Perfectly Normal
folder
X-Men - Animated Series (all) › FemSlash - Female/Female
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
63
Views:
7,416
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Category:
X-Men - Animated Series (all) › FemSlash - Female/Female
Rating:
Adult +
Chapters:
63
Views:
7,416
Reviews:
2
Recommended:
0
Currently Reading:
0
Disclaimer:
I do not own X-Men Evolution, or any of the characters from it. I make no money from from the writing of this story.
29
PERFECTLY NORMAL CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
Disclaimers Apply
A/N Goddess Foxfeather, Queen of Mad Plotbunnies, BUSIEST WOMAN ALIVE (TM), Prophetic Muse, Hamster Witch and Uberbeta... *yawnglomp* LOL. InterNutter, TC, Maxwell Pink, Dracena and Greywolf are loverly and wondermous for archiving/hosting. ProPhile: I had something to put here but my mind just went blank... Morgan: *sneakgloke * Readers/Reviewers: Thank you SO much for reading and reviewing as you can!
“It was just one of those documentary jackasses,” Scott sighed, pulling Jean into an embrace. She did not know what he did yet, about their ties to the Friends of Humanity, and he intended to keep her in the dark for just a little while longer. She looked tired, haggard beyond reason as she leaned her head against his shoulder, sighing wearily. “Long day?”
“Cecilia had a ton of patients today. Vaccinations, mostly, a spate of broken bones, one final trimester check for a lady who refuses to see an Ob/Gyn and wants Cecilia to deliver her baby, and a rash of...well, rashes.” She wrinkled her nose and sighed again. “DNA doesn't get rashes.” She turned her face up towards Scott's and made a moue of consideration. “At least I don't think it does. I guess I'll find out when I'm able to start my residency in the genetic research unit.”
Scott laughed and shifted his grip on her so that his arm lay across the back of her shoulders as he lead her to the house. He had manage to finagle his way out of the entire trip to the hospital with the vague comments about 'things he needed to do' and 'chores,' but that in and of itself had taken little time to complete. He ushered her through the mudroom and into the kitchen proper, pulling out a chair for her to sit in while he headed for the tea kettle. “Green, black, or mystery?”
Jean, around a yawn, inquired, “What's mystery?”
“Ah, that is the great unknown,” he replied in a dreamy, psuedo fortune teller voice. “The bags appeared, tagless and envelopless in the tea cannister one day and no one has yet determined their origin or substance.” He held up one of the mystery bags for her appraisal, raising a brow as she sniffed it.
“That's one of Rogue's bath teas. They're meant to be put in a tub full of warm water. Supposed to relive stress or something.” She plucked it from Scott's fingers and set it down on the table, making a mental note to return it to Rogue's bathroom bag later. “Don't give me that look,” she laughed. “You know girls like baths.”
“Not all of you,” he pointed out. “Jubilee hates them. She says its' like stewing in your own filth.” He popped a green tea bag into the tea kettle and sat down to wait for it to brew, fixing Jean with what he hoped was an expression devoid of any uncertainty or annoyance. He was listening as hard as he could to the movements of the film crew around the mansion, listening to their heavy footfall over head as Todd led them to the study room at the back of the new wing.
Jean tilted her head to one side, barely managing to stifle another yawn. “What are you up to?” She drummed her nails on the table top as Scott shrugged, turning away to fuss over the tea. “We're here, not in the boathouse, you're making me tea, which you usually don't do, and you're being very... unlike yourself. What are you up to?” For a brief, pained moment, she considered the idea that he was cheating on her, that he had another somebody on the side and was acting out of feelings of guilt, but she knew him too well. She knew that he had a plan brewing behind his red lenses, something which he knew she would not like or approve of. “If you don't tell me, I can just find out,” she pointed out, leaning back in her seat. Her scrubs smelled sweaty and of antiseptic and worse, eight hours of patients all over her clothing and hair and skin. She wanted to shower then crawl into bed for ten or more hours, ignore homework, ignore cleaning the kitchen, ignore everything but her pillow. Jean knew, though, that would be impossible. Especially if Scott were up to something.
He paused, glaring at her as best as he could through the red of his glasses and with the tea kettle whistling angrily behind him. “I don't trust the film crew,” he finally said. “They're manipulative, bigoted liars.” Quickly, his voice pitched low so that no one could over hear him as he poured her tea, Scott filled her in on what he knew from Lance and Todd regarding the presence of at least part of the crew at the Friends of Humanity rally.
“Scott,” she groaned, “it's still a free country. We don't have to like what they believe in but it's their right. Just let them do their job and go home. Don't try and pull a Kitty and...” she stopped, her throat constricting as if a hand had closed around it. Her face felt hot, damp with sudden perspiration. Gasping, she dragged in a small mouthful of air before the gripping around her windpipe grew worse. She heard Scott as if he were a great distance away, calling her name, but she could not answer. She was sharing, part of her realized. Someone was with her, sharing her mind, her body. Her entire body arched and bowed, tumbling sideways out of the chair. Seizure, she thought distantly. I'm having some sort of a seizure... She was burning alive, her skin hot and red, her eyes rolling back in her head as her entire being seemed to turn itself inside out and into knots, pain so great it could not truly be comprehended wracking her body. Then, as sharply as it started, it was over. She lay, panting on the floor, wrung out, a clear and very avian image emblazoned in her mind's eye. Scott, his hands on her ribs as if he were about to start CPR, was shaking, silent. “Shi'ar,” she hissed. “Shi'ar...”
