Naked Juice
Told John all of it. The school, the poodles, the shit with Canto. Everything. All the corners I've been cutting. All the crap I've pulled. All the stuff that'd get my ass suspended, or worse. Thought he'd rip me a new one.
Son of a bitch blinked and said he'd been wondering when I'd get around to telling him. Asshole knew. All along. Figured out about the school back when Grey outed herself. Even knew about Alyssa. Just never thought it was worth talking about.
Dickhead.
Bought him lunch. He says he'll spend some off-duty hours keeping an eye on Canto.
That'll teach me to try and keep secrets from my partner.
---
Sunday morning, and no church in sight, but where two or more are gathered together, there is God in the midst, right? Hopefully, the Almighty isn't easily made to blush if he's been hanging around. Having stolen most of the covers in the night fingers curled around the edge of the comforter to secure her prize, Jean's head is pillowed on Logan's shoulder as she snuffles gently in sleep. Tranquil, peaceful, and only occasionaly interrupted by scuffling and thumping noises from downstairs, where teenagers dwell.
Logan dozes lightly now, not fully asleep but definitely not fully awake yet. He finds himself disinclined to move, warm with Jean against his side. There a little draft coming under the corner of the covers, opposite the site of Jean's cover-thievery, but that's where being a hairy Canadian man with an exceptional metabolism comes in handy, and Logan dozes, undisturbed.
Too early for the sweet breath of sanctity, and Det. Rossi is surely not its representative. Tired, that haggard face, worn deep with shadow and the stamp of the past night's anxiety; in the armor of his heavy leather overcoat and badge, he paces an even measure behind his young guide: across the threshold, through the halls, into the private corridors of faculty residence. His shielding is conscientious, his mood no less so. What temper lies behind the haggard face is for him to know, and parcel out at whim. "This the door?" Given assent, he dispenses with preamble, and slams a fist into its panel. Once. Again. Eloquent muteness. Open /Up/.
Ever alert to changing patterns of thoughts and minds when awake... Jean currently sleeps like an attractively redhaired log. She mumbles something incomprehensible about penguins and pillows her face more firmly into Logan's shoulder.
Logan, on the other hand, wakes up sharply. He slides out of the bed as Jean attempts to burrow in and darts across the room at the hammering. He comes up to the door and flings the door open. This leaves him facing Rossi, scowling, in all his early morning natural splendor. "What?"
The hand is upraised for another blow -- they have a knack, the representatives of law and order, of making themselves heard -- only to drop at the door's slam open. Around the detective's ribs, his small, bobble-headed guide peeks with wide-eyed fascination. Rossi himself, slightly disconcerted, furrows a quick and thoughtless skim of eyes up and dow--up, up, up. "Well," he begins, baritone rasped. "At least I know you're not armed. Or--" Up. Up. Up. "--dangerous."
"Go -away-," informs the blurred and sleepy voice of Dr. Grey from the bed, discernable as a long lump beneath the sheets, before muzzy synapses fire to life, and she suddenly sits up, hair all a-tumble and her hands crossed to keep the comforter in place. A sleepy glance sideways results in a drawer opening, and a clean pair of boxer shorts flies over to drop and drape over the peeking student's head. "Jones. Shoo."
"It's early morning on the weekend," Logan grumbles at Rossi. "Only way I'm likely to be dangerous is if you try and keep me from coffee." His eyes narrow slightly with a certain malicious enjoyment. "Or unless you can't keep your eyes on my face." Then he gives a little glower to Jones, and a flicker of his eyebrows, suggesting in no uncertain body language that he should run away quickly.
The small, boxer-blinded student, having processed at last what eyes and mind have so spectacularly registered, begins squeaking: explanation, horror, (hilarity, oh! /Hilarity!/) Det. Rossi, child-wrangler, reaches with a leg to nudge the reeling pupil away. "What the hell kind of operation you guys running here?" he demands, indignation flensing the deep voice spare. "You always answer the door in your altogether? Christ. --Hey, Doc. You guys need a minute?" Exaggerated courtesy, that, threaded through with irritation.
"Oh, we need much more than a minute if -that's- what you're asking, Detective," drawls a Jean with deadly-dry mischief covering irritation at being awakened after a busy night. A hand runs through her hair, tugging it to tousled rights, and lingers with fingers pressed gently against a really remarkable hickey or two. The boxers hover in front of Logan with her next thought, easy arms' reach. "Go get us all some coffee, and we can probably talk in my quarters."
