Fathers and Daughters:
For as long as the Xavier-generated Doom Cloud hangs over the school, Dr. Grey is being oddly absent. She teaches her classes, and then vanishes back out to the boat house, making office hours really quite irritating for her students to get to. Some say she is sulking. Others say she simply wishes to avoid a psionic headache. A third camp is of the opinion that she must have crazy psychic mutant PMS, and should be approached only with caution and offerings of chocolate.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Tuesday, October 16, 2007, 11:00 PM
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=XS= Xavier's Office - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
This is a quiet, gracious room, wood panels and polished wooden floor giving warmth to a great and high-ceilinged study. A large fireplace claims the inner wall, a mantel lipped wide under a 16th century painting of Leonidas at Thermopylae. Colors are rich, glowing with life and vigor; the room itself is adorned likewise, thick rugs laid underfoot to draw together the hues of curtains and prints. A large desk dominates the far end of the room, framed behind by high windows that look out across the lawn. Closer to the door, bookshelves curl around the corner, framing a small nook for heavy, butter-soft leather chairs and sofas circled around a small tea table and chessboard.
[Exits : [Li]brary and [X]avier's [R]oom]
[Players : Xavier ]
It is not Ethan who brings the evening tea today. Jean, abandoning her evening labours in the arena of Psionics For Dummies, has decided instead to reprise an earlier, girlhood ritual with an adult's concern colouring her mind's surface as she approaches the grand old door to a grand old man's personal spaces. With a light touch of her thoughts, the old silver tray balances on one hand, leaving the other free to knock physically as her mind does likewise on other planes. << Charles? >> she questions. << May I come in? >> The scent of Earl Grey is borrowed from her own awareness and woven through the words.
Irritation spikes through the doorway, a blunted, distracted thing that leaves the impression of a hasty word, rigidly checked before it disappears without a trace. Inside the office, Charles looks up from his paperwork, spectacles balanced precariously on the tip of that noble nose. "Bloody hell," he says aloud, in the purely vocal sphere. The door is thick, and does not share the sentiment with Jean. << Come in, >> a better modulated voice invites, betraying nothing beyond a cordial welcome: the company face. With a small sigh, the Professor sits back in his chair, a red pen perched between his fingers.
No rest for wicked, weary or righteous, it appears, as Jean opens the door and arrives with the tea. She shuts it behind her, the noise muffled by thick carpet and oiled hinges. Over to the desk she takes herself, but doesn't sit or lower the tray at first, instead studying to see where it might be set, and catching on to the pen held in the headmaster's fingers. Jean colours slightly. "Er," she says. "If I'm interrupting marking, I can come back later." There's a brief leak of hope that this is the case, quickly stifled to nothing more than a quick splash across the mind's eye.
"Red-lining," Charles says cryptically, placing the pen onto the blotter with a meticulous care that aligns it perfectly parallel with the edge of the high stack of papers he is editing. Contract work; the legal terminology bleeds across the page, 'whereas' and 'therefore' and 'party of the first' muttering across the white with a bloody trail of corrections and annotations in persuit. He rubs his high brow with his fingertips, pushing furrows where a frown already lives. "I take it there is something? Or have you simply decided to bring an old man his tea?"
"A little of both," Jean admits, finding a clear space courtesy of the size of the desk, and setting out teacups to fill, one after another, ritual providing focus and a brief break in time before she has to answer more fully. Words are passed over along with a cup and saucer, concievably accusatory if the tone and the mind behind them weren't worried. "I... overheard your argument with Monet last night," she opens with, and then falls silent, studying the aged and inscrutable face before her with quick-darting eyes.
An eyebrow rises. "Did you?" Charles asks, in a noncommittal fashion. He watches the tea things being distributed without further comment, then returns his attention to the red-lining. It is not, in any sense of the word, an invitation for further discussion. The deep, rich voice says mellowly, "I received a note the other day about community involvement in a local church. Apparently, it has gained quite the following in recent weeks. Are you aware of it? Reverend -- I believe I have the card here, somewhere."
