TITLE: Soft on Bright: Jean
AUTHOR: Sare Liz
EMAIL: teknovamp@yahoo.com

Series: Soft on Bright #2
Author's Note: Yet another story written to Everlast's 'I Can't Move'. Don't ask me why. I don't know why it's particularly good for the story, it just seemed to work. Maybe because the one causing all the headaches isn't Rogue after all. I don't know. But, I promise to keep my Jean, and feed her and give her promises of prime snuggle time with Scott while Faith caters to her every whim. I promise.
Dedication: To Jenn for encouraging me to use my Jean muse and rationalizing the Holy Month of Cerebro Sex in the tradition of not only Roguism (of course) but also the goddess Klitoris, Our Lady of Perpetual Ecstasy.

***

It happened, sometimes, when there was a time of stress in the mansion. Therefore it always happened around finals time - only the students with the alpha level mutations seemed to take the meditation exercises seriously - and everyone was just up in arms around the clock, and her shields never seemed to be enough. But it had also happened when Ororo had had so many problems with the then boyfriend, last year, and every time a new student came to the mansion. Any sort of disruption to routine where emotions ran high, and Jean just couldn't sleep.

It wasn't even that the people involved where cosmically calling out to her either, subconsciously begging her to solve some problem of theirs. It wasn't like she could wave her magic wand and her headaches would go away and the people could go about their lives happily. It was more like an all encompassing dread, or fear, or low grade apprehension - whatever emotion, it didn't really matter, but it just wrapped around you, encroaching like a fog and suffocating you before you even realized you couldn't see for shit. It had no direction. It even seemed to bounce of things, like a pinball machine from hell, radiating off every mind in the vicinity until she tilted.

Finals were a certain specific level of hell for Jean that had nothing to do with grading science exams. But it wasn't finals time, and there wasn't a new student and nothing was happening with Ororo or Scott or anyone else and Jean just couldn't figure out what the hell was going on but by all that was holy could she use a cigarette and some Advil and maybe some ice cream, because what better to do than smoke and eat double fudge ice cream at three oh four in the morning?

And whoever was having their emotional trauma was still having it at three oh five, and that was so very much the first thing on her agenda after the morning shower - find out who the hell was having a problem and somehow get it solved, for them if need be, because Jean really enjoyed sleeping through the night, and not desperately craving ibuprofen and nicotine before sunrise, and if she had to deal with this growing *whatever it was* for another week, she was going to officially go insane, and the professor would finally have a use for the white padded room downstairs. Again.

And whoever was having their emotional trauma was still having it at three oh six, and apparently they couldn't sleep either, poor darlings. Really, Jean tried to muster some sort of pitying bone, but couldn't find one. She was too tired. This was what, seven days out of eleven that alarm hadn't woken her? And even before that it had been strong - difficult to get through the day without serious mediation breaks, but she hadn't wanted to admit that she couldn't hack it. She still, after everything, wanted to prove that she had the shields, because... Well, wasn't that just another story for another time?

And whoever was having their emotional trauma was still having it at three oh seven, and Jean wondered who it was. Before, she'd really tried not to pry. Beyond the fact that she was a budding psychic and therefore had to *not* propagate the stereotype and prove to the world that psychics had ethics too, it was just a personal thing. If she could help, she would, but things this strong were usually desperately personal and *not* to be taken lightly. And contrary to the fact that she did have some psychic ability, she really wasn't a people person. Granted, she cared - she cared a hell of a lot, that's why she'd chosen to be a doctor, but she just wasn't that good at reading people. She could be an understanding ear and a shoulder to cry on, and ask for advice any old time, but it was always because people chose to be open. When they weren't, people where generally an enigma for her, and that was just life.

And whoever was having their emotional trauma was still having it at three oh eight, and walking down the hall into the kitchen, Jean got the odd thought that the voices *in* the kitchen might be the person - or people - with the emotional trauma and the ethical part of her stomped her foot when she paused ten feet from the door. The voices were loud and casual enough that it was no great strain to hear them clearly, and it was obvious from the start who was in the kitchen, and that confused Jean even more, because it was three oh nine and there was still emotional trauma, but how could it have been coming from either Rogue or Logan? What on earth were they so worked up about?

It didn't take the full minute for Jean to realize that now wasn't the time for her to ask, either. "What do ya mean, sugar?" She shouldn't be standing here. She should be walking into the kitchen and getting her ice cream. Move, feet, move.

But the feet weren't moving, and the ears were entirely too attentive and Jean had the very practical feeling that she was about to hear something very private, something that was very none of her business. Something, indeed, that she should interrupt right now, not for the sake of interrupting of course - it was none of her business what Rogue and Logan did in their off time, anyway - but just because there *would* be Advil *and* a cigarette *and* ice cream in her early morning plans, and one way or the other, she had to enter the kitchen for that to happen.

