Doctor, Scotch, and reeling Scott
I did it. I did a little more than expected, but I did it.
Dr. Jean Grey, my new personal physician.
Well. It was - difficult, playing the layers of truth and dissembling, in my words, my face, my eyes, my body language, my mind. Oh, God, my mind: I'm sure she saw right through that . . . but I must count on the distance and discretion imposed by her ethics, else this game is over already and I've given her all the pieces. She could peel me down to my core whenever she liked, I'm sure of it.
Emma could. Emma would, if she didn't fear me too much to try. (I do so desperately hope so, here in the shadow-haunted depths of my weariness and fuzzing, frantic plans.) Grey doesn't fear me. Why should she? I have to use other strategies, and the truth, however imperfectly parcelled out, seems like the best one at the moment.
As long as she doesn't pick up anything else. I can't be sure. Dammit! I just cannot be sure.
I hate trusting. Even, sometimes, trusting myself.
And Melcross. Sabitha. Awaiting me when I returned from the Village were a bottle of Scotch and a note - nicely done. It isn't quite running to me, but it certainly isn't running away, either. She's being craftily run, by herself or someone else. I'll sit on the contact for a while, see if she tests it again, see if my patience can hold out from testing it myself.
"Every inch a gentleman and a friend," she wrote. She should have seen me with Scott Summers tonight. (One of Grey's reclamation projects? She seems the type to take in hurt kittens and tend their wounds. He's a pathetic waste of her time, otherwise.)
Oh, Sabitha. What would you do with my truths?
7/12/2005
Logfile from Shaw.
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Greenwich Apts #1500 - Jean
A departure from neighbouring apartments, this converted artist's flat has been, well, reconverted. Disdaining the gentrified wealth of the rest of the upper levels, the original residential spirit of the building has been recaptured with an uncovering of the original brick outer walls and where the plain and smooth wooden board flooring has been lovingly wax-polished rather than made harshly gleaming with modern verathanes. As many interior walls as possible have been knocked down, leaving a large open concept space with natural light streaming in from the row of square-paned windows that stretches all along the outside wall. The remaining interior wall sections off one quarter of the flat, two doors leading to a palatial bathroom and to a large bedroom with a small inset balcony: the sole traces of the gentrification allowed to remain. The main room features a U-shaped kitchen area with breakfast bar by the windows and against the interior wall, with a raised area opposite it with metal and frosted glass privacy panels to form an office area. The rest of the space is taken up with a conversation half-circle of comfortable banquettes laden with cushions and pillows, interspersed with end tables and capable of comfortably seating a large party around the open space between them and a large entertainment center.
--
It's been a very long day, the productivity of which has done nothing to alleviate the length. Despite the fact that Jean is expecting one last visitor, she's nonetheless down to bare feet, a pair of comfortable old scrubs pants, and a tank top that still manages to neatly coordinate with the rest of her outfit. And a glass of a nice Canadian merlot a friend recommended. The TV is on, but tuned to one of the myriad of satellite music stations, something soft and World Music playing as she lounges on one banquette with her cat curled up by her feet. On the low coffee table is a large and shiny sledgehammer, with a name woodburned in curling script on the handle, and a big red bow tied around it.
Tardiness is no one's friend, and since Shaw's showing up to make friends (or so the long, flat, narrow package, white ribbon around midnight-blue, under one arm would suggest), he's on time. Casual, too, even as she: dark-red T-shirt, worn blue jeans, dark leather jacket and shoes. And a firmly pleasant demeanor, floating in and out of mental space and slight smile and wide-open eyes. And -- a knock. After a moment of waiting at the door. And a waiting of a moment more.
Jean answers the door with wineglass in hand, padding over and trying to avoid the little cat feet following her. Curie, used to occasional trips out into the Xavier gardens, has already become an accomplished escape artist and master of down-the-hall sprints. "Sebastian," greets Jean, opening the door quite without the usualy New York ritual of a cautious look around the door chain first. One bare foot hooks out to prevent any feline flight, and she hops lightly back onto the other to keep her balance. "Come in. Wine? I don't usually drink alone, but it's a good vintage."
"No, thanks, if that's all right?" Shaw edges in through the opening, wary of little furry objects, and manages not to knock around his pretty package in the process. Once inside, he takes a quick look around -- "Nice," and blinks back at her. Nerves frizz gently, then glide back under the smooth, dark surface of calm, calm, friendly calm. He says apologetically, "I'm trying to ease back on my drinking. Too many late nights; too many early mornings. I'm sure you understand. Is this the place, then?"
"Oh, perfectly," Jean assures, before wondering, with a slightly ironic smile, "Juice, then? This is an apartment in Greenwich, I can whip up a hell of a fruit smoothie." She scoops up Curie with her free arm, tucking her in the crook of an elbow, and then steps ahead of Shaw into the large and open main room. It still smells faintly of paint and floor polish, but is quite inarguably Done. "And this is the place. I was going to save you a baggie of the pink wall fluff to ceremonially incinerate, but it was decided by group concensus that it shouldn't be allowed to survive in even that amount. But I did save you something else..." She gestures towards the half circle of banquettes and the coffee table and its' gift.
Shaw stops politely once he's inside a ways, to get a better, longer look -- and smell, by nostrils' flare -- and then he chuffs soft amusement. "My very own sledgehammer. Oh, Jean, you remembered. But nothing for me to smash? I'm heartbroken." He slides the box out from under his arm and balances it in offering on both hands, with distinct pride percolating through the gesture, the inky mental sink. "I hope you don't mind my being dilatory with a housewarming gift. Please accept it? And juice would be fine, thanks. Whip me up however you like," he finishes humbly.
"Tsk, Sebastian, do you really think so little of my regard for you?" Jean quips, reaching under the table to withdraw one lone section of drywall, about two feet by four feet, and places it on the table before stepping back, dusting the transferred plaster from it off against the side seam of her scrubs. It's then that she turns to smile at the box, dipping her chin a touch sheepishly as she murmurs that "I'd say 'you shouldn't have', but I know you specialize in doing things you 'shouldn't', so I'll just say thank you. The wrapping is lovely." And with that, a diplomatic pause to assure she seems neither eager nor greedy, merely curious, she takes the box and gives Shaw another smile, noting the pride and stringing things out -just- a bit as a result. "Now, do I open it here, or do I wait until you've left? Which sort of gift-giver are you?" And are there any strings?
None she couldn't /un/string as easily as the back of a woman's dress. Shaw only measures out a modestly wider smile and lifts his chin at the box. "Go ahead, if you like. At least I'll know if I guessed right or if I'd better try again -- assuming you didn't mind such a game," he allows with a brief uptick of the smile. It fades again, toward blandness, as he slides considering eyes at the drywall, and he continues while studying /that/ gift, not her or hers. "That /is/ thoughtful. Something to smash! At least I know where I stand with you, I daresay--" teasing, that, with something moving sluggish and large beneath the banter "--as someone easily made happy. And I am."
Undercurrents are hardly unexpected in a conversation with the as-yet-unknown-Black King, but there's a quality there... Lumbering leviathans are not what one expects, rather sleek and sharp-toothed sharks instead. "Deny you a game? I think that could be cruel of me." Jean studies the box in lieu of Shaw directly, not needing her eyes to take surface readings of the psyche, and runs a finger under one edge of the ribbon, loosening it and tracing it to where the bow begins. Ceremoniously, she pulls, attracting the notice of the cat as one long strand falls away. "Then I'm glad. Happiness is an unpredictable enough creature that it should be taken advantage of whenever it appears... oooh, now what have we got here?" The ribbons removed (And promptly dragged away under the coffee table by Curie, Mighty Huntress of the Urban Jungle.) and the lid lifted, Jean essays a cautious peek.
Mad, proud gold gleams back, warmly radiant, and with the lid lifted -- it blazes. A feather lies within, fully eighteen inches long from quill's hollow nib to the final flourish of plumage. Fierce fire runs rapid red fingers down the quill, stretches through orange and yellow out from that spine, and bleeds back into red again, madder-dark and blood-deep, along the feather's borders. Shaw regards it with honest, satisfied pleasure; he has his hands clasped behind him, his weight rocked slightly back, and he returns his dark study to the good doctor to judge reactions.
Jean plays it cool, plays it appropriate to her age and station, but even all the lessons of her Great-Grandmother Grey aren't enough to completely restrain the flicker of frank appreciation that enflames her features at the first glimpse of the quill. The back of one index finger is drawn gently along the midline, from nib to final feathers, and she then looks up to give Shaw a smile. "You really must tell me how you managed to charm a phoenix into giving you one of her feathers, Sebastian. This is lovely. Far more elegant than my own flight of whimsy."