"Pastor Jack," Jean supplies, initially quelled by the change of subject as a dutiful daughter ought to be. "Tim, among other students, has been volunteering." One sugar cube is added to her tea. Another joins it, and she reaches for a teaspoon. A sip is taken, and then the tea is set back down in the saucer with an audible clink, and a frisson of worry across the mental plane. "Are you all right, Charles?"
Charles writes a definite comment for the lawyer's edification in his old-fashioned, slightly crabbed script. 'This is not acceptable.' "Quite fine, thank you, Jean," he says briskly. His head rises; for a moment, there is the warmth of the old, familiar smile on the slightly stern features. "Thank you for asking. Barring the tedium of this particular settlement, that is. --Pastor Jack. That was the name. Have you visited the ... is it a parish? Or should I say 'flock'?"
Jean is not reassured, and with a solid door between her and student eyes, it shows in an expression that's tight about the eyes and lips that don't match the offered smile. Teacup taken up once more, she cradles it before her chest instead of sipping, like some oddly-shaped bird's egg. "Congregation?" she offers, before mind and voice burst briefly as one. "Charles, it felt like you were on the edge of losing control last night, over -Monet St. Croix-. Can you at least see why that might worry me?"
Charles's eyebrow rises. A distinct chill settles in the deep-set, canny eyes, and his face and elegant frame stiffen. "I can see that you have learned a tendency towards drama from Ms. St. Croix," he says, his accent crisp around the edges, the consonants clipping with distinct displeasure. "I was nowhere near 'losing control,' as you put it, then or at any other time. Despite provocation. I would have thought you would know not to leap to hasty conclusions regarding my self-discipline, but it seems that was unreasonable of me." A flicker of -- something darts quicksilver behind the cool mask. Hurt? Perhaps.
"Hasty?" There's no 'perhaps' about the hurt that flickers through Jean's eyes. "Attempting to manipulate me into apologizing because I'm concerned about you, Charles?" she questions, fingers clutching at her teacup. More could be said, and indeed it roils behind a suddenly-raised wall in her mind, tangles and twists of memory behind a flat plane of concrete blocks. But, aware that she who points out manipulation is best not to try any of her own, nothing more escapes.
The old man's mouth firms. There is nothing more to be read from body, from mind, or from face: all three are closed off from her, a blank slate from which nothing escapes. "Is there anything else, my dear?" Charles asks civilly, and picks up his pen again. The discussion, it seems, is over.
"Apparently not," Jean replies, and is not as good at Xavier at either civility or closing off. A persistant level of hedgehog-bristle is churning on the other side of the desk, and her hand, as she reaches for the tea tray, is just unsteady enough that she's forced to abandon the tea and take only her own cup and saucer with. Dr. Grey flees, in a fashion more at home in little girls. With slightly more sense of personal dignity than a nine year old, the churning of her mind fades out and away, headed in the direction of the lake, until it winks out of the normal mental range between them.
Charles Xavier is a stubborn old MEANIE HEAD.
=XS= The Boathouse - Breakstone Lake - Xavier's School
A welcome refuge from the crowded atmosphere of the mansion in the summer, the boathouse is appealing in its simplicity. A wooden chalet perched overtop the cinder block construction of the actual ground floor boat locker, access is by climbing a set of wooden stairs to a wide wraparound redwood deck with a thick 2x4 railing and built-in seats. The roof is of red asphalt shingles, and the wooden siding is kept in a crisp white. Shutters and frames are painted in red, and a long line of four-square windows look out over the lake. Inside, two tiny bedrooms and a miniscule bathroom are the only interior walls up, leaving the rest of the chalet as one open-concept room with a small kitchenette alone the inside wall. The flooring is old, scarred pine, warmed by braided rugs. The furniture is whatever aging things have been banished from the mansion proper. There are collections of old Readers Digest condensed books and magazines on a built-in shelf in the wood panel walls, the countertop is formica from the 1960s, and the appliances putter and hum rather capriciously, but it's a comfortable escape all the same. In the fridge, a collection of imported Canadian beer bottles lurks. A note states emphatically 'These are mine. -Logan'.