"I *mean*, what the hell started you on this whole line 'a thinking, anyway?"

Wait, line of thinking? That sounded ominously like something that would weigh on someone's mind and severely disturb the shields of resident psychics.

And on a completely different note, Logan was so calm with her, wasn't he? But of course, that made a certain amount of sense. But it was nice, because she didn't usually think about it - she didn't see Rogue and Logan save occasionally at meal times or during a mission - but when she did think about it, they were always together, or at least, together in spirit, and everyone needs *someone* to be tender with. So it was nice to know that even Logan had someone like that. It *would* be Rogue.

"Is this to say you're finally gonna talk about it? With me? Saints be praised."

And equally nice to know that Rogue could let down her guard. She and Scott had discussed it a while back - now that she thought of it, quite a while back - that Rogue needed someone that she could be herself with, or at this point, that she could find herself with. It *would* be Logan.

Rogue finding herself with Logan. Why would that cause all of the mental upheaval she'd been fruitlessly trying to block? The two were thicker than thieves. Jean didn't see them much, but she knew that, so what on *earth* was going on to create such tension?

"Nah. Just asking. I can leave - it's all the same to me, kid."

That didn't sound right. All of the sudden he's so blasé? That sort of stings. Maybe that's the problem. Maybe he doesn't care about something that she does. After all, he is a man and aren't they generally more obtuse about emotional type issues?

"Bullshit it is. You can't pull that with me. And, if you're just asking, then I can just ask. I'd like to just ask why it's such a damn big deal." And, admittedly, Rogue knew him better than Jean, so if she called him on bravado, then Jean had to suppose that's what it was. Which of course left her with the question why, which cemented her feet that much more to their present position which wasn't in front of the ice cream, in case anyone needed to know. And *something* was a big deal. Her current state of restlessness was a testament to just how big a deal someone was having and of the two, Jean naturally thought it would be Rogue. The young woman was, after all, a walking, talking basket of conflicting theories. But if it was Rogue asking, then maybe it was Logan and that thought was just odd.

"It just is. Answer the question." Such a *guy* way to answer. Way to just cover up everything, Logan, and so nonchalantly.

"You gonna answer mine?" But if she turned the tables on him he wouldn't get off track. That's what she needed to do, Jean decided. Turn the tables. Corner him.

"I just did." Jean couldn't help but to silently root on her fellow X-Grrl. 'Come on, Rogue,' she could hear herself say. 'He's just being tight lipped. You can get it out of him if you try. I've heard tales of the hoops you've put this man through. I know you can get him to answer a simple question if you try.'

"You gonna elaborate on your statement of inevitability anytime this year?"

Oh, that's good. The accent just makes it better. But since when had her accent been this thick?

"Maybe."

"Fine."

"So, answer."

And the stories were true. Logan could growl. She hadn't really believed Scott up till that very moment standing in the hall... and she was still standing in the hall. She'd have to do something about that, soon.

"What was the question, again?"

Jean had to clap a hand over her mouth to stifle the laughter that bubbled up. She'd never been exposed to this playful coy side of Rogue, but she seemed to lively, so fun. Anyone that was fun at three sixteen in the morning was worth knowing better.

"*Rogue*."

Well, the growl seemed to be a resident of the kitchen now. Jean idly wondered what exactly would happen when she walked in. Would a growl be too much to hope for? Did she really want one anyway? Probably not. Really, just sugar, nicotine, and ibuprofen, that's all she wanted. Logan could keep his growls, or give them to Rogue, just don't keep Jean from her sugar, thank you.

"Wolver_ine_."

Fun at three seventeen in the morning. Jean would really have to make an effort. Later. After whatever the problem had been resolved, which was about the point in her overheard conversation that Jean realized she'd promised herself to somehow resolve the Emotional Issues at the mansion that were clearly keeping her awake at night, and here she was, positioned to know them, and all she could think about was the damn ice cream.

Maybe they could resolve it themselves?

"Why."

And perhaps this was them resolving it, right now. Jean could witness it and everything would be fine and she could get her ice cream - she would have ice cream, dammit - and maybe she wouldn't need the cigarette, because maybe she could go back to bed and wake up Scott. After all, if someone was licking double fudge chocolate off her chest, she'd wake up, too.

"Oh, right. Well. Seemed like the thing to do."

