloud, before nodding and readying herself to rise, her own glass of absinthe barely touched. "I'll get a spare comforter out of the linen closet, then. And if you'll loan me your keys, I'll nip upstairs and get an overnight bag for you if you like. I'm -guessing- that the chick flicks and chocolate I keep on hand for Storm might not be properly appreciated."
It really is vile stuff, absinthe. "I bow to your wisdom in such matters," Warren quips wrly, her idle comment provoking a reaction he's interested to note: chocolate is associated immediately with Emma having overexerted herself mentally. Hmm.. note to self: bring chocolates when he and Emma have this issue out. Preface the giving of sweets with 'You'll need these'. Steeling himself, Warren draws a breath and rises as well.. to draw requested keys out. "Thank you, Jean."
Jean collects the keys and then leans in after she rises to press a friendly kiss to Warren's brow, assuring him that "It will all work out," before briefly taking her leave. In the absence of Jean, Curie immediately turns up on the couch, having been watching Warren's feathers with feline avarice from beneath the coffee table.
Also, while I can't guarantee I'll have the time to get to everyone, if you've got a question about Jean or for Jean, ask it and either she or I will answer.
Finally, have a log.
X-Men MUCK - Thursday, August 25, 2005, 4:24 PM
-----------------------------------------------
Greenwich Apts #1500 - Jean
A departure from neighbouring apartments, this converted artist's flat has been, well, reconverted. Disdaining the gentrified wealth of the rest of the upper levels, the original residential spirit of the building has been recaptured with an uncovering of the original brick outer walls and where the plain and smooth wooden board flooring has been lovingly wax-polished rather than made harshly gleaming with modern verathanes. As many interior walls as possible have been knocked down, leaving a large open concept space with natural light streaming in from the row of square-paned windows that stretches all along the outside wall. The remaining interior wall sections off one quarter of the flat, two doors leading to a palatial bathroom and to a large bedroom with a small inset balcony: the sole traces of the gentrification allowed to remain. The main room features a U-shaped kitchen area with breakfast bar by the windows and against the interior wall, with a raised area opposite it with metal and frosted glass privacy panels to form an office area. The rest of the space is taken up with a conversation half-circle of comfortable banquettes laden with cushions and pillows, interspersed with end tables and capable of comfortably seating a large party around the open space between them and a large entertainment center.
[Exits : [O]ut ]
It's late afternoon by the time Warren makes his way home. Not nearly late enough to be turning in, but far too late to do anything worthwhile with this abyssmal day. The best thing the winged gentleman could have done, is what he had: simply flown. Flown as fast and high as he could, until lungs achedm and some small measure of energy is spent. So it is, that when he finally does turn his steps home, Warren's hair is tousled terribly, and mind is halfway between despair and exhaustion.. The anger is still there, coloring his typically well tempered thoughts, as- watching the eleator's level indicator climb, he abruptly stops one floor shy of his own. A moment's though, eyes and jaw clenched closed a moment, he steps out, and goes to knock on a certain door. She's probably not even in..
Oh, Jean is in. Late afternoon though it is, Jean is neither an empty-headed socialite out scouring the shops for the sixth straight day in search of cute shoes, 'nor engaged in work that requires her to be locked in an office. No, Jean is curled up on her couch with the latest issues of some medical journals, a cup of tea and a cat, and all three are abandoned in short order as the familiar mental presence of Warren turns up one floor below where it ought to be. A mental presence she's not felt so unsettled since-- The redhead pads for the door and opens it by the second knock. "Do you need a drink?" she wonders.
His appearance is mussed, but forcibly composed. An old friend could spot the tension in the set of his jaw, or the tightness to his speech.. otherwise his composure is held intact. It's in Warren's thoughts that the once-angel is truly shown to be a mess. Quietly, he asks, "May I come in?" Shoulders rise with a breath drawn through the nose, he takes a desperate satisfaction in the ache that deeply drawn breath elicits. At the drink offer, "Please.. as strong as you can manage."