[Exits : [O]ut]
[Players : Kurt ]
It is not hard, perhaps, to deduce what new twist the lives of the Bold and the Mutated have taken on this chilly October's evening. Two powerful telepaths suddenly grow increasingly loud and projective, with one disappearing lakewards and the other remaining in enough of a funk that the very air of the school seems edged with powdered glass. Telepath the younger has chosen to flee with what dignity she can muster, out and away to the small boathouse chalet, where there is peace, solitude, and a light streaming through the living room windows, revealing a slumped redhaired figure at the table, face buried inside of a wall of her arms. Out on the deck, a golden retriever is whining interrogative concern.
Peace, perhaps. Solitude, however, may prove to be in short supply. It is difficult to say whether Kurt is fleeing the oppressive air that has settled over the school itself, or has come seeking the younger of the duelling telepaths. Both answers are equally likely, and likely correct in some measure. Regardless, there comes outside a soft voice murmering something soothing to the dog. It is in German, and likely not understood. Of course, the average golden retriever would understand English little better. And then there is a concussion of air falling into a space suddenly vacated, followed seconds later by a second such sound as an equal measure of air is displaced, at perching height on the back of the couch. Yellow eyes blink at Jean, concerned and curious within a blue-furred face schooled into lines of worried sympathy. "Jean? What is the matter?"
Outside, the dog, momentarily quiet, erupts into a frenzy of barking, leaping, and claw-scrabbling attempts to climb the glass of the sliding doors. "For God's sake, -shut up-, Pickles!!" comes the cry of the Grey, ragged around the edges as her head jerks up from her slump on the table. Red-rimmed eyes, a nose that resembles a misshapen tomato more than its usual graceful profile... 'Wild' is a good word for it. 'Crying' is another. "God..." Jean sighs, and then drops her head down again, shoulders trembling as an uneven "Kurt. Hi," is the acknowledgement of the concerned Elf's arrival.
The former descriptor, while not the first he'd choose - nor even high up on the list - is not one that seems /completely/ alien when applied to Dr. Jean Grey; if nothing else, her choice in significant others suggests some slight tendency wild-wards. The latter, however, well. Small wonder that Kurt's concern only deepens. He bounds down from his perch and lopes to the table, one hand reaching for his friend's shoulder, the other held slightly aside from his own body in a silent offer of a hug. Or perhaps a warning that one will be given. "What has happened?" he asks, voice pitched low and soothing, as though he is wary of startling her too badly.
Nate Grey-Summers is in possession of a truly massive stuffed toy tiger. Large enough that there is barely room in the child's bed for both tiger, tot, and the inestimable Pancake, it nonetheless stays, for in times of nightmare and fright, young master Grey-Summers clings to said plush tiger as if it might get away. It would be uncharitable to draw comparisons aloud between fuzzy toys and fuzzy fencing instructors, but we must say that there's a marked similarity between mother and son in the way Jean turns from the table and buries herself for a long moment in the offered hug. She says nothing, but her hands are clenched in deep frustration even as her shoulders remain unevenly a-tremble.
Comparison to a stuffed toy would not be the worst Kurt has been subjected to over the years. However, stuffed toys, even stuffed tigers, have one drawback: they can be clung to, but they cannot hug back. Kurt, however, can. And does, murmering quietly in his native tongue, a low string of syllables that, while they may have meaning of their own, serve largely as soothing nonsense, a quiet litany of sound promising that even if things may not be all right, they shall not be faced alone.
A series of swallows and ragged exhalations signal an attempt to regain calm and poise, automatic in the presence of another person, even one so comforting as a trusted colleague. Jean sits up, flashes a smile full of watery gratitude, and then looks away, out at the sliding doors, where a golden retriever now sits guarding them in sulking determination. "Charles Xavier is one of the most brilliant stubborn idiots I've ever loved as a father," she sums up, folding her arms across her chest in a pose meant to be briskly black-humoured and serving an added benefit of getting her shoulders to stop shaking.