If Jean was ever going to be licking ice cream off Scott's chest, this beating around the bush was not the way to make that happen. She reminded herself that it would be wrong to burst in and telekinetically bash their heads together until they worked out whatever was bothering them. Very wrong. And they'd have headaches afterwards, which would be cosmically *just* considering how many they'd caused her, and that wasn't really the sort of rationalization she needed to hear...

"What the fuck kind of answer is that?"

"Just about as good as your answers."

Fun at three twenty one in the morning. Maybe they could go shopping with Ororo later today.

"Fucking *hell*, Marie."

Jean's head snapped around from her idle visual musing of the hall's paneling and she focused every sense on what she couldn't see in the kitchen. Something in the status quo had just changed and she was dying to know what, exactly. Whatever it was, Logan was all off kilter, and a little pissed about it, obviously. Ironically, the moment she wanted to see most was the moment that would have been the worst to walk in on, seeing that she was now in a position to plan her entrance.

"Just provin' a point, sugar."

But what? Jean's imagination wasn't filling in any blanks at all. Admittedly, this was Rogue. There were stories, and most of them Jean would bet money on being true. But this was also Logan, who didn't need stories because people took one look and just backed off. And if Rogue wrote the book on being outrageous, it was because she had a mentor in not giving a shit, whom she was presently drinking coffee with in the kitchen.

Coffee. Now, there was an idea. Coffee and ice cream and a cigarette and Advil. In the garden. She could go in the garden. That would be nice. There was jasmine out that would be lovely at this time of the morning.

"And what point, exactly, are you proving on my lap?"

Jean had to wonder in agreement. She'd seen them in the rec room often enough watching TV and Rogue had been all but on his lap before, and sitting outside during picnicsand what not... Granted, she'd never seen Rogue on his lap in the kitchen, but she'd never really watched for it either. Besides - not that the two would care, but - wouldn't people get an odd idea of their friendship?

"That a year ago, this wouldn't have phased you and it sure as hell wouldn't have sent shivers through *my* spine."

Then again, it's practically impossible for people to get an odd idea about a relationship when the relationship is having some awfully odd twists and turns that even a psychic can't figure out.

Alright, an obtuse psychic, but still.

So. Logan had finally woken up to the fact that Rogue was a beautiful young woman? And she was finally doing something about that as well? Good for them. Couldn't have happened to two more insane people. If they didn't deserve each other, they were certainly the only ones who could stand the other for extended periods of time... So what was the problem? She wasn't really good at playing matchmaker, but if that's what it took for them to stop projecting, by heavens, she'd try.

"So?"

Alright, he was at peace with his attraction to her, and her knowledge of it. That's a start. That's a good start. Jean was having problems remembering, then, what the problem was.

"So, now it phases you something good and I know you can feel me shivering, sugar."

She was really laying it on thick. A lesser man might have crashed by now.

"That doesn't prove shit, darlin'."

And suddenly, Jean remembered Logan's attitude. Problem? Certainly.

"Quite the contrary, _Logan_. I'd say it proves a hell of alot."

"So. You grew up. Surprise, surprise, fucking surprise."

Definitely, the problem was with Logan. He was in denial.

"Is it fun, bein' in denial?"

And that was just creepy, Jean decided, and briefly wondered if she was projecting. After a quick mental check she realized to her chagrin that she was, but on such low levels that they probably hadn't noticed. Probably.

"What do you mean by that?"

Apparently, Logan was as psychically deaf as a post. If he'd picked up her projection like Rogue had, maybe they would be kissing by now, or at the very least nuzzling, considering Rogue's skin. And now that the option was irrevocably taken from her, Jean realized how close she had been to projecting consciously to Logan so there wouldn't be any misunderstandings and the two could just nuzzle and make up and do whatever they had to do to release the tension so Jean could sleep. That thought normally might have given her serious pause but in this case it gave her impetus to move two steps further, until Rogue spoke again.

"I *mean* you and I both know you're not all hard right now just 'cause I have a nice ass. You like me."

And Rogue gets two points for being alarmingly blunt and to the point, though nothing terribly unusual, considering the source.

"Of course I fucking like you."

Perhaps Rogue knew exactly what he meant by that, but to Jean it was completely beyond. Granted, it was obvious that Rogue was insinuating that Logan was lusting after, which he apparently was, but his response.... Only Rogue knew, which should just scream out to everyone that theirs was a match made in heaven, or at the very least a bar with a good juke box.

"And, I know you care about my oh-so-delicate mental balance."

And as Rogue's physician, Jean had to pause at that. Was she being serious? She made a mental note to discuss that situation in general to the professor sometime later in the day, perhaps even tomorrow.

"Even though you're full of bullshit, yea, I do."

