[Private]
I probably shouldn't have shoved at him like that.
But then he probably shouldn't have--
Oh hell. Whatever. People fight, couples fight. Get over it, Jean.
Lowe's still dead. Reporters trickling back to the gates. I think I scared my cat.
Charles needs to get out of Cerebro.
"Is hard to give 'good' example when bad ones speak much louder," (Walter, Nisa, Kitty, Logan)
Jean, Logan, Kitty and students, in the wake of the assassination. There is swearing! Therapeutically.
"Wish it was that black and white. Startin' to hate the color grey. No offense."
(Rogue)
Jean brings Rogue tea. Jean mentions the 'L' word. No, not THAT 'L' word. Rogue has ANGST anyways.
And, immediately after this log with Logan and Rogue...
=XS= Logan's Room - Lv 3 - Xavier's School
A fairly large room this, with a queen sized bed in lieu of twin student ones heightening the illusion of space. There's a mahogany dresser and armoire to match, with a small entertainment stand, containing a TV, stereo, and DVD player, rounding off the furnishings. Through a door flush with one side wall is the bathroom, equipped with a bathtub and separate shower stall, as well as a large closet. The outside wall features a wide bay window, letting in outside light. Several items in the room stand out from the otherwise hotel-room-bland decor; an old WWI knife, a conquistador's helmet, and a polished set of Japanese daisho, or wakasashi and katana. On the nightstand is a deceptively ancient looking book, a collection of Japanese haiku written on delicate rice paper.
[Exits : [O]ut]
[Players : Logan ]
A long day's journey into night, and it's not quite done yet. A day spent stamping out brushfires still mercifully only emotional. A day spent giving non-answers to too many hard questions asked by too many pale young faces and wide, fearful eyes. A day that's left Jean hiding out in Logan's room, still unable to sleep at two in the morning, and therefore curled up on a corner of his bed in her pyjamas as she waits for him to get back. Lying on her side, staring at the closed cover of a book she's trying and failing to read in the butter-yellow lamplight, she's got her eyes half-closed as she stares through her lashes, and one hand raised to rake slowly through her hair, trying to ward away a lingering headache.
While the boathouse had proved refuge, he could not stay there the entire night. And so he returns to his room, late (or early, by some reckonings) as it is. His approach is not hard to track - any frustration that had been vented rebuilt quickly on the walk back up to the mansion, and it echoes in the heavy footfalls along the corridor. Not to mention in the simmering cloud his mind presents to any telepath unfortunate to be near and with shields lowered. He yanks open his door, intent upon workout clothing and the toughest Danger Room sim available. And stops dead as Jean's scent, fresh enough to mark current presence even before his eyes find her, hits him. "Jean." It's startled, and while not unwelcoming, still perhaps less warm than she deserves.
Jean looks terribly small right now for a woman of her height, caught in the naked disarray of insomnia and fatigue in a place she'd picked for a refuge. Scooting back against the headboard, moving physically back from the unintended mental assault, she pulls scrubs-clab kneees against her chest and wonders, quietly, wearily wry, "Is this a bad night to come by?"
Logan winces slightly at her withdrawal. "No. Wasn't expecting you." He raises one hand, raking his fingers through his hair, then lets it drop heavily against his thigh. "Figured you'd be up all night playin' counselor. Telling people not to do anything" << necessary >> "stupid." Belatedly realizing his lack of welcome, he strides forward, bending as though to kiss her hello.
"Necessary?" Oh, the pitfalls of having a telepathic girlfriend, especially when she's tired. Jean turns away as he leans in, denying the greeting as she hisses the word, eyes now more narrowed than droopy. "-Necessary-?" is questioned again, with a bit more emphasis behind it.
Logan straightens. "-Fuck-." Pitfalls indeed. Apparently, that had not been intended for her ears. Mind. Whatever. Chagrin shades the frustration roiling through his mind. Of apology, however, there is none.
"Is that what you think I'm doing here?" Jean questions, with the dangerous softness of the truly irate. She rolls over to the other side of the bed and rises, hands wrapping across her torso in both bristling body language and because she's wearing a tank for a top and it's cold in the room. "Telling people not to do anything -necessary-? You think I want this?"