"A worthy crown, call it," says Shaw gravely. "Beauty to the beautiful, Jean. I thought you might like to hang it on your wall in a glass case, or else wear it, indeed, at the next dance you might attend. I'm glad you like it. My man in Cairo did a good job, hm? All those days of staking out the date palms to try to catch a fallen feather from the bird on top . . ." And oh, he's joking, but oh, he's not: the appreciative flicker falls silently into his mind's surface and vanishes with hardly a ripple of pursed, sucking greed.
"Beauty to the beautiful... and what does my sledgehammer signify then?" Jean wonders, eyeing the cat who's now eyeing the feather appreciatively herself, and then deciding that "I'll just tuck this into the bookshelf and out of reach until I can get a proper case to store it in," before suiting actions to words and stowing it begind glass and a magnetic catch. "And I'm afraid I don't get out to many dances worthy of that adornment, Sebastian. Conferences and symposiums sometimes have balls, but nothing on the order of the Hellfire Club. The last one before your kind offer was the Presidential Ball, and I'd prefer not to end up having to prevent assassinations on a regular basis." Tone light, she gestures towards the kitchen area, picking up her wineglass again. "Want that smoothie now?"
Meekly following her invitation along, Shaw protests, "But you're so good at it, Jean! I should like to hire you myself, I think, against any number of threats." Flash of blood on a floor, a balcony, a black-and-red room, a -- gone again, subsumed in subvocalization's murmur while he works up his next pensive words. "And you dance even better. /Did/ you have a good time at the ball?" He leans a hip into the end of the kitchen counter, folds his arms, cocks his brows. "You got home safely, obviously, and you seem peppy enough. . . ."
And like the light-imprint of an image upon film, Jean files those glimpses of memory away and lets her mental camera roll on to ready for the next shot, eyes half-lidding as she delivers a lazy little smile. "But who guards the bodyguard? And wouldn't it undercut that nice little interview with the Today Show to have me mother ducking you around town? Nice interview, though," she awards conversationally, rummaging in the refrigerator to add strawberries and bits of banana and yogurt to a blender she's already dumped ice from the ice maker into. "Very little frothing, although I do have to say that if you ever run for government office, I'm immigrating to Canada. And yes, it was a very good time," she assures. "Not every night you get to dance with a terrorist -and- the terrorist's most recent victim at the same party. I networked a bit, caught up with aquaintances, and that was some remarkable scotch out on the back patio with you."
Shaw blinks lazily; his arms snug more tightly, lower against his middle. "Flatterer," he responds as conversationally. "I rather /like/ the idea of you escorting me around town, thank you: I can always use the publicity, and you can use your powers to twist the paparazzi's knickers into sailors' knots. You might even get another Hellfire outing from it, although we don't always have terrorists. That's only for special occasions." And he snorts. "And people accuse /me/ of chutzpah."
"Alas, it wouldn't look all that good to -my- press. Although I suppose I could spin it that I was trying to rehabilitate you. Save you from your path of hatred and fear of the unknown." Jean replies, ever so archly as she carries the blender back to its base. The high-pitched white noise of the blades spinning up against the ice takes over for a minute or two, before Jean deems the smoothie smooth enough, and pours out two tall glasses of it. "Chutzpah? Hardly. I'm just not a very good socialite, so if I wasn't networking, I'd just end up bored. So perhaps I'm not a very good -female- socialite. I don't like small dogs, after all."
Shaw pushes out of his lean to come around for his glass, though he keeps a polite distance from her, and there's some aloofness in his manner, too, threaded through the easy jocularity. "Oh, I'd meant /his/ chutzpah. Lensherr's. Yours?" He considers her bright-eyed over a sip of smoothie and the following nod of approval. "--Don't need chutzpah for the social scene, Jean. Or any of the damn small dogs." Yap. Nibbly food. Growl. His gaze narrows away from such notions. "If you weren't networking, you could be rehabilitating me?" he offers ingenuously and reclines once more against the counter, facing her.
Jean pushes herself up to a seat on the edge of the countertop with one hand and a little hop, letting her feet swing slightly as she sips at her own share of the smoothie, wine abandoned as she determines to surrender no mental ground to the lord of Hellfire. "So, what course of rehabilitation would you be interested in, Sebastian?" she takes up the conversational change of rein with an amused cant of her head. "I'm a doctor of medicine and almost a doctor in another field too -- my final thesis defence is booked for the end of the month."
"The mice are doing well?" Shaw inquires pro forma and then tips his head back to her and then tests a bit at that rein. Bit's not in his teeth quite yet, but his mental aspect is freshly rippling, leaking little spurts of muddied intention and emotion. Ahead of them, his expression shifts in its own way, to some embarrassment, some determination, some wee tiny bit of defiance in eyes' black-star spark. "The medicine -- well. Since you mention it. Are we being serious, Jean? No bantering, no games."
"Squeaking away happily, the dear little affronts to God and nature," Jean confirms, equally delivering a scripted line, albeit with exquisite timing. Click, snap, whirrr goes the camera of her psyche, recording the memory leaks like a spy in a document room. Her eyes suddenly sharpen from absent staring at her glass at the question, and rich green settles on darkness with a level nod. "As serious as you like, Sebastian. I don't play games with medicine."
Shaw assures her, "I didn't think you did, but with me?" The stars twinkle, indeed, at odds both with mouth's flatlining and the heightened sparkle of busy, busy synapses fizzing into the aether. "All right, then. All right." He puts his half-finished smoothie on the counter between them and studies his fingers' curl around the glass. Then looks up, swift and sharp. "I've been having problems with one of my knees, but I'm without a doctor right now. Could I -- oh, you know. If you wouldn't mind."
There's a long pause, thoughtful and considering, as Jean's gaze drifts downwards to land on the knee in question. "I take it my suggestion of a tensor bandage didn't help then?" she asks at last, somewhat rhetorically, tossed out as conversation fodder while she thinks the matter over. Not so much what her decision will be, but rather how much to reveal of why she's making it. The answer is 'none', for the moment. "And of course I wouldn't mind, Sebastian. I'm honoured that you're willing to trust me with this." is offered in soft conclusion, before she nods towards her bedroom door. "I could get my kit and take a look now, if you like. A full workup would take some time for me to get the reight equipment in my lab space, since I'm guessing you don't want to go to Lennox Hill to be treated by a practitioner of mutant medicine."
Shifting his weight further into the counter's support, Shaw cocks the free knee, his right, under her gaze. His remains pinned to her face; his thoughts are burbling faster now, and clamped-down control maintains only a thin veneer over . . . excitement. Anticipation? Some body-deep rush, anyway, sending up frustrated, poky flares against his surface. It's not at all, at all, reflected elsewhere in his manner, which exudes embarrassment still, but also relief and cautious hope. "Really? And no, I forgot about the bandage," he confesses, eyes flicking to one side. Bedroom. They flick back. "I hadn't really planned on your acceptance, so. Good. Good! I'll see if I can roll my jeans up that high, shall I? Where do you want me? What should I do?"
Tuned in to surface thoughts and mood-shifts as she is, Jean catches her own blood rushing in time with Shaw's, and immediately backs off to a lower level of mental attention as a result. "You're in pain," she points out simply enough. "And I'm a doctor. I've taken some oaths that say some very specific things about acceptance and treatment. But why don't you take yourself and that smoothie over to one of the banquettes, and I'll be right back," she assures, setting her own down by the sink after a final gulp to clear the glass and making for the bedroom door. "If your jeans won't roll that high, I think I might have a robe of Scott's kicking around." Or rather, a robe bought for Scott in the hopes that he might be convinced to come wear it. She disappears for a few moments, the sound of a closet door sliding open heard, before returning with both the terrycloth dressing gown and a black leather medical bag that looks a bit more futuristic and stylish than the classic medical grip.
Shaw, biddable as the very lamb, yea verily, takes himself and his smoothie to a banquette exactly as ordered. Sits. Places the smoothie fussily on the floor out of the way. And bends down to start rolling old, worn denim up, up, up his leg. "--Should be all right," he muses with all his engineer's focus on the problem eating up any more bubbling leakage. And -- ha. There. The gastrocnemius just hasn't a chance, though it's a close thing. He grins up at her, retrieves his drink, and leans back, stretching out the bared limb for examination. "Thanks, though," he thinks to add politely. "Scott Summers, is it? Saw him in the paper awhile ago. I wouldn't dream of poaching another man's robe, especially not one capable of half-destroying a bar, if half the scuttlebutt's true."