Once, as a young boy, Kurt decided that he would try to add 'magician' to his repertoire, along with acrobat. It did not work out so well, as manual dexterity tends to be limited when one has only three fingers on each hand, but ever since he has carried with him a handkerchief or two at all times. One such, a scrap of cheerfully yellow fabric, is produced now, with only a slight flourish, and offered to Jean. It is possible that Kurt has grasped her instinct for poise. "Ah," says he, as though the brief explanation explains everything. The slight tilt of his head, however, invites elaboration - while he will not /press/, he will gladly listen.
Poise indeed. Jean does not honk her nose into the handkerchief. She takes it with a stiff little nod, and dabs assiduously at her eyes, the colour cheerful and incongrouous amongst the WOE. (Somewhere in her brain, this is recognized and a vague and idle thought wonders if the colour was chosen on purpose for this reason.) Not terribly talkative is she, with the bulk of her gaze turned out upon the dog, the deck, and the lake beyond them, but she does eventually offer up, out of a vague sense of a duty to a concerned friend to talk, that "I must look pretty silly."
"Not silly," Kurt assures, tone and expression both schooled to a level of solemnity only seldom seen in the typically-flamboyant Elf. "Hurt, perhaps. Distressed. But not silly." And then he smiles, a flicker of mischief returning, enough to fulfill the friend's duty to tease and prod. "Or at least, only a little."
"I'm sure that in the morning I'll feel pretty silly," replies Jean, with another smile that doesn't even try to reach her eyes. Face suitably dabbed, she folds the handkerchief into anal-retentive and neat little squares, and offers it back, a good excuse to get to her feet and wander away from table and Kurt both, the kitchen sink and cold water proving a more pressing contact to make. "After all, someone less than a month away from her thirty seventh birthday really shouldn't be running off to have a cry because of what wasn't even an argument. I'm glad it's you out here and not one of the students."
"/Now/ you are being silly, liebling," Kurt chides gently, head swivelling to allow him to track her progress towards the sink. "There is no age at which we become-" A brief pause, as he searches for the word he wants. "-Immune to sorrow. It is only that we are told not to express it far too often." His tail twitches, curling forward 'round his knees as he remains in his crouch by the table. "What is it, if I may ask, that you and our good professor did not argue about?"
Jean chuffs a laugh at that, the sound of running water a backdrop for a few seconds as she fills one of the mismatched drinking glasses long exiled from the stylish surroundings of the house. "You may ask," she assures. "But... I don't think sharing this around will improve the matter any. ...I'm sorry, Kurt." she's quick to add, in a moment of WASP-raised wobbliness and alarm at giving offense.
There are undoubtedly those amongst the school's residents who would take offense, though one wonders how many of them have yet lost the ability to count their years on fingers and toes without repeating a one. Kurt is not one of these. He simply inclines his head in solemn acceptance and replies, "I understand. Some things are private." A small smile, then, aimed to reassure the wobbly WASP that there is no offense taken, and that there will be none taken from the answer to the question that follows, whatever it may be. "Would you prefer to be left to yourself? I do not mean to intrude, if you would like solitude."
"I..." More trailing off, as Jean attempts to find a suitably polite way to say 'yes please', despite the fact that Nightcrawler has already made the offer, and clearly made it of his own free will. A drink of the water is taken, Jean sighs, closes her eyes, and nods. "Please. And, er, could you let Pickles in?" she requests, smile wobbling into view again, and this time managing to stick, crooked. "It's not his fault one of his people is being incomprehensible."
"Of course." Kurt rises, tail uncoiling. He does not immediately move for the door, instead padding over to squeeze Jean's shoulder lightly, a gesture of support, should she need it. "I hope that you find some peace for what troubles you." And then he is heading out the door, with enough space left for the poor, baffled goldie to slip past.
Jean's mind keeps firmly to itself, the better to tune out any spill that might survive the half mile between Xavier and herself, but her hand reaches up to vaguely pat the squeezing hand on her shoulder, and she gives a little nods. There's a quiet "Thank you, Kurt," which is left all but inaudible beneath the flurry of whines and aborted yips that rise from a golden retriever now doing his best to burrow physically into Jean's legs in a frenzy of canine assurance that He is Here! All will be Well!