Jean silently steps to one side and waves Warren in before heading over to the kitchen island to do just that. The beer in the fridge is ignored as she instead rummages about in the cabinet above it where her liquor collection is living. Vodka and the other componants of a mudslide, rum for daquiris, tequila for margaritas, and... ahah. "Absinthe?" A small dusty bottle collected during a European medical conference is produced and set on the counter, and then Jean sets about looking for sugar cubes, on the vague memory that one's supposed to add them to make it turn green. "I remember that we once made an agreement for an evening, no pretending between us. Should we revisit that deal?"
Warren enters, trying and succeeding to keep his breaths even. "No pretending?" He echoes, a bitter edge to his words. A long released breath. He sinks into a seat, ans leans forward, elbows on his knees, head propped up between his hands. Mind a furious tangle of 'How could she? How could HE? I'm such a fool'.. He does Jean the courtesy of keeping this as much a verbal exchange as he can- pychically, this might be a bit overwhelming to simply hop into. "Yes," he answers at last, "Absinthe would be lovely."
"Not around someone who knows you well enough to see through it, old friend," Jean replies, collecting two small glasses, (Warren shouldn't be left to drink alone.) and measuring precise aliquots of absinthe into each. Water is added, and then one sugar lump each, before she heads back to the sitting area and hands over one glass. "So, who is she, who is he, and why do you think you're a fool? Incidentally," she points out with a firm and steady look. "You aren't."
An arched eyebrow. He waits until Jean has set down the drinks, and any breakables, before replying, "She is Emma Frost, he is Scott Summers, and I am a fool for having walked into the aftermath of the one's infidelity, achieved with the other. I'm not a jealous man, Jean-" Teeth grit and there is a rising wash of injury and outrage, that just does'nt peak as high as it did an hour ago..
Jean has unfortunately picked up her drink by the time Warren drops the verbal bomb that is Scott's name. Her hand clenches spasmodically around it, and it's by sheer rigid self control that her powers are left uninvolved and she's left without a handful of glass shards. Brittle, brittle is her expression, and it's a moment before she can speak, punctuated by a dashed sip of the absinthe. "And I no longer have any claim over who he sleeps with or where, but I'm experiencing a strong desire to slap the both of them. -God-," she bites out. "And there's no way she didn't know exactly what she was doing, either. To pick -Scott-."
The absinthe is put down quickly, on Warren's end. "And it's not as though our relationship is an exclusive one, but-" Again words cut off, behind terse self control. "They *both* knew what they were doing." Words unspoken are not lost.. The insolence and flippancy when confronted with his knowledge.. That mocking bow from Scott- Damn them both. He wants to scream, and rant, and rail.. but there's no anger left. "I am a fool," he mutters quietly. << I still love her, Jean. >>
Quietly, controlled, the absinthe bottle, carafe of water and sugar cubes float over to settle on the coffee table, Jean bleeding off angered tension in focused action rather than fitful and powerful flares. She pours Warren another drink. "You are -not- a fool." she states again. "Love is never foolish, and whether someone is loved has very little to do with whether they deserve it or not." By the snap to her tone, two people are very firmly in the 'or not' category right now. "And you also have a right to being less than controlled right now."
"If it were anyone else," Warren mutters, swallowing once, dry, before accepting the second drink. "*Anyone* other than Scott," the name is spoken with hard edged spite. "What now, will she go back to Sebastian, too?" Frustrated exasperation steps into the void left by faded anger. A shake of his head, and humorless smirk, "Money, power, intellect, loyalty.. And I'm still second best to a petulant boyscout." A released breath shakes slightly.
"Either that, or she's attempting to test your devotion to her," Jean allows with a black-edged smile and another sip of her drink. (Realization: Absinthe tastes vile.) "To destruction, if necessary. How much can you take?" she questions rhetorically, from Emma's apparent point of view. "How far can she go? But I doubt very much that this is about you, Warren. She's always had a default setting of considering herself first, and don't tell me you're not blind to that. Fate's chosen a difficult woman for you, my very old friend."