"Scuttlebutt is, as usual, a good part wishful thinking by bored reporters." Jean replies dryly, settling into a graceful kneel beside Shaw and smoothie. She's soon reaching over to gently and professionaly palpate around the knee joint area as she continues the conversation, alert for swellings or lumps or encapsulations, or anything else that ought not to be in a properly working knee. "One of the students of the school decided to be daring and go find a dive bar to do some underaged drinking in. A bunch of Magneto's bravos were also there looking for a drink, so Scott ended up getting called in by her, made it before the police, and then had to try and distract the terrorists because the girl got the brilliant idea to try and be a hero. He was more embarassed than anything... hrm, have you noticed any loss in your range of motion, Sebastian?"
Shaw watches with interest, though he's having a hard time controlling the tension quivers of muscles wanting -- what? His focus is drowning out those betraying telltales, leaving the physical indicators: tightly craned neck, his free hand curled hard around the banquette's edge, slowed respiration. "And what ended up happening with the girl? --Some, I suppose. It's actually doing all right now, or so it seems to me, but I overworked it at the dance," he sighs. "That's why I missed your party; I'm sorry. It gets hot, achy, but if I rest it and drink enough water, it seems to be fine again. For a while." He pauses. Tries for more patiently helpfulness: "I haven't injured it. No brawling for /me./ I promise, Doctor."
"Oh, she should be finishing up being grounded by the end of the summer." Jean murmurs. "Assuming she doesn't fly into a 'you can't do this to me, I'm a wealthy heiress whose parents have just died' fit of pique and decide to leave the school. In which case I'm suspecting her life expectancy will be measured in months." She names no names, and while her tone is absent, she continues the medically deft physical examination, contact firm and completely without reservation as she flexes the joint this way and that and turns a keen eye after physical tells. "If you've noticed it going into abeyance with rest alone, that could be a number of things. But if you have to rehydrate yourself, that could indicate a metabolic problem." she sums up. "Which means I'll definitely need to do some proper tests, in addition to decanting a full medical and patient history from you. How long have you noticed this?"
"Shit," Shaw murmurs. "--Sorry. I was afraid of that. Metabolic? That can't be good. I was hoping for 'you just tweaked it' . . . but you wouldn't lie to me, even to reassure, I know. I trust." He does. Look at him, so big and dark and bold, all humbled and good under her ministrations, blinking thinly veiled anxiety at her while his mind -- his mind. Poky thoughts. Streeeeetching intentions. The purr of emotion, like a cat after a ribbon's tease, confident in the hunt. "Is this something we need to do now? I'll be able to get home all right, I think. I got /here,/ after all."
"I sense that I might be a second opinion," Jean notes dryly, giving Shaw a brisk, if unnecessary, pat on the knee before settling down on the couch beside him, the medical bag left unopened. Nothing in -there- will help track down the vagaries of metabolic disorders, even if she -could- draw a vial of blood or three. "But no, medical lies even for the best causes always come bite you on the ass in the end. But you've got some concern about metabolic disorders? Is there a family history?" she probes, apparently planning to get a head start on the case history even if the patient is radiating thoughts of unpatiently hunting. "And since you seem to be reasonably healthy outside of the joint, I think it can wait a few days for your schedule to open up. I didn't feel anything that would suggest cancer, and I've never heard of water alleviating symptoms of -that-."
--FEAR. And as quickly damped, hard, /hard,/ behind eyes half-shuttered in the concentration of unrolling his jeans. Shaw explains calmly, coolly, "I'm sure I don't know, actually. I was just afraid of anything worse than a tweak diagnosis. I can find my medical records, such as they are, to deliver to you -- unless you want to do the interview yourself." He pauses, tests the words, taste them. "Tests and history," and he ducks behind the mental and physical greyness of weary resignation. "The next few days would be fine. Whatever you think, Jean. Whatever's best in your opinion."
Now, -that- is interesting. Cancer is not something generally looked forward to, but that level of sheer, visceral terror... Jean quickly resolves to do a records search to see what Shaws of generations past have been dying of. "Tests and history." she echoes in confirmation with a small smile. "Medical diagnostics is pretty much the world's most ornate and complicated form of jigsaw puzzle. But I'll call you directly when I've got my equipment in place," she promises, before pausing a moment, and adding an "Ah, do you have a number I can reach you at that your secretary won't answer?"
With his leg modestly covered again, as much so and as toughly as his mental aspect, Shaw sits up and cups his smoothie in front of him. "My cell," he supposes quietly, still not looking at her. My, the enduring, timeless fascination of smoothie. Mmmm. (Mental twitch. That leviathan in motion -- no. Weariness. So, so tired! Yes.) "Got a pen?"
Jean snaps her fingers in an effort to warn mixed with sheer showmanship, and a pen and notepad fly over from beside her phone to land in her outstretched hand. She hands them both to Shaw with a little nod. "Keep up with the drinking water, and cut down on your caffeine as much as you can," she advises. "Like alchohol, it's a diuretic, and I'd hate for this to hit a crisis point in the couple days it'll take me to get what I need and refresh my memory on what tests to run. Since I'm assuming you'd prefer this not be handled by a public lab either."
"No, indeed not," agrees Shaw, while the forced and humbled grey stretches to cover another surge of emotion. (Irritation, icy-hot: little snowflakes melting in tongue's summer bath.) He balances the pad on his thigh and writes quick, strong numerals. Nothing wrong with /those/ parts of him, at least. Handing them back, he tries to perk up with proper guestly appreciation, tempered by the wry simmer of not an easy patient at all. "I'll do my best, but I can't promise I won't need a snort now and then to keep me going in meetings I have this week. I suppose I can try to sleep more, to compensate, but--" a short half-laugh "--I'm not holding my breath there, either."
"Sebastian," Jean chooses to acknowledge what lies beneath -this- glossing over. "I'm a doctor. I'm -your- doctor now. I have to say these things even if I know you're not going to be able to listen to them, it's in the fine print." she points out before giving a matching half-laugh. "I never listen to doctors' orders either. But I think we can end the medical for the night, if you don't have any questions."
"I know, I understand, it's just--" He breaks off and leans forward on elbow to knee, his hand scrubbing absently up his brow and into his hair, tugging out a few strands from its short ponytail. And Sebastian looks at her from there, sidelong and rueful. Vulnerable. "No questions," he says, low. "But thanks -- those in plenty. If you're my doctor, I have your confidentiality, right?"
"I swear by Apollo the physician," Jean quotes, placing a hand to her heart. However, despite the historical quip inherant in the words, her demeanour remains serious and her eyes steady on Shaw, expression open, attentive, but with measureless depth to it. "You've put yourself in a position of trust." And she leaves it at that, waiting to see what this new variable will add.
Mutters Shaw, "Fuck Apollo. Bet /his/ knees are perfect." Damn those Greek gods, anyway, with their perfect knees and their oaths. Not to mention the scads of lolling nubile nymphs. Such pretty thoughts skim a light shield between him and her, so that from behind it he can admit, "I have, and it's difficult for me. As you know. But, in the interest of trust, and disclosure -- my father died of cancer." And his brain's not giving out a damn thing now except impulses to glance away, sit up again, smooth his hands on his thighs, and glance back.
Jean is silent at this, restraining her immediate urge to proble for more information, both for medical and lie-detection purposes. She's silent still longer, nodding once or twice to herself, as she attempts to figure out what to say that's counter to her natural inclinations. Eventually, she settles on "I'll have to ask for more details about that, you know. But later. Not tonight." as a compromise between acknowledgement and sympathy and further digging. She has a question of her own, however, as she picks up the medical bag: "How long have you been thinking about asking me for medical help?"
Shaw inclines his head for the promise (threat) of further interrogation and then pushes himself up to standing. Energy dances restlessly in body and mind; he restrains himself to a brief weight-shift between feet, and a very small, very tight smile under lowered brows. "Long enough?" he tries. "Yes, long enough. It was the dance, or the Scotch on the patio, that convinced me I might as well try. To ask. To trust you." Soberly he gazes down at her, and then he shrugs into deliberate nonchalance. "As long as our involvement doesn't travel too far, or into certain circles, I think it's safe to see you -- as my physician, that is. So, again, thank you. Jean."
Jean rises as well, a half-beat behind Shaw, and graceful as ever despite a sudden quisling crackle-pop from one of her own knees. Remnant of that once-mentioned riding accident, perhaps? She grimaces wryly at it and then offers Shaw a hand as she shifts position to smoothly angle them both towards the door. "Then, as your physician, take care of yourself." she offers as a farewell. "And entirely as myself, thank you for the lovely gift. It was very thoughtful."
