A Private Entry:
Well, fuck.
I wish Moira was here.
X-Men: Movieverse 3 - Saturday, August 11, 2007, 10:39 PM
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=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 ]
Late, but not too late, the door to Logan's room swings open, enough to let in a long and leggy expanse of girlfriend, crowned with her auburn hair worn up in a clip against the summer's heat. The school, while air conditioned, is large and old, and fiscal conservatism has deemed it good to leave it off and leave windows open wherever possible. The door shuts behind her, and Jean simply leans back against the wood, taking a moment to close her eyes in brief pleasure at having the dor between herself and the ouside world.
It is perhaps a testament to the whims of coincidence that this evening so closely matches another more than two years past, and in another world entirely. Logan, the set of his shoulders bespeaking tension that has been only building over the past several months, stands bent over a neatly made-up bed and a half-full suitcase, slowly and methodically being filled with a collection of possessions kept small in remembrance, both conscious and subconscious, of the necessity of mobility. He looks up as the door opens, no real surprise making its way onto his face as he spies Jean standing there. "Hey, Jeannie. Kids blow somethin' up?"
"Not... for lack of trying," reports Jean, eyes still shut, and with a glimmer of a smile on her lips in spite of the disapproving words. It lingers as she opens them, taking in suitcase and bed and Logan, and then freezes as her mind supplies motive for the method. Casually, just a bit -too- to the trained ear, she remains by the door, folds her arms over her chest, and wonders, "Taking off again?"
Logan, just as casually, places another folded shirt into the suitcase. "'Least they haven't thought to raid the lab," he offers. His own smile is wry, and there is a quick flick of a glance downwards, as though his words have spelled certain doom for the chemistry lab. All humour fades, however, as his gaze returns to Jean. "Not far. I ain't cut out to play gym teacher forever."
Jean's arms now wrap more than they fold, a tight self-hug that gives her hands something to do besides betray a sudden trembling. The small gesture does little to counter the unhappy tension that's slouched her stance just slightly, shoulders dropped for all of their schooled rigidity. "No," she agrees, still in that careful-casual tone. "You're not. Does Charles know?"
"Not yet. Don't figure he'll be too heartbroken to see me go, though." Logan snorts, quiet and lingering somewhere between amusement and irritation. "I ain't the best influence on people 'round here. Whatever's goin' on with Rogue is proof enough of /that/."
"Are you going to tell him?" Unspoken, the follow-up question of 'Do you want me to?'. In the wake of a pause in the emotional shelling, the arms wrapped across Jean's chest unclench somewhat, returning to simple folded status once more as she sighs, unleans from the wall, and crosses the small expanse of floor to settle on Logan's bed between his suitcase and his pillows. "I don't see how you can assign blame for Rogue's behavior to your door."
"I don't," Logan replies simply. "But it gives her an excuse - she ain't the only one around here who's not the model of self control." He's silent for a moment, before shrugging and replying, out of order, to the question of the minutiae of his departure. "Yeah. Leave him a letter of resignation, so he doesn't decide to track me down when the kiddies ain't running laps around the grounds come September."
"And it's more than just you who's lacking in it, from time to time." But for all the Phoenix's words, and for all the vague guilt in her eyes as she gives them breath and life, it's over-control, not under-control that seems to be Jean's choice for the night. Bloodless about the lips as she flattens them, she gives a small nod to the second answer. And doesn't ask a third question, for all it forms on her lips.
"From time to time ain't the same thing as usually." There is no self-deprecation in Logan's words. Most people have control naturally. He has to struggle for it. Also, the sky is blue. He reaches one hand to brush callused fingers along her cheek. Going, maybe, but not yet gone. "I won't ask you to come with me. Figure you wouldn't wanna leave the kids."
"It's not a 'wouldn't want'," Jean assures, even as she turns her face just slightly from the brush of the fingers, cutting the contact short enough to keep her control in place. "It's a 'can't'. I took my sabbatical when I tried to get inside the Hellfire Club. I figure another... won't be for a while."