"Detective," Logan repeats. "Ahhhh. No, see, I come running whem someone pounds on my door because I assume it's an /emergency/ when they hammer like that." He does take the boxers and step into them smoothly. "Don't worry. I don't bite." << Well, >> he sends to Jean, an image of those hickies accompanying the qualifier.
"My partner knocks nicer," Rossi advises, scything one last, humorless glance at Jean in the bed before disappearing into the hallway. "Only difference being, if he came knocking at your door, it'd be to haul you into the station. --Go ahead. Take your time. I'll be here when you're done dressing." Back pressed to the near wall, gaze turned to the bumbling student groping his blind way down the corridor, the detective folds his arm in heavy patience, and waits.
Logan grimaces as he steps into some jeans and pulls on one of his sleeveless t-shirts. "Shit. Whatever it means, it can't be good," he replies. "And Jones can cope. With all the tv he watches, a couple naked teachers shouldn't leave him too broken. Let's not keep the good detective waiting any longer than necessary."
The good detective, clamped hard still on the stray of thought and emotion, plays a model of telepathic shielding in the hallway. Nothing here but us air molecules. Oh, look. Doors. One door, two door, three door, four door.
Jean, showing that she did indeed live through the fashions of the early 90s, takes the trailing ends of the borrowed shirt and ties them in a knot, before snugging on yesterday's jeans and padding barefoot to the door with a pause to deliver a good-morning kiss. "Not how I was planning to spend the morning, but let's see," she agrees, hand on the knob and turning. "My suite's at the end of the hall, Detective. There's a sofa and no students."
Logan comes out alongside Jean, looking considerably less like a Neanderthal and more like a blue collar worker with lots of hair in slightly unusual configurations. "And no nudity," he assures Rossi with false cheer.
...five-- Wordless, dumb, Det. Rossi straightens from the wall's support and turns his stride (six door) down the hall, the line of spine and shoulders vocal where the baritone is not. Tension rides his back, framing it long and springy under the faded leather. Pissy Italian. Lovely Sunday. "They caught you on camera," he tosses over his shoulder, in Jean's suite. "All that futzing around with people's minds, and you forgot the technical ones, geniuses. Ain't technology grand?"
"And... what camera have I been caught on?" Jean wonders of Rossi with a curious look and a smooth expression, emotions unreadable behind the telepath's mask. Sweeping past the two men and into a suite that bears the meticulous half-empty look of one where someone is not living, but will return, she wanders over to the window seat, removes an electric kettle, and nips into the bathroom to fill it. "But grand it definitely is, I'll give you that."
Logan decides to remain silent. If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all. In this case, the mention of going down to the station makes Logan genuinely nervous, because his legal status is difficult to verify.
"Security cameras," says Rossi, succinct, patient -- so very, /very/ patient -- articulating each syllable with entirely insincere kindness. "Hell's Kitchen. Playing hero amongst the plebes. Any of this ringing a bell? --How fast /do/ you heal, Logan?" he wonders, turning a mild, empty look onto that tactful reprobate.
Silence from Jean, and a look across the room at Logan, eyebrows lifted inquiringly. << Well, do we tell him? >> she wonders. << The man already knows about the 'poodles', and he's clearly not planning to arrest us. >> She glances over at Rossi, and wonders a simple "What do you want to know?"
A muscle in Logan's jaw clenches at the question. << Shit. I really don't wanna be on the cops' radar. >> He frowns at Rossi and decides he's best off leaving Jean's question as the one asked. << Maybe you should lead this dance, red. >>
"Are you on crack?" Rossi wants to know, conversational. He leans into the wall, shoulders squared, arms loosely knitted: a man at rest, at leisure, casual. "Do you maybe inject yourselves with heroin on a daily basis? Or maybe you play too many video games. That it? Comic books? Hero complex, that sort of shit? Don't tell me. You've got costumes, too. Do they come with capes? --Tell me they aren't spandex."
"Are you done yet?" Jean wonders, waiting out the diatribe with the patience of any sunday school teacher, although she rises to rescue the whistling kettle and splash hot water into a teapot. She maintains eye contact as she works. "We messed up with forgetting to check for cameras, given that the Tongs had ownership of that place, granted, but you do recall our ties to certain government organizations?" she wonders, allowing a pause for thought before continuing on. "Honestly, how do you think we're supposed to maintain proper levels of field experience to stay up to their standards? Do you think we've got some sort of holodeck off Star Trek living in the basement? The op was selected specifically because NYPD Vice was paying them no mind, and because we'd been asked to look into it."