Logan's own temper, never truly dampened, sparks in turn. "Well, we ain't doing what we should be!" He, while not yet yelling in truth, is not quiet. "I get it. You don't want the kids or some asshole on the street getting some dumb fucking idea and running of to get killed. Or kill someone. Neither do I. But why the fuck aren't -we- out there? How long do we have to let this shit keep happening?" That his ire is not truly directed at Jean doesn't blunt it any.
Anger projected, anger reflected... it's a lucky thing for Charles Xavier that he's still holed up in Cerebro, and a lucky thing for Logan that only Jean's scent and stance give clue to the bitter mingling of frustration and rage welling up and over the bounds of her own thoughts. "You think I've got a damn' answer to that?" she wonders, softness slipping into venom and a low, simmering heat. "You think I -like- having to come up with excuse after excuse to the kids as to why we aren't calling the government with a present whenever he turns up here? I'm supposed to the headmistress of this damned school, and I can't even keep him out because it's still not -my- home."
He checks himself, only just not taking that step forward, instincts insisting that this fight demands proximity. His hands flex, clench into fists. "So we take the fight to him! Or, fuck! Do it anyway. Hand the bastard over." He wheels, needing motion, and the mental barrier against 'forward' and 'threat' send him back, pacing to the still-open door long enough to slam it. Hard. It vibrates in the frame.
Jean's eyes harden, swirling orange for a moment as she catches that checked step, and bounces a screen of telekinesis lightly against Logan's chest in a silent warning not to push it. "Fine," says she, bitter and harsh and with lean muscles tensed and raised along still-crossed arms. "You go do that. Go dive in, claws slashing, and make it all neat and tidy and simple. I wish I had the luxury of not being caught in the middle between Charles Xavier's hope and everyone else's -necessity-."
Logan turns back, fists tightening. His nails, clipped workman-short, still bite into the palms of his hands, digging crescents that won't last even a heartbeat after his hands unclench. "Hope." This dredges up bitterness to match Jean's own, unfair and unwarranted in its extremes. "Fuck that. Lowe's dead. So are a hell of a lot of other people. Rogue almost died at Liberty Island. How many people have to die before we stop sitting around with our thumbs up our asses? How many of our kids do you think it'll take, Jean? One? Five? Twenty?"
To that, Jean has no words, but the colour drains from her face, bar two bright spots burning on her cheeks. She stands still, stunned as if physically slapped, before that one, breathless moment passes, and she whirls into action again. "Do not," she says, "-Ever- go there." And then Logan is unceremonously removed from in front of the door and shoved into the nearest wall beside it, telekinesis unleashed in a burst of emotion given physical form. Insult to injury when she flings it open physically to slam right into said wall, and then stalks out. The forgotton book is remembered halfway down the hall to her own room. A sharp "Damn it!" follows, and the book wings out of the doorway to slam into the door across the way, and then flutter down to rest, forgotten again, like a sparrow hitting plate glass.
Surprised by the his unceremonious dislodging, Logan has no time to brace himself before colliding with the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him. And so, he does not get his hands up, and the door, rather than hitting the wall, hits his head. It is considerably harder. It also has nerve endings. "-Fuck-!" The vehement exclamation is not loud enough to wake the dead. It is, however, close.
In answer to that, there's a second, echoing, slam as Jean's own door is found, opened, and closed with a vengeance. Inside the room, a bristling calico cat stares in bemusement as she flings herself onto her suite's couch and cuddles it. Outside in the hall, a dislodged book page flutters to a rest on the runner carpet.
And then there is slam the third, as Logan flings the door away from him. Poor abused door. Poor abused door frame. He pushes off the wall and wheels, driving his fist into it with a force that would break his hand were his bones not virtually indestructible. It does split his knuckles. Briefly. The wall remains unimpressed. And Logan, muttering a stream of curses jerks the door open again, then slams it (number four, for those keeping score!) behind him and storms down the hall.
Logan's still grumpy. Jean's grumpy too. Will no-one think of the poor, abused doors?