Shaw folds her hand in his and walks quietly along with her. "Phoenix," he says suddenly then, and smiles, and kisses her cheek. Like his hand, his mouth is warm, overly so, and demure, not overly so. Drawing back, he squeezes her fingers absently and nods. "You're welcome. I /am/ glad you like it, and I hope to see it in a proper case up on the wall someday. And . . . you'll call about the appointment." Not a question; not quite a demand. His mind's in too much turmoil for settling on any particular engram, but his emotional state is clear: restless still, and uneasy.
Thoughtfully, Jean's hand lifts to brush at her cheek when Shaw has drawn back. She does not return the gesture, and if her fingers tighten against his, it's so faint as to be reflex action. She has no set of stock reactions for dealing with Sebastian Shaw beyond charming and disarming and occasionally irritating banter, and as such is left to think on things with the slight half-step withdrawl from the physical common amongst telepaths. "You will," she assures, adressing the spoken words rather than body language. "And I will. Have a good night, Sebastian. I'll keep a mental eye out for muggers."
"Appreciated," Shaw clips out through his fading smile, and the emotions fade along with it, even as he nods again and opens the door himself. Before he goes, though -- a black-eyed glance back, hot and heavy over his shoulder. "Confidentiality," he reminds her, he hopes, he wishes. And then he goes.
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Greenwich Apartments - 15th Floor
A fairly short hallway stretches out before you, not so heavily populated as the apartments on this level are spacious enough to allow only a few per floor. The walls are painted a rich green with gold-stenciled borders and rosewood trim, and at the far end of the hall there is a door annexing to the stairwell for the claustrophobic or more excercise-prone.
--
--And thunk. The door to Jean Grey's apartment closes, with Sebastian Shaw on the hallway side of it. He pauses for a moment there, casually dressed and a little ruffled in hair and demeanor; then a brusque shrug swings him around, in a tight scowl and firm, quick steps towards the elevator.
Scott knows where he is and does not know where he is. He is aware that he is near Jean's apartment and has proceeded here from somewhere. There is also some sense of violently throwing up a few times and being stepped on by an unwary and uncaring pedestrian. A subway might have been involved. He must have been mugged in a wretched fashion. Or something. In either case, he emerges from the elevator at a sad stagger, his glasses held on by miracle and the occasional clumsy readjustment. As far as he is concerned, hall is empty.
Alas that the hallway is not so long that Shaw can measure out much of it before the elevator doors open and de-empty the space for him, at least. His steps hitch in surprise, but his scowl only screws tighter in brows' shelf and mouth's wall, at this . . . spectacle. He takes another pace further along, towards Scott. Then he stops again. And stays stopped. And watches. If there's /going/ to be a show, he /should/ watch, yes?
Scott bangs into a wall which viciously placed itself in his way at just this moment. He'd kick it, but he'd probably spill himself over. No good. Wall wouldn't get hurt anyway. Stupid wall. Scott starts in another direction, angle, whatever, attempting to make it to Jean's apartment by zig zag if necessary (why here? Why not go home? Closer. Con/fused/). Shaw is still as invisible as airspace.
So Shaw watches. He does. Behind the barricade of folded arms, he patiently blinks after each reel, each lurch, as if it were a tennis match unfolding before him. Idly he reaches up a hand to scratch under his chin. Other than that, though, he's as immobile as one of those cruel, cruel walls, planted dead smack dab in the middle of the hallway, still only a few steps from the Holy Grail of this desperate knight's questing.
There is another wall. Scott has discovered strategy. When wall is hit, move forward . . . in fact, dude, why does he not just keep his shoulder against a wall and find his way that way. Is infallable. Cannot lose wall. Thus, Scott begins dragging himself along the wall, hand trailing out in front.
Shaw's brows bob in pleased surprise. The boy learns! He shifts a little in his stance, turned to watch this new creeping along. And another absent scratch, this time at his cheek. Goodness, nails on faintly stubbled skin is /loud/ sometimes, isn't it?
Yes. Loud. Like a ... a ... comparison cannot compute, not enough runtime memory whatsit. Scott pauses in his wall crawling to clamp a hand over his ear. This would mean he is rather close to Shaw and that, like a hangover, everything is ACCENTUATED. Maybe Scott will go throw up again. Not strictly related, just wants to.
Well, we can't always get what we want, and even if we try sometimes . . . all right, sometimes we /do/ get what we need. Shaw does, anyway, because he is Shaw. So he leans over, just on the balls of his feet to keep himself balanced out of splatter range, and unleashes a boom of jovial baritone power. "Mr. Summers! How delightful to see you! I've been following your exploits in the news. I hope you don't mind my visiting your -- girlfriend, is it?"
Scott clamps his hand harder over his ear. His only response is some very crude derivitive of go away and may or may not be directed at Shaw personally. After all, might have been a baritone, might have been a fog horn, and this apartment hallway was to be the first bit of sanctuary he got from the CONSTANT KILLING NOISE HOW DISAPPOINTING. He gags. Nothing comes out.
Shaw, thus encouraged by no immediate reaction, steps forward, and around, to position himself a little behind the younger man. As he speaks next, he pokes his head from one side of Scott's to the other, back and forth, in an unpredictable, shifting rhythm to suit his merrily rambling monologue. Syllabic splatter, even if there's no emetic parallel. Yet. "We danced at the party, you know. /Do/ you know? And I couldn't come to her housewarming party, so I had to stop by to apologize and bring my gift. I gave her a feather. I do think she liked it. Are you coming to see her, too? I didn't see any sign of cohabitation, but I could be wrong, of course. She did offer me your robe. There's that."
If Scott took off his glasses and left them off for a looong time, would the noise go away? No. No, these are unworthy thoughts. One did tolerate noise in the subway. One can preservere. "Nnnnng, frigging robe," says Scott. He did hear robe in that. Amidst the BOOMING. Why is he visiting Jean? He should be asleep? Scott gags again. Nothing.
Taking pity on him, Shaw puts a steadying hand to his back and starts to chivvy him gently along the wall. He talks more quietly now, but that hand's insistence, whatever compassionate purpose it serves. (Compassion. Ha.) "Yeah, your robe. But how would that have looked, undressing and putting that on? I," sniffs a haughtily offended Sebastian, "poach no man's robe, as I told her, and I meant it. Besides, it was an ugly thing, and too small, to boot." Gently pushing. There we go. Poor little Scott.
Wow, Scott is like moving. He seems to moving in right direction. This is good. Scott will allow movement. He sort of hunkers up like a dog that is being nudged by pushy foot, however. "Boot?" he asks for clarification.
Shaw puts some more power behind the push, which isn't a problem. He's got plenty, after all, and doesn't mind Scott feeling at least the lower limits of it. "Boot," he agrees. "Which is what you look like you're about to do at any second, Mr. Summers, so let's just get you inside, hm? I didn't hear her lock her door; I can just spill you inside and quietly take my leave. A little secret between us."
Scott stumbles and makes an abortive clutch at Shaw before he knocks again against the wall and has to clutch at that instead. This time, there is throw up. But just a little. Spit up, practically. Awww. Perhaps Shaw will take that as a yes.
"Oh, for God's sake," Shaw mutters, and sighs and goes to fetch his charge. "Come /on,/ boy. This way. Just a little bit more--" his voice drops further, into disgusted basso rumble "--before I pick you up and just throw you in there. Heeeere we go. Another step. And another. There you go."
Is that a door? That would be nice. Scott's hand closes on something that feels knobbish. Victory. Right? Oh. What is the word. Since he did not get here himself. "Thank you," is said with shivery illness. Poor thing.
Shaw ruffles his hair. "Anytime, you poor bastard," he says cheerfully. "And much joy may Dr. Grey have of you this night." His work here done, he returns to pacing down the hallway, but it's with a lighter step and a new, simmering grin that he goes. In another moment, maybe in the elevator, he might even whistle.
Door open. Magic. Wow. Shaw is already forgotten. Scott is now quite occupied with proceeding allll the way in. What fun Grey will have indeed.
[Log ends.]
Delivered by courier, although obviously less professional than Sebastian's own, Tuesday evening, is a small package. Nestled inside, a bottle of Scotch whiskey, neither cheap nor overly expensive, with a hand-written note.
Sebastian -
I don't have your impeccable taste in perfect gifts or your pretty way with words, but I hope this can make up at least a little for what I consumed the other night. I'm sorry I left it so long, but this subject is not easy for me. I wanted to say thank you. Both for letting me in after what was a very long evening for you, and for listening so kindly while I spilled myself out rather messily. You were every inch a gentleman and a friend, and I can't properly express what that means to me. I will settle, then, for saying thank you, and I hope that will suffice.