Logan has less patience for Rossi's commentary than Jean, steam clearly building up in his head. Fortunately, Jean interjects just after the word 'spandex' emerges from Rossi's lips, or Logan would probably do more than grit his teeth and maintain his silence. That, and relay to Jean, << I can't hit the good guys, can I? And this asshole is a good guy, right? >> in dark, half-disbelieving tones.
"Beyond the fact that you've been filling cells with bit players," jags Rossi, baritone harsh (while behind the hard face, a fissure leaks impatience and jittering, jangling anxiety, urgent and focused elsewhere. No time for this. No time. No /time/.) "Meanwhile, One PP's getting pissed off and routing squads off /real/ cases to look into this shit. Who else is out there? Summers? Cassidy?"
"We'll have the Feds give them a call to settle them," Jean waves a hand, and projects a dry << Yes, he's a good guy. Just a good guy that's too smart to not figure things out, but not influential enough that he gets told them. >> "Our MO is fairly standard and consistant, -- on purpose, thank you -- so you should be able to identify and not worry about expending unnecessary manpower. Honestly, they were -supposed- to call ahead as it was, but apparently once you start getting closer to the top, you can't wipe your ass without a secretary to help." Spoken with the exasperation familiar to anyone who's had to dance with the elephant of bureacracy, and borrowed from a Sean in his active duty days, the good doctor shakes her hand and wonders "Tea?"
Logan mutters something under his breath in which "stupid," "dumb," "ass," "shit-for-brains," "stupid," and "ass" are audible in rough sequence. He leans against a wall, folding his arms. "No one wants to get shit /done/ any more," he laments irritably. << Okay, fine, I'll be...nice enough that we can still talk afterwards, >> he promises with an eye towards keeping his self-expectations realistic.
Ire shows its claws, savaging the good guy's mental aspect. Not appeased, no -- but resigned, Rossi's expression eases enough to bare the unease behind it, a heartbeat's skipped betrayal before a hand drags its eraser across. "Just ... sort it out with One PP," he grants at last, Brooklyn's accent a brusque injury. "We got more important crap to deal with, and chasing your poodle asses around the city doesn't qualify for my list of fun times. --No offense." No tea. A hand brushes it away, beyond the swift glare for Logan.
"It'll be taken care of," Jean reiterates, pouring three mugs of tea with the logo of the Muir Island Institute on them, and handing them gravely to Logan and then Rossi without the slightest consideration that the men might not want tea. "Thank you for bringing it to our attention that it hadn't been properly sorted out before hand, actually," she states, a little more frankly.
Logan stares at the tea for a moment, then takes a cup. And sips, with little finger extended.
<< Oh my fucking God. >> An incredulous glance shoves at Logan's tea-sipping artistry, and then Rossi is away, his mug deposited on a nearby surface with careless indifference. "I'll tell John to sit on it," he says abruptly, turning back to the door; the crack in the mental dam is only the first, and bleeds swift images of the amiable Beston, chased in short order by Leah and Scott hedged around by gnawing worry and intent. "Keep out of camera range, will you? I work for the NYPD, not you folks. Not," baritone amends in sere bitterness, "that you could tell, these days."
"We've never asked you to, Chris," Jean points out, her calmness now transmuted to a dead-level steadiness. "We're not asking you to cover for our screwups, although we're grateful," A look at Logan suddenly derails her steadiness into a strange choking sneezy gurgling sound, which is what happens when you catch your man o'the woods boyfriend sipping tea with pinkie extended. She coughs once, experimentally, and concludes that "We're grateful for it. And we'll see that we stay off your radar."
The detective pauses, a hand on the knob; his face turns, cast in sharp-edged profile against the door. "I know," he says. "My problem. Not yours." Guilt eddies behind the words, muddy and thick, mingling with the taint of fear: tamped down, suppressed. Green eyes hood, lashes fanned thick and black across the crest of bone. "Have a good weekend."
"Chris," Jean calls, but lets him make his escape after one final comment: "Thank you." And with that, she turns her attention to Logan with a look of amusement at the tea drinking. << All right, you win, you can put that down, I get it. >>
[Log ends]
Pissed off Chris goes to Xavier School to tackle Jean and Logan about this whole vigilante thing, only to end up with a face full of naked Wolverine. This does not make Chris horny.