Wherein Jean is self-conscious and EMO, Kurt is fuzzy and not a MEANIE HEAD, and a golden retriever is distressed.
X-Men: Movieverse 2 - Tuesday, October 16, 2007, 11:00 PM
---------------------------------------------------------
=XS= Xavier's Office - Lv 1 - Xavier's School
This is a quiet, gracious room, wood panels and polished wooden floor giving warmth to a great and high-ceilinged study. A large fireplace claims the inner wall, a mantel lipped wide under a 16th century painting of Leonidas at Thermopylae. Colors are rich, glowing with life and vigor; the room itself is adorned likewise, thick rugs laid underfoot to draw together the hues of curtains and prints. A large desk dominates the far end of the room, framed behind by high windows that look out across the lawn. Closer to the door, bookshelves curl around the corner, framing a small nook for heavy, butter-soft leather chairs and sofas circled around a small tea table and chessboard.
[Exits : [Li]brary and [X]avier's [R]oom]
[Players : Xavier ]
It is not Ethan who brings the evening tea today. Jean, abandoning her evening labours in the arena of Psionics For Dummies, has decided instead to reprise an earlier, girlhood ritual with an adult's concern colouring her mind's surface as she approaches the grand old door to a grand old man's personal spaces. With a light touch of her thoughts, the old silver tray balances on one hand, leaving the other free to knock physically as her mind does likewise on other planes. << Charles? >> she questions. << May I come in? >> The scent of Earl Grey is borrowed from her own awareness and woven through the words.
Irritation spikes through the doorway, a blunted, distracted thing that leaves the impression of a hasty word, rigidly checked before it disappears without a trace. Inside the office, Charles looks up from his paperwork, spectacles balanced precariously on the tip of that noble nose. "Bloody hell," he says aloud, in the purely vocal sphere. The door is thick, and does not share the sentiment with Jean. << Come in, >> a better modulated voice invites, betraying nothing beyond a cordial welcome: the company face. With a small sigh, the Professor sits back in his chair, a red pen perched between his fingers.
No rest for wicked, weary or righteous, it appears, as Jean opens the door and arrives with the tea. She shuts it behind her, the noise muffled by thick carpet and oiled hinges. Over to the desk she takes herself, but doesn't sit or lower the tray at first, instead studying to see where it might be set, and catching on to the pen held in the headmaster's fingers. Jean colours slightly. "Er," she says. "If I'm interrupting marking, I can come back later." There's a brief leak of hope that this is the case, quickly stifled to nothing more than a quick splash across the mind's eye.
"Red-lining," Charles says cryptically, placing the pen onto the blotter with a meticulous care that aligns it perfectly parallel with the edge of the high stack of papers he is editing. Contract work; the legal terminology bleeds across the page, 'whereas' and 'therefore' and 'party of the first' muttering across the white with a bloody trail of corrections and annotations in persuit. He rubs his high brow with his fingertips, pushing furrows where a frown already lives. "I take it there is something? Or have you simply decided to bring an old man his tea?"
"A little of both," Jean admits, finding a clear space courtesy of the size of the desk, and setting out teacups to fill, one after another, ritual providing focus and a brief break in time before she has to answer more fully. Words are passed over along with a cup and saucer, concievably accusatory if the tone and the mind behind them weren't worried. "I... overheard your argument with Monet last night," she opens with, and then falls silent, studying the aged and inscrutable face before her with quick-darting eyes.
An eyebrow rises. "Did you?" Charles asks, in a noncommittal fashion. He watches the tea things being distributed without further comment, then returns his attention to the red-lining. It is not, in any sense of the word, an invitation for further discussion. The deep, rich voice says mellowly, "I received a note the other day about community involvement in a local church. Apparently, it has gained quite the following in recent weeks. Are you aware of it? Reverend -- I believe I have the card here, somewhere."
"Pastor Jack," Jean supplies, initially quelled by the change of subject as a dutiful daughter ought to be. "Tim, among other students, has been volunteering." One sugar cube is added to her tea. Another joins it, and she reaches for a teaspoon. A sip is taken, and then the tea is set back down in the saucer with an audible clink, and a frisson of worry across the mental plane. "Are you all right, Charles?"