"I don't know how long I'll be gone." It has the sound of a warning. Logan does not, however, follow it up with anything else, though there is the sense of continuation lingering in the wings somewhere.
"Are you planning to follow that up with another goodbye?" Beyond bloodless, now, Jean's tone is altogether faint, her spine altogether rigid as she keeps to her cross-legged seat on the bed.
"No. I learned my lesson last time." There is no humour in Logan's tone, though there is the shadow of what might otherwise be, were the situation different. A broken nose teaches many lessons. "And I ain't runnin' to spare you danger now. I just can't keep sittin' around here rotting while a half-senile old man masturbates to the thought that he has a fighter jet and a private team of superheroes."
In spite of herself, Jean smiles at the memory, and her right hand flexes once as it rests in her lap. It soon dissolves into a cringe before she can help herself at the particular imagery chosen to represent Charles Xavier. Father figure, -ew-? "I wouldn't call what we're doing -rotting-," says Jean, with perhaps just a flicker of a warning light in her eyes. "The intelligence I gather..."
"Ain't in fields I'm any good at," Logan finishes. "Last thing I was any use for was helpin' to send a fucking magic bear back to its own world. Other than that, I may as well just be a damn gym teacher, for all the good I do 'round here."
"So what are you planning on doing elsewhere, then?" Jean wonders, arms crossing her chest again at a sudden chill more psychoogical than meteorological.
"Not sit around and wait on the off chance Chuck decides we're actually necessary. Not feel like I have some fuckin' obligation to fix the shit that goes on in the city without having the option to actually /do/ anything." Logan sighs, raising a hand to his eyes scrub away weariness that has no relation at all to the physical. "I'm sick of feeling useless, Jeannie. I'm sick of feeling /helpless/."
Silence, then, as Jean shifts from cross-legged to hugging her knees against her chest, the mask of a telepath's self-control slipping enough to allow the rapid thoughts beneath the surface free play across her expression. In the end, she says simply that "I can understand that."
"Thought you might." There's one more bit of folded clothing to lay in the suitcase, and then Logan zips it shut. Not much, all in all. "I ain't gonna say goodbye, but I ain't gonna ask you to put your life on hold, either."
A wry grimace creases Jean's features at that, equal parts amused memory and tears that are more of frustration than sadness, but kept just as ruthlessly unshed. "I'm glad I don't have to punch you in the nose again, then. And if you're going to be in the City..." Silently, the thought rises: intelligence can be shared.
"I'll be around if you need me," Logan replies, clarification of distance, at least. There is emphasis on the word 'you' - he is more concerned about the possibility of /Jean/ needing him than the X-men requiring his presence. "I don't know how long I'll stick around New York - been feeling restless for a while. But I'll be in touch, if I do go."
"And if you need -me-," Jean answers in turn, no matter how unlikely the odds of it being, "I'll be here. But you know that," she concludes, restless herself as she pushes up and off the bed as the last bit of clothing is stowed away.
"Yeah," Logan agrees. "I know that." He regards her silently for a moment, as though searching for something. What it is, however, or whether or not he finds it, is unclear.
"I guess those tickets to the Carribbean will keep having an open date on them," says Jean, on the heels of her own silent observation as she stands, self-composed in every way possible bar her scent.
"Look me up when we don't have any more visitors from the Twilight Zone," Logan suggests. "I'll take you someplace nice. Without any mutant necromancers."
There's a snort at that, and this time with a ragged edge to it, as the attempt at a laugh brings other emotions up past the barrier dropped between them and the outside world. Water stands in Jean's eyes a moment, before she blinks it away furiously, and gives a little nod.
There is a moment of silent stillness, before Logan steps forward and leans down to claim Jean's lips in a brief kiss. It is, perhaps, meant to be substitute for a verbal farewell - a promise, implicit thought it may be, that the leavetaking is not permanent. Or perhaps not.