- Sabby
Dr. Jean Grey, my new personal physician.
Well. It was - difficult, playing the layers of truth and dissembling, in my words, my face, my eyes, my body language, my mind. Oh, God, my mind: I'm sure she saw right through that . . . but I must count on the distance and discretion imposed by her ethics, else this game is over already and I've given her all the pieces. She could peel me down to my core whenever she liked, I'm sure of it.
Emma could. Emma would, if she didn't fear me too much to try. (I do so desperately hope so, here in the shadow-haunted depths of my weariness and fuzzing, frantic plans.) Grey doesn't fear me. Why should she? I have to use other strategies, and the truth, however imperfectly parcelled out, seems like the best one at the moment.
As long as she doesn't pick up anything else. I can't be sure. Dammit! I just cannot be sure.
I hate trusting. Even, sometimes, trusting myself.
And Melcross. Sabitha. Awaiting me when I returned from the Village were a bottle of Scotch and a note - nicely done. It isn't quite running to me, but it certainly isn't running away, either. She's being craftily run, by herself or someone else. I'll sit on the contact for a while, see if she tests it again, see if my patience can hold out from testing it myself.
"Every inch a gentleman and a friend," she wrote. She should have seen me with Scott Summers tonight. (One of Grey's reclamation projects? She seems the type to take in hurt kittens and tend their wounds. He's a pathetic waste of her time, otherwise.)
Oh, Sabitha. What would you do with my truths?
7/12/2005
Logfile from Shaw.
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Greenwich Apts #1500 - Jean
A departure from neighbouring apartments, this converted artist's flat has been, well, reconverted. Disdaining the gentrified wealth of the rest of the upper levels, the original residential spirit of the building has been recaptured with an uncovering of the original brick outer walls and where the plain and smooth wooden board flooring has been lovingly wax-polished rather than made harshly gleaming with modern verathanes. As many interior walls as possible have been knocked down, leaving a large open concept space with natural light streaming in from the row of square-paned windows that stretches all along the outside wall. The remaining interior wall sections off one quarter of the flat, two doors leading to a palatial bathroom and to a large bedroom with a small inset balcony: the sole traces of the gentrification allowed to remain. The main room features a U-shaped kitchen area with breakfast bar by the windows and against the interior wall, with a raised area opposite it with metal and frosted glass privacy panels to form an office area. The rest of the space is taken up with a conversation half-circle of comfortable banquettes laden with cushions and pillows, interspersed with end tables and capable of comfortably seating a large party around the open space between them and a large entertainment center.
--
It's been a very long day, the productivity of which has done nothing to alleviate the length. Despite the fact that Jean is expecting one last visitor, she's nonetheless down to bare feet, a pair of comfortable old scrubs pants, and a tank top that still manages to neatly coordinate with the rest of her outfit. And a glass of a nice Canadian merlot a friend recommended. The TV is on, but tuned to one of the myriad of satellite music stations, something soft and World Music playing as she lounges on one banquette with her cat curled up by her feet. On the low coffee table is a large and shiny sledgehammer, with a name woodburned in curling script on the handle, and a big red bow tied around it.
Tardiness is no one's friend, and since Shaw's showing up to make friends (or so the long, flat, narrow package, white ribbon around midnight-blue, under one arm would suggest), he's on time. Casual, too, even as she: dark-red T-shirt, worn blue jeans, dark leather jacket and shoes. And a firmly pleasant demeanor, floating in and out of mental space and slight smile and wide-open eyes. And -- a knock. After a moment of waiting at the door. And a waiting of a moment more.
Jean answers the door with wineglass in hand, padding over and trying to avoid the little cat feet following her. Curie, used to occasional trips out into the Xavier gardens, has already become an accomplished escape artist and master of down-the-hall sprints. "Sebastian," greets Jean, opening the door quite without the usualy New York ritual of a cautious look around the door chain first. One bare foot hooks out to prevent any feline flight, and she hops lightly back onto the other to keep her balance. "Come in. Wine? I don't usually drink alone, but it's a good vintage."
"No, thanks, if that's all right?" Shaw edges in through the opening, wary of little furry objects, and manages not to knock around his pretty package in the process. Once inside, he takes a quick look around -- "Nice," and blinks back at her. Nerves frizz gently, then glide back under the smooth, dark surface of calm, calm, friendly calm. He says apologetically, "I'm trying to ease back on my drinking. Too many late nights; too many early mornings. I'm sure you understand. Is this the place, then?"
"Oh, perfectly," Jean assures, before wondering, with a slightly ironic smile, "Juice, then? This is an apartment in Greenwich, I can whip up a hell of a fruit smoothie." She scoops up Curie with her free arm, tucking her in the crook of an elbow, and then steps ahead of Shaw into the large and open main room. It still smells faintly of paint and floor polish, but is quite inarguably Done. "And this is the place. I was going to save you a baggie of the pink wall fluff to ceremonially incinerate, but it was decided by group concensus that it shouldn't be allowed to survive in even that amount. But I did save you something else..." She gestures towards the half circle of banquettes and the coffee table and its' gift.
Shaw stops politely once he's inside a ways, to get a better, longer look -- and smell, by nostrils' flare -- and then he chuffs soft amusement. "My very own sledgehammer. Oh, Jean, you remembered. But nothing for me to smash? I'm heartbroken." He slides the box out from under his arm and balances it in offering on both hands, with distinct pride percolating through the gesture, the inky mental sink. "I hope you don't mind my being dilatory with a housewarming gift. Please accept it? And juice would be fine, thanks. Whip me up however you like," he finishes humbly.
"Tsk, Sebastian, do you really think so little of my regard for you?" Jean quips, reaching under the table to withdraw one lone section of drywall, about two feet by four feet, and places it on the table before stepping back, dusting the transferred plaster from it off against the side seam of her scrubs. It's then that she turns to smile at the box, dipping her chin a touch sheepishly as she murmurs that "I'd say 'you shouldn't have', but I know you specialize in doing things you 'shouldn't', so I'll just say thank you. The wrapping is lovely." And with that, a diplomatic pause to assure she seems neither eager nor greedy, merely curious, she takes the box and gives Shaw another smile, noting the pride and stringing things out -just- a bit as a result. "Now, do I open it here, or do I wait until you've left? Which sort of gift-giver are you?" And are there any strings?
None she couldn't /un/string as easily as the back of a woman's dress. Shaw only measures out a modestly wider smile and lifts his chin at the box. "Go ahead, if you like. At least I'll know if I guessed right or if I'd better try again -- assuming you didn't mind such a game," he allows with a brief uptick of the smile. It fades again, toward blandness, as he slides considering eyes at the drywall, and he continues while studying /that/ gift, not her or hers. "That /is/ thoughtful. Something to smash! At least I know where I stand with you, I daresay--" teasing, that, with something moving sluggish and large beneath the banter "--as someone easily made happy. And I am."
Undercurrents are hardly unexpected in a conversation with the as-yet-unknown-Black King, but there's a quality there... Lumbering leviathans are not what one expects, rather sleek and sharp-toothed sharks instead. "Deny you a game? I think that could be cruel of me." Jean studies the box in lieu of Shaw directly, not needing her eyes to take surface readings of the psyche, and runs a finger under one edge of the ribbon, loosening it and tracing it to where the bow begins. Ceremoniously, she pulls, attracting the notice of the cat as one long strand falls away. "Then I'm glad. Happiness is an unpredictable enough creature that it should be taken advantage of whenever it appears... oooh, now what have we got here?" The ribbons removed (And promptly dragged away under the coffee table by Curie, Mighty Huntress of the Urban Jungle.) and the lid lifted, Jean essays a cautious peek.
Mad, proud gold gleams back, warmly radiant, and with the lid lifted -- it blazes. A feather lies within, fully eighteen inches long from quill's hollow nib to the final flourish of plumage. Fierce fire runs rapid red fingers down the quill, stretches through orange and yellow out from that spine, and bleeds back into red again, madder-dark and blood-deep, along the feather's borders. Shaw regards it with honest, satisfied pleasure; he has his hands clasped behind him, his weight rocked slightly back, and he returns his dark study to the good doctor to judge reactions.
Jean plays it cool, plays it appropriate to her age and station, but even all the lessons of her Great-Grandmother Grey aren't enough to completely restrain the flicker of frank appreciation that enflames her features at the first glimpse of the quill. The back of one index finger is drawn gently along the midline, from nib to final feathers, and she then looks up to give Shaw a smile. "You really must tell me how you managed to charm a phoenix into giving you one of her feathers, Sebastian. This is lovely. Far more elegant than my own flight of whimsy."