Charles writes a definite comment for the lawyer's edification in his old-fashioned, slightly crabbed script. 'This is not acceptable.' "Quite fine, thank you, Jean," he says briskly. His head rises; for a moment, there is the warmth of the old, familiar smile on the slightly stern features. "Thank you for asking. Barring the tedium of this particular settlement, that is. --Pastor Jack. That was the name. Have you visited the ... is it a parish? Or should I say 'flock'?"
Jean is not reassured, and with a solid door between her and student eyes, it shows in an expression that's tight about the eyes and lips that don't match the offered smile. Teacup taken up once more, she cradles it before her chest instead of sipping, like some oddly-shaped bird's egg. "Congregation?" she offers, before mind and voice burst briefly as one. "Charles, it felt like you were on the edge of losing control last night, over -Monet St. Croix-. Can you at least see why that might worry me?"
Charles's eyebrow rises. A distinct chill settles in the deep-set, canny eyes, and his face and elegant frame stiffen. "I can see that you have learned a tendency towards drama from Ms. St. Croix," he says, his accent crisp around the edges, the consonants clipping with distinct displeasure. "I was nowhere near 'losing control,' as you put it, then or at any other time. Despite provocation. I would have thought you would know not to leap to hasty conclusions regarding my self-discipline, but it seems that was unreasonable of me." A flicker of -- something darts quicksilver behind the cool mask. Hurt? Perhaps.
"Hasty?" There's no 'perhaps' about the hurt that flickers through Jean's eyes. "Attempting to manipulate me into apologizing because I'm concerned about you, Charles?" she questions, fingers clutching at her teacup. More could be said, and indeed it roils behind a suddenly-raised wall in her mind, tangles and twists of memory behind a flat plane of concrete blocks. But, aware that she who points out manipulation is best not to try any of her own, nothing more escapes.
The old man's mouth firms. There is nothing more to be read from body, from mind, or from face: all three are closed off from her, a blank slate from which nothing escapes. "Is there anything else, my dear?" Charles asks civilly, and picks up his pen again. The discussion, it seems, is over.
"Apparently not," Jean replies, and is not as good at Xavier at either civility or closing off. A persistant level of hedgehog-bristle is churning on the other side of the desk, and her hand, as she reaches for the tea tray, is just unsteady enough that she's forced to abandon the tea and take only her own cup and saucer with. Dr. Grey flees, in a fashion more at home in little girls. With slightly more sense of personal dignity than a nine year old, the churning of her mind fades out and away, headed in the direction of the lake, until it winks out of the normal mental range between them.
Charles Xavier is a stubborn old MEANIE HEAD.
=XS= The Boathouse - Breakstone Lake - Xavier's School
A welcome refuge from the crowded atmosphere of the mansion in the summer, the boathouse is appealing in its simplicity. A wooden chalet perched overtop the cinder block construction of the actual ground floor boat locker, access is by climbing a set of wooden stairs to a wide wraparound redwood deck with a thick 2x4 railing and built-in seats. The roof is of red asphalt shingles, and the wooden siding is kept in a crisp white. Shutters and frames are painted in red, and a long line of four-square windows look out over the lake. Inside, two tiny bedrooms and a miniscule bathroom are the only interior walls up, leaving the rest of the chalet as one open-concept room with a small kitchenette alone the inside wall. The flooring is old, scarred pine, warmed by braided rugs. The furniture is whatever aging things have been banished from the mansion proper. There are collections of old Readers Digest condensed books and magazines on a built-in shelf in the wood panel walls, the countertop is formica from the 1960s, and the appliances putter and hum rather capriciously, but it's a comfortable escape all the same. In the fridge, a collection of imported Canadian beer bottles lurks. A note states emphatically 'These are mine. -Logan'.