The kiss is brief. The hug that Logan is pulled into is less so. Jean, trumped by logic and the understanding that Logan is as Logan is, has no words. Thus, instead, there is simply a hard embrace, and Jean burying her face in the fabric of Logan's shirt, seeking cool fabric to press against heated eyes.
Logan's arms fold around Jean, tightly enough that were they to wrap any closer they might veer into uncomfortable. He lowers his head, just slightly, breathing in the scent of her as though storing up the sensory impressions against an absence of indeterminate length. He, too, remains silent, though it is less a lack of words than a certainty that they are not only unnecessary, but also would do more harm than good.
Long moments pass, measured in exact minutes and seconds by the digital clock beside the bed, and in heartbeats and mingled breath by the woman in Logan's arms. At last, aware of time's passage, stern marching orders are given to her arms, and Jean detatches from the hug to step back and resume her arms' wrap about her torso. "I guess... I'll let you finish packing, then."
Inevitable as his departure is, there is no hesitation in attempt to soften the blow. Logan nods once, and if he looks apologetic - for the pain caused, if not for his decision - he at least has the sense not to voice it. He is who he is; there is no use in apologizing for that which will not change. "Not much left to pack," he notes. "I'll be finished soon."
"If you're leaving tonight, I'll see you off," Jean says, moving over to the doorway and escape. "If you're leaving in the morning... I'll be in my room." That said, her hand finds the door handle, offering the courtesy of waiting for last words before she vanishes.
"I'll come by once I'm done," Logan promises. As last words go, they are not much - but then, the real ones will be spoken later, upon departure. For now, there are simply bags to pack.
"You should probably leave something for Rogue and Jubilee." Jean, deciding to take the last words for herself, does so. And then the door handle turns, and she lets herself back out into a hall blessedly empty of any curious onlookers who might get a look at her face.
Caution: A really disturbing mental image lurks within.
I wish Moira was here.
X-Men: Movieverse 3 - Saturday, August 11, 2007, 10:39 PM
---------------------------------------------------------
=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 ]
Late, but not too late, the door to Logan's room swings open, enough to let in a long and leggy expanse of girlfriend, crowned with her auburn hair worn up in a clip against the summer's heat. The school, while air conditioned, is large and old, and fiscal conservatism has deemed it good to leave it off and leave windows open wherever possible. The door shuts behind her, and Jean simply leans back against the wood, taking a moment to close her eyes in brief pleasure at having the dor between herself and the ouside world.
It is perhaps a testament to the whims of coincidence that this evening so closely matches another more than two years past, and in another world entirely. Logan, the set of his shoulders bespeaking tension that has been only building over the past several months, stands bent over a neatly made-up bed and a half-full suitcase, slowly and methodically being filled with a collection of possessions kept small in remembrance, both conscious and subconscious, of the necessity of mobility. He looks up as the door opens, no real surprise making its way onto his face as he spies Jean standing there. "Hey, Jeannie. Kids blow somethin' up?"
"Not... for lack of trying," reports Jean, eyes still shut, and with a glimmer of a smile on her lips in spite of the disapproving words. It lingers as she opens them, taking in suitcase and bed and Logan, and then freezes as her mind supplies motive for the method. Casually, just a bit -too- to the trained ear, she remains by the door, folds her arms over her chest, and wonders, "Taking off again?"
Logan, just as casually, places another folded shirt into the suitcase. "'Least they haven't thought to raid the lab," he offers. His own smile is wry, and there is a quick flick of a glance downwards, as though his words have spelled certain doom for the chemistry lab. All humour fades, however, as his gaze returns to Jean. "Not far. I ain't cut out to play gym teacher forever."