"A worthy crown, call it," says Shaw gravely. "Beauty to the beautiful, Jean. I thought you might like to hang it on your wall in a glass case, or else wear it, indeed, at the next dance you might attend. I'm glad you like it. My man in Cairo did a good job, hm? All those days of staking out the date palms to try to catch a fallen feather from the bird on top . . ." And oh, he's joking, but oh, he's not: the appreciative flicker falls silently into his mind's surface and vanishes with hardly a ripple of pursed, sucking greed.
"Beauty to the beautiful... and what does my sledgehammer signify then?" Jean wonders, eyeing the cat who's now eyeing the feather appreciatively herself, and then deciding that "I'll just tuck this into the bookshelf and out of reach until I can get a proper case to store it in," before suiting actions to words and stowing it begind glass and a magnetic catch. "And I'm afraid I don't get out to many dances worthy of that adornment, Sebastian. Conferences and symposiums sometimes have balls, but nothing on the order of the Hellfire Club. The last one before your kind offer was the Presidential Ball, and I'd prefer not to end up having to prevent assassinations on a regular basis." Tone light, she gestures towards the kitchen area, picking up her wineglass again. "Want that smoothie now?"
Meekly following her invitation along, Shaw protests, "But you're so good at it, Jean! I should like to hire you myself, I think, against any number of threats." Flash of blood on a floor, a balcony, a black-and-red room, a -- gone again, subsumed in subvocalization's murmur while he works up his next pensive words. "And you dance even better. /Did/ you have a good time at the ball?" He leans a hip into the end of the kitchen counter, folds his arms, cocks his brows. "You got home safely, obviously, and you seem peppy enough. . . ."
And like the light-imprint of an image upon film, Jean files those glimpses of memory away and lets her mental camera roll on to ready for the next shot, eyes half-lidding as she delivers a lazy little smile. "But who guards the bodyguard? And wouldn't it undercut that nice little interview with the Today Show to have me mother ducking you around town? Nice interview, though," she awards conversationally, rummaging in the refrigerator to add strawberries and bits of banana and yogurt to a blender she's already dumped ice from the ice maker into. "Very little frothing, although I do have to say that if you ever run for government office, I'm immigrating to Canada. And yes, it was a very good time," she assures. "Not every night you get to dance with a terrorist -and- the terrorist's most recent victim at the same party. I networked a bit, caught up with aquaintances, and that was some remarkable scotch out on the back patio with you."
Shaw blinks lazily; his arms snug more tightly, lower against his middle. "Flatterer," he responds as conversationally. "I rather /like/ the idea of you escorting me around town, thank you: I can always use the publicity, and you can use your powers to twist the paparazzi's knickers into sailors' knots. You might even get another Hellfire outing from it, although we don't always have terrorists. That's only for special occasions." And he snorts. "And people accuse /me/ of chutzpah."
"Alas, it wouldn't look all that good to -my- press. Although I suppose I could spin it that I was trying to rehabilitate you. Save you from your path of hatred and fear of the unknown." Jean replies, ever so archly as she carries the blender back to its base. The high-pitched white noise of the blades spinning up against the ice takes over for a minute or two, before Jean deems the smoothie smooth enough, and pours out two tall glasses of it. "Chutzpah? Hardly. I'm just not a very good socialite, so if I wasn't networking, I'd just end up bored. So perhaps I'm not a very good -female- socialite. I don't like small dogs, after all."
Shaw pushes out of his lean to come around for his glass, though he keeps a polite distance from her, and there's some aloofness in his manner, too, threaded through the easy jocularity. "Oh, I'd meant /his/ chutzpah. Lensherr's. Yours?" He considers her bright-eyed over a sip of smoothie and the following nod of approval. "--Don't need chutzpah for the social scene, Jean. Or any of the damn small dogs." Yap. Nibbly food. Growl. His gaze narrows away from such notions. "If you weren't networking, you could be rehabilitating me?" he offers ingenuously and reclines once more against the counter, facing her.
Jean pushes herself up to a seat on the edge of the countertop with one hand and a little hop, letting her feet swing slightly as she sips at her own share of the smoothie, wine abandoned as she determines to surrender no mental ground to the lord of Hellfire. "So, what course of rehabilitation would you be interested in, Sebastian?" she takes up the conversational change of rein with an amused cant of her head. "I'm a doctor of medicine and almost a doctor in another field too -- my final thesis defence is booked for the end of the month."
"The mice are doing well?" Shaw inquires pro forma and then tips his head back to her and then tests a bit at that rein. Bit's not in his teeth quite yet, but his mental aspect is freshly rippling, leaking little spurts of muddied intention and emotion. Ahead of them, his expression shifts in its own way, to some embarrassment, some determination, some wee tiny bit of defiance in eyes' black-star spark. "The medicine -- well. Since you mention it. Are we being serious, Jean? No bantering, no games."
"Squeaking away happily, the dear little affronts to God and nature," Jean confirms, equally delivering a scripted line, albeit with exquisite timing. Click, snap, whirrr goes the camera of her psyche, recording the memory leaks like a spy in a document room. Her eyes suddenly sharpen from absent staring at her glass at the question, and rich green settles on darkness with a level nod. "As serious as you like, Sebastian. I don't play games with medicine."
Shaw assures her, "I didn't think you did, but with me?" The stars twinkle, indeed, at odds both with mouth's flatlining and the heightened sparkle of busy, busy synapses fizzing into the aether. "All right, then. All right." He puts his half-finished smoothie on the counter between them and studies his fingers' curl around the glass. Then looks up, swift and sharp. "I've been having problems with one of my knees, but I'm without a doctor right now. Could I -- oh, you know. If you wouldn't mind."
There's a long pause, thoughtful and considering, as Jean's gaze drifts downwards to land on the knee in question. "I take it my suggestion of a tensor bandage didn't help then?" she asks at last, somewhat rhetorically, tossed out as conversation fodder while she thinks the matter over. Not so much what her decision will be, but rather how much to reveal of why she's making it. The answer is 'none', for the moment. "And of course I wouldn't mind, Sebastian. I'm honoured that you're willing to trust me with this." is offered in soft conclusion, before she nods towards her bedroom door. "I could get my kit and take a look now, if you like. A full workup would take some time for me to get the reight equipment in my lab space, since I'm guessing you don't want to go to Lennox Hill to be treated by a practitioner of mutant medicine."
Shifting his weight further into the counter's support, Shaw cocks the free knee, his right, under her gaze. His remains pinned to her face; his thoughts are burbling faster now, and clamped-down control maintains only a thin veneer over . . . excitement. Anticipation? Some body-deep rush, anyway, sending up frustrated, poky flares against his surface. It's not at all, at all, reflected elsewhere in his manner, which exudes embarrassment still, but also relief and cautious hope. "Really? And no, I forgot about the bandage," he confesses, eyes flicking to one side. Bedroom. They flick back. "I hadn't really planned on your acceptance, so. Good. Good! I'll see if I can roll my jeans up that high, shall I? Where do you want me? What should I do?"
Tuned in to surface thoughts and mood-shifts as she is, Jean catches her own blood rushing in time with Shaw's, and immediately backs off to a lower level of mental attention as a result. "You're in pain," she points out simply enough. "And I'm a doctor. I've taken some oaths that say some very specific things about acceptance and treatment. But why don't you take yourself and that smoothie over to one of the banquettes, and I'll be right back," she assures, setting her own down by the sink after a final gulp to clear the glass and making for the bedroom door. "If your jeans won't roll that high, I think I might have a robe of Scott's kicking around." Or rather, a robe bought for Scott in the hopes that he might be convinced to come wear it. She disappears for a few moments, the sound of a closet door sliding open heard, before returning with both the terrycloth dressing gown and a black leather medical bag that looks a bit more futuristic and stylish than the classic medical grip.
Shaw, biddable as the very lamb, yea verily, takes himself and his smoothie to a banquette exactly as ordered. Sits. Places the smoothie fussily on the floor out of the way. And bends down to start rolling old, worn denim up, up, up his leg. "--Should be all right," he muses with all his engineer's focus on the problem eating up any more bubbling leakage. And -- ha. There. The gastrocnemius just hasn't a chance, though it's a close thing. He grins up at her, retrieves his drink, and leans back, stretching out the bared limb for examination. "Thanks, though," he thinks to add politely. "Scott Summers, is it? Saw him in the paper awhile ago. I wouldn't dream of poaching another man's robe, especially not one capable of half-destroying a bar, if half the scuttlebutt's true."