Disclaimers Apply
A/N Goddess Foxfeather, Queen of Mad Plotbunnies, BUSIEST WOMAN ALIVE (TM), Prophetic Muse, Hamster Witch and Uberbeta... *yawnglomp* LOL. InterNutter, TC, Maxwell Pink, Dracena and Greywolf are loverly and wondermous for archiving/hosting. ProPhile: I had something to put here but my mind just went blank... Morgan: *sneakgloke * Readers/Reviewers: Thank you SO much for reading and reviewing as you can!
“It was just one of those documentary jackasses,” Scott sighed, pulling Jean into an embrace. She did not know what he did yet, about their ties to the Friends of Humanity, and he intended to keep her in the dark for just a little while longer. She looked tired, haggard beyond reason as she leaned her head against his shoulder, sighing wearily. “Long day?”
“Cecilia had a ton of patients today. Vaccinations, mostly, a spate of broken bones, one final trimester check for a lady who refuses to see an Ob/Gyn and wants Cecilia to deliver her baby, and a rash of...well, rashes.” She wrinkled her nose and sighed again. “DNA doesn't get rashes.” She turned her face up towards Scott's and made a moue of consideration. “At least I don't think it does. I guess I'll find out when I'm able to start my residency in the genetic research unit.”
Scott laughed and shifted his grip on her so that his arm lay across the back of her shoulders as he lead her to the house. He had manage to finagle his way out of the entire trip to the hospital with the vague comments about 'things he needed to do' and 'chores,' but that in and of itself had taken little time to complete. He ushered her through the mudroom and into the kitchen proper, pulling out a chair for her to sit in while he headed for the tea kettle. “Green, black, or mystery?”
Jean, around a yawn, inquired, “What's mystery?”
“Ah, that is the great unknown,” he replied in a dreamy, psuedo fortune teller voice. “The bags appeared, tagless and envelopless in the tea cannister one day and no one has yet determined their origin or substance.” He held up one of the mystery bags for her appraisal, raising a brow as she sniffed it.
“That's one of Rogue's bath teas. They're meant to be put in a tub full of warm water. Supposed to relive stress or something.” She plucked it from Scott's fingers and set it down on the table, making a mental note to return it to Rogue's bathroom bag later. “Don't give me that look,” she laughed. “You know girls like baths.”
“Not all of you,” he pointed out. “Jubilee hates them. She says its' like stewing in your own filth.” He popped a green tea bag into the tea kettle and sat down to wait for it to brew, fixing Jean with what he hoped was an expression devoid of any uncertainty or annoyance. He was listening as hard as he could to the movements of the film crew around the mansion, listening to their heavy footfall over head as Todd led them to the study room at the back of the new wing.
Jean tilted her head to one side, barely managing to stifle another yawn. “What are you up to?” She drummed her nails on the table top as Scott shrugged, turning away to fuss over the tea. “We're here, not in the boathouse, you're making me tea, which you usually don't do, and you're being very... unlike yourself. What are you up to?” For a brief, pained moment, she considered the idea that he was cheating on her, that he had another somebody on the side and was acting out of feelings of guilt, but she knew him too well. She knew that he had a plan brewing behind his red lenses, something which he knew she would not like or approve of. “If you don't tell me, I can just find out,” she pointed out, leaning back in her seat. Her scrubs smelled sweaty and of antiseptic and worse, eight hours of patients all over her clothing and hair and skin. She wanted to shower then crawl into bed for ten or more hours, ignore homework, ignore cleaning the kitchen, ignore everything but her pillow. Jean knew, though, that would be impossible. Especially if Scott were up to something.
He paused, glaring at her as best as he could through the red of his glasses and with the tea kettle whistling angrily behind him. “I don't trust the film crew,” he finally said. “They're manipulative, bigoted liars.” Quickly, his voice pitched low so that no one could over hear him as he poured her tea, Scott filled her in on what he knew from Lance and Todd regarding the presence of at least part of the crew at the Friends of Humanity rally.
“Scott,” she groaned, “it's still a free country. We don't have to like what they believe in but it's their right. Just let them do their job and go home. Don't try and pull a Kitty and...” she stopped, her throat constricting as if a hand had closed around it. Her face felt hot, damp with sudden perspiration. Gasping, she dragged in a small mouthful of air before the gripping around her windpipe grew worse. She heard Scott as if he were a great distance away, calling her name, but she could not answer. She was sharing, part of her realized. Someone was with her, sharing her mind, her body. Her entire body arched and bowed, tumbling sideways out of the chair. Seizure, she thought distantly. I'm having some sort of a seizure... She was burning alive, her skin hot and red, her eyes rolling back in her head as her entire being seemed to turn itself inside out and into knots, pain so great it could not truly be comprehended wracking her body. Then, as sharply as it started, it was over. She lay, panting on the floor, wrung out, a clear and very avian image emblazoned in her mind's eye. Scott, his hands on her ribs as if he were about to start CPR, was shaking, silent. “Shi'ar,” she hissed. “Shi'ar...”