Jean's arms now wrap more than they fold, a tight self-hug that gives her hands something to do besides betray a sudden trembling. The small gesture does little to counter the unhappy tension that's slouched her stance just slightly, shoulders dropped for all of their schooled rigidity. "No," she agrees, still in that careful-casual tone. "You're not. Does Charles know?"
"Not yet. Don't figure he'll be too heartbroken to see me go, though." Logan snorts, quiet and lingering somewhere between amusement and irritation. "I ain't the best influence on people 'round here. Whatever's goin' on with Rogue is proof enough of /that/."
"Are you going to tell him?" Unspoken, the follow-up question of 'Do you want me to?'. In the wake of a pause in the emotional shelling, the arms wrapped across Jean's chest unclench somewhat, returning to simple folded status once more as she sighs, unleans from the wall, and crosses the small expanse of floor to settle on Logan's bed between his suitcase and his pillows. "I don't see how you can assign blame for Rogue's behavior to your door."
"I don't," Logan replies simply. "But it gives her an excuse - she ain't the only one around here who's not the model of self control." He's silent for a moment, before shrugging and replying, out of order, to the question of the minutiae of his departure. "Yeah. Leave him a letter of resignation, so he doesn't decide to track me down when the kiddies ain't running laps around the grounds come September."
"And it's more than just you who's lacking in it, from time to time." But for all the Phoenix's words, and for all the vague guilt in her eyes as she gives them breath and life, it's over-control, not under-control that seems to be Jean's choice for the night. Bloodless about the lips as she flattens them, she gives a small nod to the second answer. And doesn't ask a third question, for all it forms on her lips.
"From time to time ain't the same thing as usually." There is no self-deprecation in Logan's words. Most people have control naturally. He has to struggle for it. Also, the sky is blue. He reaches one hand to brush callused fingers along her cheek. Going, maybe, but not yet gone. "I won't ask you to come with me. Figure you wouldn't wanna leave the kids."
"It's not a 'wouldn't want'," Jean assures, even as she turns her face just slightly from the brush of the fingers, cutting the contact short enough to keep her control in place. "It's a 'can't'. I took my sabbatical when I tried to get inside the Hellfire Club. I figure another... won't be for a while."
"I don't know how long I'll be gone." It has the sound of a warning. Logan does not, however, follow it up with anything else, though there is the sense of continuation lingering in the wings somewhere.
"Are you planning to follow that up with another goodbye?" Beyond bloodless, now, Jean's tone is altogether faint, her spine altogether rigid as she keeps to her cross-legged seat on the bed.
"No. I learned my lesson last time." There is no humour in Logan's tone, though there is the shadow of what might otherwise be, were the situation different. A broken nose teaches many lessons. "And I ain't runnin' to spare you danger now. I just can't keep sittin' around here rotting while a half-senile old man masturbates to the thought that he has a fighter jet and a private team of superheroes."
In spite of herself, Jean smiles at the memory, and her right hand flexes once as it rests in her lap. It soon dissolves into a cringe before she can help herself at the particular imagery chosen to represent Charles Xavier. Father figure, -ew-? "I wouldn't call what we're doing -rotting-," says Jean, with perhaps just a flicker of a warning light in her eyes. "The intelligence I gather..."
"Ain't in fields I'm any good at," Logan finishes. "Last thing I was any use for was helpin' to send a fucking magic bear back to its own world. Other than that, I may as well just be a damn gym teacher, for all the good I do 'round here."
"So what are you planning on doing elsewhere, then?" Jean wonders, arms crossing her chest again at a sudden chill more psychoogical than meteorological.
"Not sit around and wait on the off chance Chuck decides we're actually necessary. Not feel like I have some fuckin' obligation to fix the shit that goes on in the city without having the option to actually /do/ anything." Logan sighs, raising a hand to his eyes scrub away weariness that has no relation at all to the physical. "I'm sick of feeling useless, Jeannie. I'm sick of feeling /helpless/."