Son of a bitch blinked and said he'd been wondering when I'd get around to telling him. Asshole knew. All along. Figured out about the school back when Grey outed herself. Even knew about Alyssa. Just never thought it was worth talking about.
Dickhead.
Bought him lunch. He says he'll spend some off-duty hours keeping an eye on Canto.
That'll teach me to try and keep secrets from my partner.
---
Sunday morning, and no church in sight, but where two or more are gathered together, there is God in the midst, right? Hopefully, the Almighty isn't easily made to blush if he's been hanging around. Having stolen most of the covers in the night fingers curled around the edge of the comforter to secure her prize, Jean's head is pillowed on Logan's shoulder as she snuffles gently in sleep. Tranquil, peaceful, and only occasionaly interrupted by scuffling and thumping noises from downstairs, where teenagers dwell.
Logan dozes lightly now, not fully asleep but definitely not fully awake yet. He finds himself disinclined to move, warm with Jean against his side. There a little draft coming under the corner of the covers, opposite the site of Jean's cover-thievery, but that's where being a hairy Canadian man with an exceptional metabolism comes in handy, and Logan dozes, undisturbed.
Too early for the sweet breath of sanctity, and Det. Rossi is surely not its representative. Tired, that haggard face, worn deep with shadow and the stamp of the past night's anxiety; in the armor of his heavy leather overcoat and badge, he paces an even measure behind his young guide: across the threshold, through the halls, into the private corridors of faculty residence. His shielding is conscientious, his mood no less so. What temper lies behind the haggard face is for him to know, and parcel out at whim. "This the door?" Given assent, he dispenses with preamble, and slams a fist into its panel. Once. Again. Eloquent muteness. Open /Up/.
Ever alert to changing patterns of thoughts and minds when awake... Jean currently sleeps like an attractively redhaired log. She mumbles something incomprehensible about penguins and pillows her face more firmly into Logan's shoulder.
Logan, on the other hand, wakes up sharply. He slides out of the bed as Jean attempts to burrow in and darts across the room at the hammering. He comes up to the door and flings the door open. This leaves him facing Rossi, scowling, in all his early morning natural splendor. "What?"
The hand is upraised for another blow -- they have a knack, the representatives of law and order, of making themselves heard -- only to drop at the door's slam open. Around the detective's ribs, his small, bobble-headed guide peeks with wide-eyed fascination. Rossi himself, slightly disconcerted, furrows a quick and thoughtless skim of eyes up and dow--up, up, up. "Well," he begins, baritone rasped. "At least I know you're not armed. Or--" Up. Up. Up. "--dangerous."
"Go -away-," informs the blurred and sleepy voice of Dr. Grey from the bed, discernable as a long lump beneath the sheets, before muzzy synapses fire to life, and she suddenly sits up, hair all a-tumble and her hands crossed to keep the comforter in place. A sleepy glance sideways results in a drawer opening, and a clean pair of boxer shorts flies over to drop and drape over the peeking student's head. "Jones. Shoo."
"It's early morning on the weekend," Logan grumbles at Rossi. "Only way I'm likely to be dangerous is if you try and keep me from coffee." His eyes narrow slightly with a certain malicious enjoyment. "Or unless you can't keep your eyes on my face." Then he gives a little glower to Jones, and a flicker of his eyebrows, suggesting in no uncertain body language that he should run away quickly.
The small, boxer-blinded student, having processed at last what eyes and mind have so spectacularly registered, begins squeaking: explanation, horror, (hilarity, oh! /Hilarity!/) Det. Rossi, child-wrangler, reaches with a leg to nudge the reeling pupil away. "What the hell kind of operation you guys running here?" he demands, indignation flensing the deep voice spare. "You always answer the door in your altogether? Christ. --Hey, Doc. You guys need a minute?" Exaggerated courtesy, that, threaded through with irritation.
"Oh, we need much more than a minute if -that's- what you're asking, Detective," drawls a Jean with deadly-dry mischief covering irritation at being awakened after a busy night. A hand runs through her hair, tugging it to tousled rights, and lingers with fingers pressed gently against a really remarkable hickey or two. The boxers hover in front of Logan with her next thought, easy arms' reach. "Go get us all some coffee, and we can probably talk in my quarters."
