6/1/07 - Beston: Jean
---
It is Friday night, and John Beston is a few drinks under the water. The hangdog cheeks are ruddy, flushed with an alcoholic content that makes its mark on the weathered skin. He wanders through his apartment in Brooklyn, cheap, depressing furniture half-hidden under the detritus of a bachelor life. The television blares in soundless color, spilling light across the room to compete with the buzz of a floor lamp by the couch.
He paces a hole in his carpet, his cell phone balanced in a hand. Six laps. Seven. On the eighth, he flips open its face and plugs in a number taken from a post-it out of his pocket. Nine laps. He chews the inside of his cheek and waits.
He has four rings to wait through, one more than Jean Grey would normally permit a supplicant to wait. But it is a Friday night, and Jean herself is under the water. Bathwater, to be precise, with a heavy layer of bubbles, and a row of interestingly-titled exfolients and other mysterious feminine rejuvenation products all lined up on the edge. There is the odd echo of bathroom walls and a little slosh of water to accompany the answer of "Jean here. Hello?"
Jean has been working on the notion of me-time. She has yet to perfect leaving her cell phone behind.
Three rings in, Beston is already preparing to cut the connection. It is as he is drawing the phone away from his ear that Jean answers -- and committed by forces beyond his control, he hastily bumps the device against his ear again. "Dr. Grey," he greets, the gravelly bass cautious over the line. In for a penny-- "This is Detective Beston. John Beston. Rossi's partner. Am I calling you at a bad time?"
"Not at all, Detective Beston!" Jean's voice is reassuringly calm and cheerful, even if she spares a mournful glance at her big toes, poking out from beneath the bubbles at the far end of the tub. Polishing will have to wait, little friends. Water sloshes as she sits up, the better to keep electronics and bathwater from becoming aquainted. Audible across the line, it begs a sheepish explanation of "A Friday Night bubble bath is one of the few places students dare not intrude."
"Now that's just cruel," John says a bit mournfully, his glance cutting towards the figures gyrating on his television. Insofar as bubble baths are concerned, the program leaves a great deal to the imagination. "All I can afford on a cop's salary is a shower and a loofa. Haven't taken a bath since I was a babe in Mama's arms. I can call back if you'd rather," he adds. "It ain't urgent. I just had a question I wasn't sure where to take."
"Ah, but you're not a student, Detective John Beston," Jean points out, with a glance at her own personal loofah, loofing about beside the row of exfoliants. "And if you want to pad your salary a bit, just go tell the tabloids about your steamy conversations with telepaths in their bathtubs. But ask away," she encourages, with the water sloshing again as one foot submerged, fishes, and then locates a wash cloth that had fluttered away down out of sight.
John's grin translates over the line for the one word -- "Tease," -- but fades away for the small silence, the struggle of conscience wrestling with pragmatism. "I got a hypothetical for you. Just between you and me. Your line isn't being monitored, is it? The Feds're off the headphones?"
The loofah's temptations are too much. Trapping her phone between shoulder and ear, Jean reaches. She finds her reach wanting. She *reaches*, and the scrubby sponge-thing smacks soundly into her palm. Jean smiles. "According to our resident techie, they are. Hypothetically, what's on your mind?"
"Hypothetically," John says, and the Midwest accent twangs towards wryness. He drops into his couch, newspapers crackling under his rear, and shoves magazines and an empty pizza box off the cushions so he can sprawl wide across the cushions. "Let's say you got a guy who's got a temper. Nothing too bad -- he's just quick off the trigger, if you get my drift. And one day, for no reason, he starts singing Broadway songs whenever he gets mad."
Silence greets this. There is a drip of water to punctuate it. "Hypothetically... how much have you had to drink?" Jean wonders, with a touch of suspicion. But, an indistinct noise later, she waves a loofah at him, despite the lack of visual transferrence of the gesture. "Hypothetically, he could've had a telepath messing with him, assuming there's no medical findings to rule out. I haven't -heard- of any tumours causing people to burst into song, but brains are tricky."
John pauses. "Tumors," he says, and the word emerges slowly, with a hint of worry to it. He frowns blankly at the television, and leans to fumble through the mess on the coffee table in a vain search for the remote. "So he should get his brain checked out, right? I mean, hypothetically speaking. Like a scan or something. Talk to a medical doctor, not a shrink."
"If this is Rossi we're hypothetically speaking about," Jean murmurs, sitting up straight again with another slosh of water, "Telepaths are more likely than tumours. But it can't hurt to rule them out, and a single session of scanning would probably do it. It would have to be pretty major to do that. Has he had any numbness or tingling in his fingers or toes?"
"Hypothetically," John says mournfully, "he hasn't complained about anything like that. All I know is a few weeks ago, we were in some interview somewhere, and he suddenly started singing Guys and Dolls. It keeps happening. Every time he gets upset -- Captain had to desk him a few days ago," he adds, the fiction discarded in favor of directness. "Has him seeing a shrink."