[Exits : [O]ut]
[Players : Kurt ]
It is not hard, perhaps, to deduce what new twist the lives of the Bold and the Mutated have taken on this chilly October's evening. Two powerful telepaths suddenly grow increasingly loud and projective, with one disappearing lakewards and the other remaining in enough of a funk that the very air of the school seems edged with powdered glass. Telepath the younger has chosen to flee with what dignity she can muster, out and away to the small boathouse chalet, where there is peace, solitude, and a light streaming through the living room windows, revealing a slumped redhaired figure at the table, face buried inside of a wall of her arms. Out on the deck, a golden retriever is whining interrogative concern.
Peace, perhaps. Solitude, however, may prove to be in short supply. It is difficult to say whether Kurt is fleeing the oppressive air that has settled over the school itself, or has come seeking the younger of the duelling telepaths. Both answers are equally likely, and likely correct in some measure. Regardless, there comes outside a soft voice murmering something soothing to the dog. It is in German, and likely not understood. Of course, the average golden retriever would understand English little better. And then there is a concussion of air falling into a space suddenly vacated, followed seconds later by a second such sound as an equal measure of air is displaced, at perching height on the back of the couch. Yellow eyes blink at Jean, concerned and curious within a blue-furred face schooled into lines of worried sympathy. "Jean? What is the matter?"
Outside, the dog, momentarily quiet, erupts into a frenzy of barking, leaping, and claw-scrabbling attempts to climb the glass of the sliding doors. "For God's sake, -shut up-, Pickles!!" comes the cry of the Grey, ragged around the edges as her head jerks up from her slump on the table. Red-rimmed eyes, a nose that resembles a misshapen tomato more than its usual graceful profile... 'Wild' is a good word for it. 'Crying' is another. "God..." Jean sighs, and then drops her head down again, shoulders trembling as an uneven "Kurt. Hi," is the acknowledgement of the concerned Elf's arrival.
The former descriptor, while not the first he'd choose - nor even high up on the list - is not one that seems /completely/ alien when applied to Dr. Jean Grey; if nothing else, her choice in significant others suggests some slight tendency wild-wards. The latter, however, well. Small wonder that Kurt's concern only deepens. He bounds down from his perch and lopes to the table, one hand reaching for his friend's shoulder, the other held slightly aside from his own body in a silent offer of a hug. Or perhaps a warning that one will be given. "What has happened?" he asks, voice pitched low and soothing, as though he is wary of startling her too badly.
Nate Grey-Summers is in possession of a truly massive stuffed toy tiger. Large enough that there is barely room in the child's bed for both tiger, tot, and the inestimable Pancake, it nonetheless stays, for in times of nightmare and fright, young master Grey-Summers clings to said plush tiger as if it might get away. It would be uncharitable to draw comparisons aloud between fuzzy toys and fuzzy fencing instructors, but we must say that there's a marked similarity between mother and son in the way Jean turns from the table and buries herself for a long moment in the offered hug. She says nothing, but her hands are clenched in deep frustration even as her shoulders remain unevenly a-tremble.
Comparison to a stuffed toy would not be the worst Kurt has been subjected to over the years. However, stuffed toys, even stuffed tigers, have one drawback: they can be clung to, but they cannot hug back. Kurt, however, can. And does, murmering quietly in his native tongue, a low string of syllables that, while they may have meaning of their own, serve largely as soothing nonsense, a quiet litany of sound promising that even if things may not be all right, they shall not be faced alone.
A series of swallows and ragged exhalations signal an attempt to regain calm and poise, automatic in the presence of another person, even one so comforting as a trusted colleague. Jean sits up, flashes a smile full of watery gratitude, and then looks away, out at the sliding doors, where a golden retriever now sits guarding them in sulking determination. "Charles Xavier is one of the most brilliant stubborn idiots I've ever loved as a father," she sums up, folding her arms across her chest in a pose meant to be briskly black-humoured and serving an added benefit of getting her shoulders to stop shaking.
Once, as a young boy, Kurt decided that he would try to add 'magician' to his repertoire, along with acrobat. It did not work out so well, as manual dexterity tends to be limited when one has only three fingers on each hand, but ever since he has carried with him a handkerchief or two at all times. One such, a scrap of cheerfully yellow fabric, is produced now, with only a slight flourish, and offered to Jean. It is possible that Kurt has grasped her instinct for poise. "Ah," says he, as though the brief explanation explains everything. The slight tilt of his head, however, invites elaboration - while he will not /press/, he will gladly listen.