"Detective," Logan repeats. "Ahhhh. No, see, I come running whem someone pounds on my door because I assume it's an /emergency/ when they hammer like that." He does take the boxers and step into them smoothly. "Don't worry. I don't bite." << Well, >> he sends to Jean, an image of those hickies accompanying the qualifier.
"My partner knocks nicer," Rossi advises, scything one last, humorless glance at Jean in the bed before disappearing into the hallway. "Only difference being, if he came knocking at your door, it'd be to haul you into the station. --Go ahead. Take your time. I'll be here when you're done dressing." Back pressed to the near wall, gaze turned to the bumbling student groping his blind way down the corridor, the detective folds his arm in heavy patience, and waits.
Logan grimaces as he steps into some jeans and pulls on one of his sleeveless t-shirts. "Shit. Whatever it means, it can't be good," he replies. "And Jones can cope. With all the tv he watches, a couple naked teachers shouldn't leave him too broken. Let's not keep the good detective waiting any longer than necessary."
The good detective, clamped hard still on the stray of thought and emotion, plays a model of telepathic shielding in the hallway. Nothing here but us air molecules. Oh, look. Doors. One door, two door, three door, four door.
Jean, showing that she did indeed live through the fashions of the early 90s, takes the trailing ends of the borrowed shirt and ties them in a knot, before snugging on yesterday's jeans and padding barefoot to the door with a pause to deliver a good-morning kiss. "Not how I was planning to spend the morning, but let's see," she agrees, hand on the knob and turning. "My suite's at the end of the hall, Detective. There's a sofa and no students."
Logan comes out alongside Jean, looking considerably less like a Neanderthal and more like a blue collar worker with lots of hair in slightly unusual configurations. "And no nudity," he assures Rossi with false cheer.
...five-- Wordless, dumb, Det. Rossi straightens from the wall's support and turns his stride (six door) down the hall, the line of spine and shoulders vocal where the baritone is not. Tension rides his back, framing it long and springy under the faded leather. Pissy Italian. Lovely Sunday. "They caught you on camera," he tosses over his shoulder, in Jean's suite. "All that futzing around with people's minds, and you forgot the technical ones, geniuses. Ain't technology grand?"
"And... what camera have I been caught on?" Jean wonders of Rossi with a curious look and a smooth expression, emotions unreadable behind the telepath's mask. Sweeping past the two men and into a suite that bears the meticulous half-empty look of one where someone is not living, but will return, she wanders over to the window seat, removes an electric kettle, and nips into the bathroom to fill it. "But grand it definitely is, I'll give you that."
Logan decides to remain silent. If you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all. In this case, the mention of going down to the station makes Logan genuinely nervous, because his legal status is difficult to verify.
"Security cameras," says Rossi, succinct, patient -- so very, /very/ patient -- articulating each syllable with entirely insincere kindness. "Hell's Kitchen. Playing hero amongst the plebes. Any of this ringing a bell? --How fast /do/ you heal, Logan?" he wonders, turning a mild, empty look onto that tactful reprobate.
Silence from Jean, and a look across the room at Logan, eyebrows lifted inquiringly. << Well, do we tell him? >> she wonders. << The man already knows about the 'poodles', and he's clearly not planning to arrest us. >> She glances over at Rossi, and wonders a simple "What do you want to know?"
A muscle in Logan's jaw clenches at the question. << Shit. I really don't wanna be on the cops' radar. >> He frowns at Rossi and decides he's best off leaving Jean's question as the one asked. << Maybe you should lead this dance, red. >>
"Are you on crack?" Rossi wants to know, conversational. He leans into the wall, shoulders squared, arms loosely knitted: a man at rest, at leisure, casual. "Do you maybe inject yourselves with heroin on a daily basis? Or maybe you play too many video games. That it? Comic books? Hero complex, that sort of shit? Don't tell me. You've got costumes, too. Do they come with capes? --Tell me they aren't spandex."
"Are you done yet?" Jean wonders, waiting out the diatribe with the patience of any sunday school teacher, although she rises to rescue the whistling kettle and splash hot water into a teapot. She maintains eye contact as she works. "We messed up with forgetting to check for cameras, given that the Tongs had ownership of that place, granted, but you do recall our ties to certain government organizations?" she wonders, allowing a pause for thought before continuing on. "Honestly, how do you think we're supposed to maintain proper levels of field experience to stay up to their standards? Do you think we've got some sort of holodeck off Star Trek living in the basement? The op was selected specifically because NYPD Vice was paying them no mind, and because we'd been asked to look into it."