"Bet he's loving that," Jean muses wryly, one creature of action reflecting upon the fate of another. Water sloshes more vigorously as a decision is made and she abandons the bath entire, stepping out onto her bathroo rug and beelining for a towel with a little gasp, involuntary, at cooler air. "If you can drag him up to the school without him taking off to go corner my best friend, my MRI and CT have much shorter waiting lists than any of the city's hospitals."
John says nothing for a moment. The remote, located under a crumpled napkin and wedged in the carcass of a hamburger container, serves its purpose. The television clicks off. "I'll see what I can do," he says at last, though doubt cramps the reply. "Might be easier to get him to see his regular doc, now that the Cap's desked him. Driving him crazy."
"If and when the neurologists clear him -- and they can test for a -lot- of things, if the sheer amount of pain that was my neurology class is any indication," Jean interjects, with bath towel exchanged for fluffy bathrobe and a seat at her vanity. "I'd be willing to take a look and see if there's anything going on up there that shouldn't be, if he's willing to let me look."
John snorts, a chuff of breath that is audible over the line. "Good luck," he says, cheerfully sympathetic for someone else's difficulties. "You should've heard him when I suggested he have a telepath check him out. Guy's head is Grand Central Station for your peeps, Doc. Any way you guys can put up a no-crossing sign? Maybe tattoo it on his forehead in invisible telepath ink?"
Jean snorts a laugh at that. "Divide the headblind into our own litle personal fiefdoms," she agrees. "You go over -there-, this one's -mine-."
"Whatever it takes," John says through a throaty chuckle. He tosses the remote aside and settles back, sprawling with a yawn across yesterday's paper. "All I know is, I got no partner until this gets fixed. I'll see what I can do. Thanks, Doc." His grin is audible, flushing the deep bass with warmth. "Appreciate the time. Sorry about your bath."
"Guess I may just have to embrace the idea of self-policing telepaths, if laws won't do crap," Jean reflects, more pensive and more private, before that hanging grin earns a chuckle from her in turn. "Honestly, I was getting bored. Take care, Beston... and take care of him."
"Always do," Beston quips -- and that is what serves as his answer and his farewell. She cannot see the touch of fingertips to his brow, a makeshift salute meant for eyes, not ears. The phone clicks off. Beston tosses it aside to the chair and sinks his head back, eyes closing.
[Log ends]
Beston brings a hypothetical situation to the only telepath he knows. Pretend there's this young cop who has a temper who suddenly starts singing Broadway....
It is Friday night, and John Beston is a few drinks under the water. The hangdog cheeks are ruddy, flushed with an alcoholic content that makes its mark on the weathered skin. He wanders through his apartment in Brooklyn, cheap, depressing furniture half-hidden under the detritus of a bachelor life. The television blares in soundless color, spilling light across the room to compete with the buzz of a floor lamp by the couch.
He paces a hole in his carpet, his cell phone balanced in a hand. Six laps. Seven. On the eighth, he flips open its face and plugs in a number taken from a post-it out of his pocket. Nine laps. He chews the inside of his cheek and waits.
He has four rings to wait through, one more than Jean Grey would normally permit a supplicant to wait. But it is a Friday night, and Jean herself is under the water. Bathwater, to be precise, with a heavy layer of bubbles, and a row of interestingly-titled exfolients and other mysterious feminine rejuvenation products all lined up on the edge. There is the odd echo of bathroom walls and a little slosh of water to accompany the answer of "Jean here. Hello?"
Jean has been working on the notion of me-time. She has yet to perfect leaving her cell phone behind.
Three rings in, Beston is already preparing to cut the connection. It is as he is drawing the phone away from his ear that Jean answers -- and committed by forces beyond his control, he hastily bumps the device against his ear again. "Dr. Grey," he greets, the gravelly bass cautious over the line. In for a penny-- "This is Detective Beston. John Beston. Rossi's partner. Am I calling you at a bad time?"
"Not at all, Detective Beston!" Jean's voice is reassuringly calm and cheerful, even if she spares a mournful glance at her big toes, poking out from beneath the bubbles at the far end of the tub. Polishing will have to wait, little friends. Water sloshes as she sits up, the better to keep electronics and bathwater from becoming aquainted. Audible across the line, it begs a sheepish explanation of "A Friday Night bubble bath is one of the few places students dare not intrude."
"Now that's just cruel," John says a bit mournfully, his glance cutting towards the figures gyrating on his television. Insofar as bubble baths are concerned, the program leaves a great deal to the imagination. "All I can afford on a cop's salary is a shower and a loofa. Haven't taken a bath since I was a babe in Mama's arms. I can call back if you'd rather," he adds. "It ain't urgent. I just had a question I wasn't sure where to take."
"Ah, but you're not a student, Detective John Beston," Jean points out, with a glance at her own personal loofah, loofing about beside the row of exfoliants. "And if you want to pad your salary a bit, just go tell the tabloids about your steamy conversations with telepaths in their bathtubs. But ask away," she encourages, with the water sloshing again as one foot submerged, fishes, and then locates a wash cloth that had fluttered away down out of sight.