"She did'nt mean for me to find out," Warren states quietly, noting idly in his mind that the active element in absinthe, when not diluted- doubles as a poison. Another slow breath taken. "She was'nt prepared.. and she was'nt sorry." *That* much might have just been her defense mechanism, he is sensable enough to recognize, but even so..
<< This is medicinal. >> is Jean's thoughts on artemsia and their intake of small amounts of it. Mind coloured with more black-edged humour, she tips her glass and takes another tiny sip. "So she didn't mean for you to find out. That supports the theory that this isn't about you at all." she points out, shifting so that she's now sitting on the same banquette as Warren, all the better to place a reassuring hand on his shoulder. "So you're not coming in second to Scott, no matter what you may be feeling right now. That she's not sorry simply means that she's Emma Frost."
A hand of Warren's own is placed over Jean's on his shoulder, wing spread instinctively as she moves to sit beside him. "No, it isnt about me," Warren admits, quietly. "It's about Scott. And it's about her. Why can't anyone let him go?" At that, the cracks in his composure split, and under he hand, his shoulder shakes with a first sob.
Jean shhhhs soothingly and quietly at this first breach of Warren's formidable defences, squeezing his shoulder and then letting her hand drift down and around to wrap around his waist in a hug. "Because if you ever love Scott Summers, you'll love him 'til your dying day," she admits with a rueful sigh. "If you leave, or if he leaves, you'll still have questions. You'll still care about him. And it takes a lot of honesty and a lot of practise to get over him, and it takes admitting to yourself that some part of you will always be concerned about how he's doing. It doesn't matter how he neglects you," she rambles, watching the middle distance as she draws on her own thoughts and memories. "It doesn't matter how he hurts you through his own repression and self-disgust. But I've got Logan, and Emma has you," she concludes. "You move on. But God only knows how little Emma knows about actually dealing with her emotions. So, it's my guess she'll keep doing utterly -stupid- things like this until she faces them. And you will continue to get hurt by it as long as you stand by her."
Tears drip down the length of Warren's nose by the time Jean has finished. Not trusting his voice to be steady, the once-Angel relies on thoughts alone to carry his sentiment, wing closing lightly at Jean's back to return the embrace she puts about his waist. << Then I'll be hurt, for a very long time. >> In this moment, though there is the counterpoint, that true to Jean's words, will always remain- right now, he wants very much to hate Scott.
<< Want me to punch him in the nose for you? >> Jean wonders, completely and utterly serious. Offering to bitchslap Emma, she senses, probably wouldn't go over well, even now. "I've gotten good at that," she assures. "Just ask Logan. In fact..." Trailing off, she lets her fingers stroke gently at the nearer ones of Warren's feathers. "You might want to talk with him anyways. He's a man in your position, after all, and knows perfectly well that some part of me will always go running if Scott needs me."
<< I've done that once, >> Warren admits, not keeping his mind from running over the meeting that had turned violent after Scott's last visit to this building.. << One of these days I really should meet this Logan fellow of yours. The hand atoip Jean's tightens briefly, as the other is raised to rub at eyes from which tears continue to drip. At her 'I've gotten good at that,' bot a sob and a chuckle are given breath, before he observes, "Together again, eh old friend?"
Jean's expression at this revelation is painfully dry as she watches the middle distance and lets her arm wrap more firmly about his waist. << Considering that you'd have caught him leaving about thirty seconds after I swore at him, kicked him out of my bedroom, and told him I was changing the locks, you're not going to hear any censure from me. >> she points out, sneaking a sidelong glance at him with her head tilted and one green eye cocked. "Sort of. Things are complicated, I don't want to ruin it by rushing. But he's been climbing my fire escape and letting himself in through a window ever since I moved in, just to look out for me. And to drink the beer in my fridge. But you should talk to him," she agrees and confirms. "You're in love with a woman who was broken far before Scott ever found her. This will probably be the hardest campaign of your career, my corporate friend."