Logan has less patience for Rossi's commentary than Jean, steam clearly building up in his head. Fortunately, Jean interjects just after the word 'spandex' emerges from Rossi's lips, or Logan would probably do more than grit his teeth and maintain his silence. That, and relay to Jean, << I can't hit the good guys, can I? And this asshole is a good guy, right? >> in dark, half-disbelieving tones.
"Beyond the fact that you've been filling cells with bit players," jags Rossi, baritone harsh (while behind the hard face, a fissure leaks impatience and jittering, jangling anxiety, urgent and focused elsewhere. No time for this. No time. No /time/.) "Meanwhile, One PP's getting pissed off and routing squads off /real/ cases to look into this shit. Who else is out there? Summers? Cassidy?"
"We'll have the Feds give them a call to settle them," Jean waves a hand, and projects a dry << Yes, he's a good guy. Just a good guy that's too smart to not figure things out, but not influential enough that he gets told them. >> "Our MO is fairly standard and consistant, -- on purpose, thank you -- so you should be able to identify and not worry about expending unnecessary manpower. Honestly, they were -supposed- to call ahead as it was, but apparently once you start getting closer to the top, you can't wipe your ass without a secretary to help." Spoken with the exasperation familiar to anyone who's had to dance with the elephant of bureacracy, and borrowed from a Sean in his active duty days, the good doctor shakes her hand and wonders "Tea?"
Logan mutters something under his breath in which "stupid," "dumb," "ass," "shit-for-brains," "stupid," and "ass" are audible in rough sequence. He leans against a wall, folding his arms. "No one wants to get shit /done/ any more," he laments irritably. << Okay, fine, I'll be...nice enough that we can still talk afterwards, >> he promises with an eye towards keeping his self-expectations realistic.
Ire shows its claws, savaging the good guy's mental aspect. Not appeased, no -- but resigned, Rossi's expression eases enough to bare the unease behind it, a heartbeat's skipped betrayal before a hand drags its eraser across. "Just ... sort it out with One PP," he grants at last, Brooklyn's accent a brusque injury. "We got more important crap to deal with, and chasing your poodle asses around the city doesn't qualify for my list of fun times. --No offense." No tea. A hand brushes it away, beyond the swift glare for Logan.
"It'll be taken care of," Jean reiterates, pouring three mugs of tea with the logo of the Muir Island Institute on them, and handing them gravely to Logan and then Rossi without the slightest consideration that the men might not want tea. "Thank you for bringing it to our attention that it hadn't been properly sorted out before hand, actually," she states, a little more frankly.
Logan stares at the tea for a moment, then takes a cup. And sips, with little finger extended.
<< Oh my fucking God. >> An incredulous glance shoves at Logan's tea-sipping artistry, and then Rossi is away, his mug deposited on a nearby surface with careless indifference. "I'll tell John to sit on it," he says abruptly, turning back to the door; the crack in the mental dam is only the first, and bleeds swift images of the amiable Beston, chased in short order by Leah and Scott hedged around by gnawing worry and intent. "Keep out of camera range, will you? I work for the NYPD, not you folks. Not," baritone amends in sere bitterness, "that you could tell, these days."
"We've never asked you to, Chris," Jean points out, her calmness now transmuted to a dead-level steadiness. "We're not asking you to cover for our screwups, although we're grateful," A look at Logan suddenly derails her steadiness into a strange choking sneezy gurgling sound, which is what happens when you catch your man o'the woods boyfriend sipping tea with pinkie extended. She coughs once, experimentally, and concludes that "We're grateful for it. And we'll see that we stay off your radar."
The detective pauses, a hand on the knob; his face turns, cast in sharp-edged profile against the door. "I know," he says. "My problem. Not yours." Guilt eddies behind the words, muddy and thick, mingling with the taint of fear: tamped down, suppressed. Green eyes hood, lashes fanned thick and black across the crest of bone. "Have a good weekend."
"Chris," Jean calls, but lets him make his escape after one final comment: "Thank you." And with that, she turns her attention to Logan with a look of amusement at the tea drinking. << All right, you win, you can put that down, I get it. >>
[Log ends]
Pissed off Chris goes to Xavier School to tackle Jean and Logan about this whole vigilante thing, only to end up with a face full of naked Wolverine. This does not make Chris horny.