John's grin translates over the line for the one word -- "Tease," -- but fades away for the small silence, the struggle of conscience wrestling with pragmatism. "I got a hypothetical for you. Just between you and me. Your line isn't being monitored, is it? The Feds're off the headphones?"
The loofah's temptations are too much. Trapping her phone between shoulder and ear, Jean reaches. She finds her reach wanting. She *reaches*, and the scrubby sponge-thing smacks soundly into her palm. Jean smiles. "According to our resident techie, they are. Hypothetically, what's on your mind?"
"Hypothetically," John says, and the Midwest accent twangs towards wryness. He drops into his couch, newspapers crackling under his rear, and shoves magazines and an empty pizza box off the cushions so he can sprawl wide across the cushions. "Let's say you got a guy who's got a temper. Nothing too bad -- he's just quick off the trigger, if you get my drift. And one day, for no reason, he starts singing Broadway songs whenever he gets mad."
Silence greets this. There is a drip of water to punctuate it. "Hypothetically... how much have you had to drink?" Jean wonders, with a touch of suspicion. But, an indistinct noise later, she waves a loofah at him, despite the lack of visual transferrence of the gesture. "Hypothetically, he could've had a telepath messing with him, assuming there's no medical findings to rule out. I haven't -heard- of any tumours causing people to burst into song, but brains are tricky."
John pauses. "Tumors," he says, and the word emerges slowly, with a hint of worry to it. He frowns blankly at the television, and leans to fumble through the mess on the coffee table in a vain search for the remote. "So he should get his brain checked out, right? I mean, hypothetically speaking. Like a scan or something. Talk to a medical doctor, not a shrink."
"If this is Rossi we're hypothetically speaking about," Jean murmurs, sitting up straight again with another slosh of water, "Telepaths are more likely than tumours. But it can't hurt to rule them out, and a single session of scanning would probably do it. It would have to be pretty major to do that. Has he had any numbness or tingling in his fingers or toes?"
"Hypothetically," John says mournfully, "he hasn't complained about anything like that. All I know is a few weeks ago, we were in some interview somewhere, and he suddenly started singing Guys and Dolls. It keeps happening. Every time he gets upset -- Captain had to desk him a few days ago," he adds, the fiction discarded in favor of directness. "Has him seeing a shrink."
"Bet he's loving that," Jean muses wryly, one creature of action reflecting upon the fate of another. Water sloshes more vigorously as a decision is made and she abandons the bath entire, stepping out onto her bathroo rug and beelining for a towel with a little gasp, involuntary, at cooler air. "If you can drag him up to the school without him taking off to go corner my best friend, my MRI and CT have much shorter waiting lists than any of the city's hospitals."
John says nothing for a moment. The remote, located under a crumpled napkin and wedged in the carcass of a hamburger container, serves its purpose. The television clicks off. "I'll see what I can do," he says at last, though doubt cramps the reply. "Might be easier to get him to see his regular doc, now that the Cap's desked him. Driving him crazy."
"If and when the neurologists clear him -- and they can test for a -lot- of things, if the sheer amount of pain that was my neurology class is any indication," Jean interjects, with bath towel exchanged for fluffy bathrobe and a seat at her vanity. "I'd be willing to take a look and see if there's anything going on up there that shouldn't be, if he's willing to let me look."
John snorts, a chuff of breath that is audible over the line. "Good luck," he says, cheerfully sympathetic for someone else's difficulties. "You should've heard him when I suggested he have a telepath check him out. Guy's head is Grand Central Station for your peeps, Doc. Any way you guys can put up a no-crossing sign? Maybe tattoo it on his forehead in invisible telepath ink?"
Jean snorts a laugh at that. "Divide the headblind into our own litle personal fiefdoms," she agrees. "You go over -there-, this one's -mine-."
"Whatever it takes," John says through a throaty chuckle. He tosses the remote aside and settles back, sprawling with a yawn across yesterday's paper. "All I know is, I got no partner until this gets fixed. I'll see what I can do. Thanks, Doc." His grin is audible, flushing the deep bass with warmth. "Appreciate the time. Sorry about your bath."
"Guess I may just have to embrace the idea of self-policing telepaths, if laws won't do crap," Jean reflects, more pensive and more private, before that hanging grin earns a chuckle from her in turn. "Honestly, I was getting bored. Take care, Beston... and take care of him."
"Always do," Beston quips -- and that is what serves as his answer and his farewell. She cannot see the touch of fingertips to his brow, a makeshift salute meant for eyes, not ears. The phone clicks off. Beston tosses it aside to the chair and sinks his head back, eyes closing.
[Log ends]
Beston brings a hypothetical situation to the only telepath he knows. Pretend there's this young cop who has a temper who suddenly starts singing Broadway....