But then he probably shouldn't have--
Oh hell. Whatever. People fight, couples fight. Get over it, Jean.
Lowe's still dead. Reporters trickling back to the gates. I think I scared my cat.
Charles needs to get out of Cerebro.
"Is hard to give 'good' example when bad ones speak much louder," (Walter, Nisa, Kitty, Logan)
Jean, Logan, Kitty and students, in the wake of the assassination. There is swearing! Therapeutically.
"Wish it was that black and white. Startin' to hate the color grey. No offense."
(Rogue)
Jean brings Rogue tea. Jean mentions the 'L' word. No, not THAT 'L' word. Rogue has ANGST anyways.
And, immediately after this log with Logan and Rogue...
=XS= Logan's Room - Lv 3 - Xavier's School
A fairly large room this, with a queen sized bed in lieu of twin student ones heightening the illusion of space. There's a mahogany dresser and armoire to match, with a small entertainment stand, containing a TV, stereo, and DVD player, rounding off the furnishings. Through a door flush with one side wall is the bathroom, equipped with a bathtub and separate shower stall, as well as a large closet. The outside wall features a wide bay window, letting in outside light. Several items in the room stand out from the otherwise hotel-room-bland decor; an old WWI knife, a conquistador's helmet, and a polished set of Japanese daisho, or wakasashi and katana. On the nightstand is a deceptively ancient looking book, a collection of Japanese haiku written on delicate rice paper.
[Exits : [O]ut]
[Players : Logan ]
A long day's journey into night, and it's not quite done yet. A day spent stamping out brushfires still mercifully only emotional. A day spent giving non-answers to too many hard questions asked by too many pale young faces and wide, fearful eyes. A day that's left Jean hiding out in Logan's room, still unable to sleep at two in the morning, and therefore curled up on a corner of his bed in her pyjamas as she waits for him to get back. Lying on her side, staring at the closed cover of a book she's trying and failing to read in the butter-yellow lamplight, she's got her eyes half-closed as she stares through her lashes, and one hand raised to rake slowly through her hair, trying to ward away a lingering headache.
While the boathouse had proved refuge, he could not stay there the entire night. And so he returns to his room, late (or early, by some reckonings) as it is. His approach is not hard to track - any frustration that had been vented rebuilt quickly on the walk back up to the mansion, and it echoes in the heavy footfalls along the corridor. Not to mention in the simmering cloud his mind presents to any telepath unfortunate to be near and with shields lowered. He yanks open his door, intent upon workout clothing and the toughest Danger Room sim available. And stops dead as Jean's scent, fresh enough to mark current presence even before his eyes find her, hits him. "Jean." It's startled, and while not unwelcoming, still perhaps less warm than she deserves.
Jean looks terribly small right now for a woman of her height, caught in the naked disarray of insomnia and fatigue in a place she'd picked for a refuge. Scooting back against the headboard, moving physically back from the unintended mental assault, she pulls scrubs-clab kneees against her chest and wonders, quietly, wearily wry, "Is this a bad night to come by?"
Logan winces slightly at her withdrawal. "No. Wasn't expecting you." He raises one hand, raking his fingers through his hair, then lets it drop heavily against his thigh. "Figured you'd be up all night playin' counselor. Telling people not to do anything" << necessary >> "stupid." Belatedly realizing his lack of welcome, he strides forward, bending as though to kiss her hello.
"Necessary?" Oh, the pitfalls of having a telepathic girlfriend, especially when she's tired. Jean turns away as he leans in, denying the greeting as she hisses the word, eyes now more narrowed than droopy. "-Necessary-?" is questioned again, with a bit more emphasis behind it.
Logan straightens. "-Fuck-." Pitfalls indeed. Apparently, that had not been intended for her ears. Mind. Whatever. Chagrin shades the frustration roiling through his mind. Of apology, however, there is none.
"Is that what you think I'm doing here?" Jean questions, with the dangerous softness of the truly irate. She rolls over to the other side of the bed and rises, hands wrapping across her torso in both bristling body language and because she's wearing a tank for a top and it's cold in the room. "Telling people not to do anything -necessary-? You think I want this?"