"Neither of us ever did take the easy way.." Warren observes with a shake of his head. "I'm warring with a host of ghosts, in loving her.. Scott's is simply the one that is paining me now-" << Thus I hope I'll be pardoned a measure of hatred. >> Bitter again briefly, the once-Angel simply lacks the energy to keep up the sentiment for long. "But, no.. the second hardest campaign. I've lost one campaign before, this one won't be the second." But that first loss is the one he can't bring himself to regret, sitting here as he is, wing drawn about a point of utter kindness and sanity in his chaotic world.
"Easy is for those who aren't up to the rewards of the hard way." Aphorism invented and applied, Jean lifts the hand on Warren's shoulder to run it along the edge of the wing wrapped around her, a soothing, steadying motion like one might use to comfort a frightened and upset horse. (Or parakeet. But horses are just a trifle more dignified. Pegasus, perhaps.) "And I think we can safely pardon everything up to murder from you, at least for a time. But be sure you don't put all your anger onto Scott," she warns, tone gone considering. "Scott himself did that with Logan, rather than be angry with me, his perfect paragon of womanhood, and it did neither him 'nor I any favours, and led to several nasty fights later."
Warren's now freed hand draws it's heel across his eyes, one at a time, as he murmers, "Oh, don't worry.. I've enough ire to go around." Mind turned to the subject, he begins considering- only now, specifically why this wounded him so deeply.. and how he'll approach confronting Emma. The desperate tension of the past day bleeds off in another half laugh, "Besides, Emma and I will have fodder enough for argument without me adding any further errors." Yes, this is going to result in a spectacular fight, most likely..
"Well, don't let her convince you that you're in the wrong," Jean warns, darkly and protectively, metaphorically poised to leap to her friend's defense. "As a woman and a telepath myself, I know exactly how easy it is to do that and make it sound reasonable. But you've got every right to be hurt and every right to be angry, and if she doesn't so much as admit to that, then give me a call, and I'll happily get into a catfight with her." Cue an appearance of a helpful, hopeful, only half-joking smile. "We can call the tabloids and arrange a vat of mud and everything. But no matter how it all plays out, remember that I'm here for you. As is my couch and my liquor cabinet."
"Well that's one way to solve this.. I'll arrange an udnercard of myself and Mister Summers with pistols at fifteen paces." Jean's half joke does again tug at his regretful expression though, and earns a mental projection of Scott and Warren in proper nineteenth century attire (including ascots), standing back to back. More for amusement than gravity. "I can't face her just yet.." Warren murmers after drawing a deep breath. "I need to- be sure I won't lose my temper again." A sigh and pair of raised brows as he looks to Jean beside him. "I'd thank you for that couch, Jean.." There are still a few things of Emma's in his room. Little reminders he'd trather not face until tomorrow.
Jean smiles at the image, and adds a few tweaks of her own, mostly along the lines of how Scott would actually handle being in period costume. There is furtive fidgeting and a look of minor constipation involved. "Alternately, you could always try paintball, or I could ask the Professor to give you two some time in the Danger Room," she adds aloud, before nodding and readying herself to rise, her own glass of absinthe barely touched. "I'll get a spare comforter out of the linen closet, then. And if you'll loan me your keys, I'll nip upstairs and get an overnight bag for you if you like. I'm -guessing- that the chick flicks and chocolate I keep on hand for Storm might not be properly appreciated."
It really is vile stuff, absinthe. "I bow to your wisdom in such matters," Warren quips wrly, her idle comment provoking a reaction he's interested to note: chocolate is associated immediately with Emma having overexerted herself mentally. Hmm.. note to self: bring chocolates when he and Emma have this issue out. Preface the giving of sweets with 'You'll need these'. Steeling himself, Warren draws a breath and rises as well.. to draw requested keys out. "Thank you, Jean."
Jean collects the keys and then leans in after she rises to press a friendly kiss to Warren's brow, assuring him that "It will all work out," before briefly taking her leave. In the absence of Jean, Curie immediately turns up on the couch, having been watching Warren's feathers with feline avarice from beneath the coffee table.