Poise indeed. Jean does not honk her nose into the handkerchief. She takes it with a stiff little nod, and dabs assiduously at her eyes, the colour cheerful and incongrouous amongst the WOE. (Somewhere in her brain, this is recognized and a vague and idle thought wonders if the colour was chosen on purpose for this reason.) Not terribly talkative is she, with the bulk of her gaze turned out upon the dog, the deck, and the lake beyond them, but she does eventually offer up, out of a vague sense of a duty to a concerned friend to talk, that "I must look pretty silly."
"Not silly," Kurt assures, tone and expression both schooled to a level of solemnity only seldom seen in the typically-flamboyant Elf. "Hurt, perhaps. Distressed. But not silly." And then he smiles, a flicker of mischief returning, enough to fulfill the friend's duty to tease and prod. "Or at least, only a little."
"I'm sure that in the morning I'll feel pretty silly," replies Jean, with another smile that doesn't even try to reach her eyes. Face suitably dabbed, she folds the handkerchief into anal-retentive and neat little squares, and offers it back, a good excuse to get to her feet and wander away from table and Kurt both, the kitchen sink and cold water proving a more pressing contact to make. "After all, someone less than a month away from her thirty seventh birthday really shouldn't be running off to have a cry because of what wasn't even an argument. I'm glad it's you out here and not one of the students."
"/Now/ you are being silly, liebling," Kurt chides gently, head swivelling to allow him to track her progress towards the sink. "There is no age at which we become-" A brief pause, as he searches for the word he wants. "-Immune to sorrow. It is only that we are told not to express it far too often." His tail twitches, curling forward 'round his knees as he remains in his crouch by the table. "What is it, if I may ask, that you and our good professor did not argue about?"
Jean chuffs a laugh at that, the sound of running water a backdrop for a few seconds as she fills one of the mismatched drinking glasses long exiled from the stylish surroundings of the house. "You may ask," she assures. "But... I don't think sharing this around will improve the matter any. ...I'm sorry, Kurt." she's quick to add, in a moment of WASP-raised wobbliness and alarm at giving offense.
There are undoubtedly those amongst the school's residents who would take offense, though one wonders how many of them have yet lost the ability to count their years on fingers and toes without repeating a one. Kurt is not one of these. He simply inclines his head in solemn acceptance and replies, "I understand. Some things are private." A small smile, then, aimed to reassure the wobbly WASP that there is no offense taken, and that there will be none taken from the answer to the question that follows, whatever it may be. "Would you prefer to be left to yourself? I do not mean to intrude, if you would like solitude."
"I..." More trailing off, as Jean attempts to find a suitably polite way to say 'yes please', despite the fact that Nightcrawler has already made the offer, and clearly made it of his own free will. A drink of the water is taken, Jean sighs, closes her eyes, and nods. "Please. And, er, could you let Pickles in?" she requests, smile wobbling into view again, and this time managing to stick, crooked. "It's not his fault one of his people is being incomprehensible."
"Of course." Kurt rises, tail uncoiling. He does not immediately move for the door, instead padding over to squeeze Jean's shoulder lightly, a gesture of support, should she need it. "I hope that you find some peace for what troubles you." And then he is heading out the door, with enough space left for the poor, baffled goldie to slip past.
Jean's mind keeps firmly to itself, the better to tune out any spill that might survive the half mile between Xavier and herself, but her hand reaches up to vaguely pat the squeezing hand on her shoulder, and she gives a little nods. There's a quiet "Thank you, Kurt," which is left all but inaudible beneath the flurry of whines and aborted yips that rise from a golden retriever now doing his best to burrow physically into Jean's legs in a frenzy of canine assurance that He is Here! All will be Well!
Wherein Jean is self-conscious and EMO, Kurt is fuzzy and not a MEANIE HEAD, and a golden retriever is distressed.