Logan's own temper, never truly dampened, sparks in turn. "Well, we ain't doing what we should be!" He, while not yet yelling in truth, is not quiet. "I get it. You don't want the kids or some asshole on the street getting some dumb fucking idea and running of to get killed. Or kill someone. Neither do I. But why the fuck aren't -we- out there? How long do we have to let this shit keep happening?" That his ire is not truly directed at Jean doesn't blunt it any.
Anger projected, anger reflected... it's a lucky thing for Charles Xavier that he's still holed up in Cerebro, and a lucky thing for Logan that only Jean's scent and stance give clue to the bitter mingling of frustration and rage welling up and over the bounds of her own thoughts. "You think I've got a damn' answer to that?" she wonders, softness slipping into venom and a low, simmering heat. "You think I -like- having to come up with excuse after excuse to the kids as to why we aren't calling the government with a present whenever he turns up here? I'm supposed to the headmistress of this damned school, and I can't even keep him out because it's still not -my- home."
He checks himself, only just not taking that step forward, instincts insisting that this fight demands proximity. His hands flex, clench into fists. "So we take the fight to him! Or, fuck! Do it anyway. Hand the bastard over." He wheels, needing motion, and the mental barrier against 'forward' and 'threat' send him back, pacing to the still-open door long enough to slam it. Hard. It vibrates in the frame.
Jean's eyes harden, swirling orange for a moment as she catches that checked step, and bounces a screen of telekinesis lightly against Logan's chest in a silent warning not to push it. "Fine," says she, bitter and harsh and with lean muscles tensed and raised along still-crossed arms. "You go do that. Go dive in, claws slashing, and make it all neat and tidy and simple. I wish I had the luxury of not being caught in the middle between Charles Xavier's hope and everyone else's -necessity-."
Logan turns back, fists tightening. His nails, clipped workman-short, still bite into the palms of his hands, digging crescents that won't last even a heartbeat after his hands unclench. "Hope." This dredges up bitterness to match Jean's own, unfair and unwarranted in its extremes. "Fuck that. Lowe's dead. So are a hell of a lot of other people. Rogue almost died at Liberty Island. How many people have to die before we stop sitting around with our thumbs up our asses? How many of our kids do you think it'll take, Jean? One? Five? Twenty?"
To that, Jean has no words, but the colour drains from her face, bar two bright spots burning on her cheeks. She stands still, stunned as if physically slapped, before that one, breathless moment passes, and she whirls into action again. "Do not," she says, "-Ever- go there." And then Logan is unceremonously removed from in front of the door and shoved into the nearest wall beside it, telekinesis unleashed in a burst of emotion given physical form. Insult to injury when she flings it open physically to slam right into said wall, and then stalks out. The forgotton book is remembered halfway down the hall to her own room. A sharp "Damn it!" follows, and the book wings out of the doorway to slam into the door across the way, and then flutter down to rest, forgotten again, like a sparrow hitting plate glass.
Surprised by the his unceremonious dislodging, Logan has no time to brace himself before colliding with the wall hard enough to knock the wind out of him. And so, he does not get his hands up, and the door, rather than hitting the wall, hits his head. It is considerably harder. It also has nerve endings. "-Fuck-!" The vehement exclamation is not loud enough to wake the dead. It is, however, close.
In answer to that, there's a second, echoing, slam as Jean's own door is found, opened, and closed with a vengeance. Inside the room, a bristling calico cat stares in bemusement as she flings herself onto her suite's couch and cuddles it. Outside in the hall, a dislodged book page flutters to a rest on the runner carpet.
And then there is slam the third, as Logan flings the door away from him. Poor abused door. Poor abused door frame. He pushes off the wall and wheels, driving his fist into it with a force that would break his hand were his bones not virtually indestructible. It does split his knuckles. Briefly. The wall remains unimpressed. And Logan, muttering a stream of curses jerks the door open again, then slams it (number four, for those keeping score!) behind him and storms down the hall.
Logan's still grumpy. Jean's grumpy too. Will no-one think of the poor, abused doors?