"Scuttlebutt is, as usual, a good part wishful thinking by bored reporters." Jean replies dryly, settling into a graceful kneel beside Shaw and smoothie. She's soon reaching over to gently and professionaly palpate around the knee joint area as she continues the conversation, alert for swellings or lumps or encapsulations, or anything else that ought not to be in a properly working knee. "One of the students of the school decided to be daring and go find a dive bar to do some underaged drinking in. A bunch of Magneto's bravos were also there looking for a drink, so Scott ended up getting called in by her, made it before the police, and then had to try and distract the terrorists because the girl got the brilliant idea to try and be a hero. He was more embarassed than anything... hrm, have you noticed any loss in your range of motion, Sebastian?"
Shaw watches with interest, though he's having a hard time controlling the tension quivers of muscles wanting -- what? His focus is drowning out those betraying telltales, leaving the physical indicators: tightly craned neck, his free hand curled hard around the banquette's edge, slowed respiration. "And what ended up happening with the girl? --Some, I suppose. It's actually doing all right now, or so it seems to me, but I overworked it at the dance," he sighs. "That's why I missed your party; I'm sorry. It gets hot, achy, but if I rest it and drink enough water, it seems to be fine again. For a while." He pauses. Tries for more patiently helpfulness: "I haven't injured it. No brawling for /me./ I promise, Doctor."
"Oh, she should be finishing up being grounded by the end of the summer." Jean murmurs. "Assuming she doesn't fly into a 'you can't do this to me, I'm a wealthy heiress whose parents have just died' fit of pique and decide to leave the school. In which case I'm suspecting her life expectancy will be measured in months." She names no names, and while her tone is absent, she continues the medically deft physical examination, contact firm and completely without reservation as she flexes the joint this way and that and turns a keen eye after physical tells. "If you've noticed it going into abeyance with rest alone, that could be a number of things. But if you have to rehydrate yourself, that could indicate a metabolic problem." she sums up. "Which means I'll definitely need to do some proper tests, in addition to decanting a full medical and patient history from you. How long have you noticed this?"
"Shit," Shaw murmurs. "--Sorry. I was afraid of that. Metabolic? That can't be good. I was hoping for 'you just tweaked it' . . . but you wouldn't lie to me, even to reassure, I know. I trust." He does. Look at him, so big and dark and bold, all humbled and good under her ministrations, blinking thinly veiled anxiety at her while his mind -- his mind. Poky thoughts. Streeeeetching intentions. The purr of emotion, like a cat after a ribbon's tease, confident in the hunt. "Is this something we need to do now? I'll be able to get home all right, I think. I got /here,/ after all."
"I sense that I might be a second opinion," Jean notes dryly, giving Shaw a brisk, if unnecessary, pat on the knee before settling down on the couch beside him, the medical bag left unopened. Nothing in -there- will help track down the vagaries of metabolic disorders, even if she -could- draw a vial of blood or three. "But no, medical lies even for the best causes always come bite you on the ass in the end. But you've got some concern about metabolic disorders? Is there a family history?" she probes, apparently planning to get a head start on the case history even if the patient is radiating thoughts of unpatiently hunting. "And since you seem to be reasonably healthy outside of the joint, I think it can wait a few days for your schedule to open up. I didn't feel anything that would suggest cancer, and I've never heard of water alleviating symptoms of -that-."
--FEAR. And as quickly damped, hard, /hard,/ behind eyes half-shuttered in the concentration of unrolling his jeans. Shaw explains calmly, coolly, "I'm sure I don't know, actually. I was just afraid of anything worse than a tweak diagnosis. I can find my medical records, such as they are, to deliver to you -- unless you want to do the interview yourself." He pauses, tests the words, taste them. "Tests and history," and he ducks behind the mental and physical greyness of weary resignation. "The next few days would be fine. Whatever you think, Jean. Whatever's best in your opinion."
Now, -that- is interesting. Cancer is not something generally looked forward to, but that level of sheer, visceral terror... Jean quickly resolves to do a records search to see what Shaws of generations past have been dying of. "Tests and history." she echoes in confirmation with a small smile. "Medical diagnostics is pretty much the world's most ornate and complicated form of jigsaw puzzle. But I'll call you directly when I've got my equipment in place," she promises, before pausing a moment, and adding an "Ah, do you have a number I can reach you at that your secretary won't answer?"
With his leg modestly covered again, as much so and as toughly as his mental aspect, Shaw sits up and cups his smoothie in front of him. "My cell," he supposes quietly, still not looking at her. My, the enduring, timeless fascination of smoothie. Mmmm. (Mental twitch. That leviathan in motion -- no. Weariness. So, so tired! Yes.) "Got a pen?"
Jean snaps her fingers in an effort to warn mixed with sheer showmanship, and a pen and notepad fly over from beside her phone to land in her outstretched hand. She hands them both to Shaw with a little nod. "Keep up with the drinking water, and cut down on your caffeine as much as you can," she advises. "Like alchohol, it's a diuretic, and I'd hate for this to hit a crisis point in the couple days it'll take me to get what I need and refresh my memory on what tests to run. Since I'm assuming you'd prefer this not be handled by a public lab either."
"No, indeed not," agrees Shaw, while the forced and humbled grey stretches to cover another surge of emotion. (Irritation, icy-hot: little snowflakes melting in tongue's summer bath.) He balances the pad on his thigh and writes quick, strong numerals. Nothing wrong with /those/ parts of him, at least. Handing them back, he tries to perk up with proper guestly appreciation, tempered by the wry simmer of not an easy patient at all. "I'll do my best, but I can't promise I won't need a snort now and then to keep me going in meetings I have this week. I suppose I can try to sleep more, to compensate, but--" a short half-laugh "--I'm not holding my breath there, either."
"Sebastian," Jean chooses to acknowledge what lies beneath -this- glossing over. "I'm a doctor. I'm -your- doctor now. I have to say these things even if I know you're not going to be able to listen to them, it's in the fine print." she points out before giving a matching half-laugh. "I never listen to doctors' orders either. But I think we can end the medical for the night, if you don't have any questions."
"I know, I understand, it's just--" He breaks off and leans forward on elbow to knee, his hand scrubbing absently up his brow and into his hair, tugging out a few strands from its short ponytail. And Sebastian looks at her from there, sidelong and rueful. Vulnerable. "No questions," he says, low. "But thanks -- those in plenty. If you're my doctor, I have your confidentiality, right?"
"I swear by Apollo the physician," Jean quotes, placing a hand to her heart. However, despite the historical quip inherant in the words, her demeanour remains serious and her eyes steady on Shaw, expression open, attentive, but with measureless depth to it. "You've put yourself in a position of trust." And she leaves it at that, waiting to see what this new variable will add.
Mutters Shaw, "Fuck Apollo. Bet /his/ knees are perfect." Damn those Greek gods, anyway, with their perfect knees and their oaths. Not to mention the scads of lolling nubile nymphs. Such pretty thoughts skim a light shield between him and her, so that from behind it he can admit, "I have, and it's difficult for me. As you know. But, in the interest of trust, and disclosure -- my father died of cancer." And his brain's not giving out a damn thing now except impulses to glance away, sit up again, smooth his hands on his thighs, and glance back.
Jean is silent at this, restraining her immediate urge to proble for more information, both for medical and lie-detection purposes. She's silent still longer, nodding once or twice to herself, as she attempts to figure out what to say that's counter to her natural inclinations. Eventually, she settles on "I'll have to ask for more details about that, you know. But later. Not tonight." as a compromise between acknowledgement and sympathy and further digging. She has a question of her own, however, as she picks up the medical bag: "How long have you been thinking about asking me for medical help?"
Shaw inclines his head for the promise (threat) of further interrogation and then pushes himself up to standing. Energy dances restlessly in body and mind; he restrains himself to a brief weight-shift between feet, and a very small, very tight smile under lowered brows. "Long enough?" he tries. "Yes, long enough. It was the dance, or the Scotch on the patio, that convinced me I might as well try. To ask. To trust you." Soberly he gazes down at her, and then he shrugs into deliberate nonchalance. "As long as our involvement doesn't travel too far, or into certain circles, I think it's safe to see you -- as my physician, that is. So, again, thank you. Jean."
Jean rises as well, a half-beat behind Shaw, and graceful as ever despite a sudden quisling crackle-pop from one of her own knees. Remnant of that once-mentioned riding accident, perhaps? She grimaces wryly at it and then offers Shaw a hand as she shifts position to smoothly angle them both towards the door. "Then, as your physician, take care of yourself." she offers as a farewell. "And entirely as myself, thank you for the lovely gift. It was very thoughtful."