Silence, then, as Jean shifts from cross-legged to hugging her knees against her chest, the mask of a telepath's self-control slipping enough to allow the rapid thoughts beneath the surface free play across her expression. In the end, she says simply that "I can understand that."
"Thought you might." There's one more bit of folded clothing to lay in the suitcase, and then Logan zips it shut. Not much, all in all. "I ain't gonna say goodbye, but I ain't gonna ask you to put your life on hold, either."
A wry grimace creases Jean's features at that, equal parts amused memory and tears that are more of frustration than sadness, but kept just as ruthlessly unshed. "I'm glad I don't have to punch you in the nose again, then. And if you're going to be in the City..." Silently, the thought rises: intelligence can be shared.
"I'll be around if you need me," Logan replies, clarification of distance, at least. There is emphasis on the word 'you' - he is more concerned about the possibility of /Jean/ needing him than the X-men requiring his presence. "I don't know how long I'll stick around New York - been feeling restless for a while. But I'll be in touch, if I do go."
"And if you need -me-," Jean answers in turn, no matter how unlikely the odds of it being, "I'll be here. But you know that," she concludes, restless herself as she pushes up and off the bed as the last bit of clothing is stowed away.
"Yeah," Logan agrees. "I know that." He regards her silently for a moment, as though searching for something. What it is, however, or whether or not he finds it, is unclear.
"I guess those tickets to the Carribbean will keep having an open date on them," says Jean, on the heels of her own silent observation as she stands, self-composed in every way possible bar her scent.
"Look me up when we don't have any more visitors from the Twilight Zone," Logan suggests. "I'll take you someplace nice. Without any mutant necromancers."
There's a snort at that, and this time with a ragged edge to it, as the attempt at a laugh brings other emotions up past the barrier dropped between them and the outside world. Water stands in Jean's eyes a moment, before she blinks it away furiously, and gives a little nod.
There is a moment of silent stillness, before Logan steps forward and leans down to claim Jean's lips in a brief kiss. It is, perhaps, meant to be substitute for a verbal farewell - a promise, implicit thought it may be, that the leavetaking is not permanent. Or perhaps not.
The kiss is brief. The hug that Logan is pulled into is less so. Jean, trumped by logic and the understanding that Logan is as Logan is, has no words. Thus, instead, there is simply a hard embrace, and Jean burying her face in the fabric of Logan's shirt, seeking cool fabric to press against heated eyes.
Logan's arms fold around Jean, tightly enough that were they to wrap any closer they might veer into uncomfortable. He lowers his head, just slightly, breathing in the scent of her as though storing up the sensory impressions against an absence of indeterminate length. He, too, remains silent, though it is less a lack of words than a certainty that they are not only unnecessary, but also would do more harm than good.
Long moments pass, measured in exact minutes and seconds by the digital clock beside the bed, and in heartbeats and mingled breath by the woman in Logan's arms. At last, aware of time's passage, stern marching orders are given to her arms, and Jean detatches from the hug to step back and resume her arms' wrap about her torso. "I guess... I'll let you finish packing, then."
Inevitable as his departure is, there is no hesitation in attempt to soften the blow. Logan nods once, and if he looks apologetic - for the pain caused, if not for his decision - he at least has the sense not to voice it. He is who he is; there is no use in apologizing for that which will not change. "Not much left to pack," he notes. "I'll be finished soon."
"If you're leaving tonight, I'll see you off," Jean says, moving over to the doorway and escape. "If you're leaving in the morning... I'll be in my room." That said, her hand finds the door handle, offering the courtesy of waiting for last words before she vanishes.
"I'll come by once I'm done," Logan promises. As last words go, they are not much - but then, the real ones will be spoken later, upon departure. For now, there are simply bags to pack.
"You should probably leave something for Rogue and Jubilee." Jean, deciding to take the last words for herself, does so. And then the door handle turns, and she lets herself back out into a hall blessedly empty of any curious onlookers who might get a look at her face.
Caution: A really disturbing mental image lurks within.