Shaw folds her hand in his and walks quietly along with her. "Phoenix," he says suddenly then, and smiles, and kisses her cheek. Like his hand, his mouth is warm, overly so, and demure, not overly so. Drawing back, he squeezes her fingers absently and nods. "You're welcome. I /am/ glad you like it, and I hope to see it in a proper case up on the wall someday. And . . . you'll call about the appointment." Not a question; not quite a demand. His mind's in too much turmoil for settling on any particular engram, but his emotional state is clear: restless still, and uneasy.
Thoughtfully, Jean's hand lifts to brush at her cheek when Shaw has drawn back. She does not return the gesture, and if her fingers tighten against his, it's so faint as to be reflex action. She has no set of stock reactions for dealing with Sebastian Shaw beyond charming and disarming and occasionally irritating banter, and as such is left to think on things with the slight half-step withdrawl from the physical common amongst telepaths. "You will," she assures, adressing the spoken words rather than body language. "And I will. Have a good night, Sebastian. I'll keep a mental eye out for muggers."
"Appreciated," Shaw clips out through his fading smile, and the emotions fade along with it, even as he nods again and opens the door himself. Before he goes, though -- a black-eyed glance back, hot and heavy over his shoulder. "Confidentiality," he reminds her, he hopes, he wishes. And then he goes.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Greenwich Apartments - 15th Floor
A fairly short hallway stretches out before you, not so heavily populated as the apartments on this level are spacious enough to allow only a few per floor. The walls are painted a rich green with gold-stenciled borders and rosewood trim, and at the far end of the hall there is a door annexing to the stairwell for the claustrophobic or more excercise-prone.
--
--And thunk. The door to Jean Grey's apartment closes, with Sebastian Shaw on the hallway side of it. He pauses for a moment there, casually dressed and a little ruffled in hair and demeanor; then a brusque shrug swings him around, in a tight scowl and firm, quick steps towards the elevator.
Scott knows where he is and does not know where he is. He is aware that he is near Jean's apartment and has proceeded here from somewhere. There is also some sense of violently throwing up a few times and being stepped on by an unwary and uncaring pedestrian. A subway might have been involved. He must have been mugged in a wretched fashion. Or something. In either case, he emerges from the elevator at a sad stagger, his glasses held on by miracle and the occasional clumsy readjustment. As far as he is concerned, hall is empty.
Alas that the hallway is not so long that Shaw can measure out much of it before the elevator doors open and de-empty the space for him, at least. His steps hitch in surprise, but his scowl only screws tighter in brows' shelf and mouth's wall, at this . . . spectacle. He takes another pace further along, towards Scott. Then he stops again. And stays stopped. And watches. If there's /going/ to be a show, he /should/ watch, yes?
Scott bangs into a wall which viciously placed itself in his way at just this moment. He'd kick it, but he'd probably spill himself over. No good. Wall wouldn't get hurt anyway. Stupid wall. Scott starts in another direction, angle, whatever, attempting to make it to Jean's apartment by zig zag if necessary (why here? Why not go home? Closer. Con/fused/). Shaw is still as invisible as airspace.
So Shaw watches. He does. Behind the barricade of folded arms, he patiently blinks after each reel, each lurch, as if it were a tennis match unfolding before him. Idly he reaches up a hand to scratch under his chin. Other than that, though, he's as immobile as one of those cruel, cruel walls, planted dead smack dab in the middle of the hallway, still only a few steps from the Holy Grail of this desperate knight's questing.
There is another wall. Scott has discovered strategy. When wall is hit, move forward . . . in fact, dude, why does he not just keep his shoulder against a wall and find his way that way. Is infallable. Cannot lose wall. Thus, Scott begins dragging himself along the wall, hand trailing out in front.
Shaw's brows bob in pleased surprise. The boy learns! He shifts a little in his stance, turned to watch this new creeping along. And another absent scratch, this time at his cheek. Goodness, nails on faintly stubbled skin is /loud/ sometimes, isn't it?
Yes. Loud. Like a ... a ... comparison cannot compute, not enough runtime memory whatsit. Scott pauses in his wall crawling to clamp a hand over his ear. This would mean he is rather close to Shaw and that, like a hangover, everything is ACCENTUATED. Maybe Scott will go throw up again. Not strictly related, just wants to.
Well, we can't always get what we want, and even if we try sometimes . . . all right, sometimes we /do/ get what we need. Shaw does, anyway, because he is Shaw. So he leans over, just on the balls of his feet to keep himself balanced out of splatter range, and unleashes a boom of jovial baritone power. "Mr. Summers! How delightful to see you! I've been following your exploits in the news. I hope you don't mind my visiting your -- girlfriend, is it?"
Scott clamps his hand harder over his ear. His only response is some very crude derivitive of go away and may or may not be directed at Shaw personally. After all, might have been a baritone, might have been a fog horn, and this apartment hallway was to be the first bit of sanctuary he got from the CONSTANT KILLING NOISE HOW DISAPPOINTING. He gags. Nothing comes out.
Shaw, thus encouraged by no immediate reaction, steps forward, and around, to position himself a little behind the younger man. As he speaks next, he pokes his head from one side of Scott's to the other, back and forth, in an unpredictable, shifting rhythm to suit his merrily rambling monologue. Syllabic splatter, even if there's no emetic parallel. Yet. "We danced at the party, you know. /Do/ you know? And I couldn't come to her housewarming party, so I had to stop by to apologize and bring my gift. I gave her a feather. I do think she liked it. Are you coming to see her, too? I didn't see any sign of cohabitation, but I could be wrong, of course. She did offer me your robe. There's that."
If Scott took off his glasses and left them off for a looong time, would the noise go away? No. No, these are unworthy thoughts. One did tolerate noise in the subway. One can preservere. "Nnnnng, frigging robe," says Scott. He did hear robe in that. Amidst the BOOMING. Why is he visiting Jean? He should be asleep? Scott gags again. Nothing.
Taking pity on him, Shaw puts a steadying hand to his back and starts to chivvy him gently along the wall. He talks more quietly now, but that hand's insistence, whatever compassionate purpose it serves. (Compassion. Ha.) "Yeah, your robe. But how would that have looked, undressing and putting that on? I," sniffs a haughtily offended Sebastian, "poach no man's robe, as I told her, and I meant it. Besides, it was an ugly thing, and too small, to boot." Gently pushing. There we go. Poor little Scott.
Wow, Scott is like moving. He seems to moving in right direction. This is good. Scott will allow movement. He sort of hunkers up like a dog that is being nudged by pushy foot, however. "Boot?" he asks for clarification.
Shaw puts some more power behind the push, which isn't a problem. He's got plenty, after all, and doesn't mind Scott feeling at least the lower limits of it. "Boot," he agrees. "Which is what you look like you're about to do at any second, Mr. Summers, so let's just get you inside, hm? I didn't hear her lock her door; I can just spill you inside and quietly take my leave. A little secret between us."
Scott stumbles and makes an abortive clutch at Shaw before he knocks again against the wall and has to clutch at that instead. This time, there is throw up. But just a little. Spit up, practically. Awww. Perhaps Shaw will take that as a yes.
"Oh, for God's sake," Shaw mutters, and sighs and goes to fetch his charge. "Come /on,/ boy. This way. Just a little bit more--" his voice drops further, into disgusted basso rumble "--before I pick you up and just throw you in there. Heeeere we go. Another step. And another. There you go."
Is that a door? That would be nice. Scott's hand closes on something that feels knobbish. Victory. Right? Oh. What is the word. Since he did not get here himself. "Thank you," is said with shivery illness. Poor thing.
Shaw ruffles his hair. "Anytime, you poor bastard," he says cheerfully. "And much joy may Dr. Grey have of you this night." His work here done, he returns to pacing down the hallway, but it's with a lighter step and a new, simmering grin that he goes. In another moment, maybe in the elevator, he might even whistle.
Door open. Magic. Wow. Shaw is already forgotten. Scott is now quite occupied with proceeding allll the way in. What fun Grey will have indeed.
[Log ends.]
Delivered by courier, although obviously less professional than Sebastian's own, Tuesday evening, is a small package. Nestled inside, a bottle of Scotch whiskey, neither cheap nor overly expensive, with a hand-written note.
Sebastian -
I don't have your impeccable taste in perfect gifts or your pretty way with words, but I hope this can make up at least a little for what I consumed the other night. I'm sorry I left it so long, but this subject is not easy for me. I wanted to say thank you. Both for letting me in after what was a very long evening for you, and for listening so kindly while I spilled myself out rather messily. You were every inch a gentleman and a friend, and I can't properly express what that means to me. I will settle, then, for saying thank you, and I hope that will suffice.
- Sabby