Of course he does, he's Logan. She's Rogue. The two went together around the mansion like finals and stress. You can't really have one without wondering where the other is. And even if it weren't about lust and maybe love, they'd been friends since time began. If any guy pulled the kind of shit that's going on between them now Jean didn't want to think about the sort of bloodshed that would be involved.

"So this should be natural as _snow_ to ya, Logan. Who the hell else am I gonna ask?"

Whatever she's asking... But what would she be asking of him? What could Rogue possibly ask of Logan that he wouldn't hand over before the request was out of her mouth? The man had given her his life time and time again - what has more value to him than that?

Jean was at a complete loss, and what's more, she realized that if she had coffee, she'd never get back to sleep before the alarm went off.

And so she wondered, and she wondered, and she wondered some more, all in silence. And then she wondered if perhaps one of them had realized she was out there, and they were just waiting for her to move.

"If you're not gonna get the hell of my lap at least hand me my fucking beer."

Logan was drinking lager at three thirty four in the morning. There was a thought to file away for future contemplation. But of course, he didn't sound all that disappointed that Rogue was still on his lap, for all his grousing.

"...I didn't say you could drink some."

Definitely, it was the most half-hearted protest Jean had heard in a while. The man was so completely in denial it was almost funny, or it would be, just as soon as Jean could sleep through the night. Then, and only then, she'd laugh.

"Didn't say I couldn't, neither."

Fun at three thirty five in the morning. Shopping, definitely. Possibly with Scott's credit card. Maybe even with her own. Rogue needed some new outfits. Particularly leather. Logan seemed quite fond of leather. Rogue would look good in leather pants, she had the hips for them.

"Nice cleavage, by the way. Always wear a that damn wonderbra to bed?"

Alright, it was time for the ice cream. Jean would do what she could in the afternoon - shopping, that would be her therapy, that would be the extent to her meddling. Beyond, of course, the causal conversation with 'Ro, and some meditation with the professor. But no more of this eavesdropping. As it was, she would have guilt enough to last her the week.

Her feet were moving and everything. Jean took one step down the hallway, and then another, and another, and another. And two more. Then two more after that and she was officially in the kitchen and she could finally see that Rogue really *was* on his lap. Up 'til now, Jean had had the strange thought that she was imagining it all. Lack of sleep. That maybe Rogue wasn't on Logan's lap and she herself wasn't standing in the hall listening to odd protestations, and that maybe she was really asleep next to Scott and that the alarm would go off and he would wake her up and they'd have sex in the shower. But alas no, there was Logan sitting at the table with a Molson in one hand and the other arm wrapped around Rogue's waist - his hand awfully friendly on her hip for someone he doesn't want on his lap - and Logan was looking at her Rogue's now, but a minute ago, apparently, he'd been checking out her cleavage. This was surreal, but so was most every other facet of life at the mansion.

"Thanks for noticing, sugar."

And she grinned at him, and Jean could see the impish feature plainly, but didn't stop. She had, after all, come to the kitchen with a purpose and it hadn't been to spy on Logan and Rogue. Ice cream. Just the ice cream. Well, ice cream with Advil on top, but then back to bed, because she'd shop instead of smoke and sex with Scott was very, very appealing after seeing Rogue look up at her then nuzzle into Logan.

"Morning, Jean."

Advil. Cabinet. Glass. Different cabinet. Water. Two, no three. Hand on counter, chanting for the drugs to do their magic because the tension in the room had just increased and Jean couldn't be sure if it had been her entrance or Rogue suddenly deciding to go all snuggle bunny, or maybe both but damn it hurt.

Glass in the sink. Deep breath, center. Center, center, find your center, find the calm, find the silence, you can do it Jean, just find the center.

Sigh. Better. A little.

"Morning, Rogue, Logan." Don't even look at them. Just focus on the ice cream. Scott and chocolate, your favorite flavor. Scott and chocolate. Need a bowl. If you take the entire carton, there won't be any for next time, so you need a bowl. Bowl. Cabinet. Scoop. Drawer. Spoon. Another drawer.

"Ya think she's sleep walking? Maybe we should get Scooter or something."

Gotta laugh at that one. Sleep walking - at least there would be sleep involved.

"Guess not. Y'all right over there?"

Opening the freezer Jean flashed them a quick smile, checking on their status. Logan didn't even seem to realize that as he shifted to see her, both arms came around Rogue who looked like quite the contented, if not some what concerned cat on his lap.

"Fine. Couldn't sleep."

Oh yes. Two cartons. Guaranteed to be enough. Put that baby right down next to the bowl, right there. Perfect.

"So you thought a midnight run for ice cream would be good?"

Scoop, and it's too much effort to give a telekinetic push, so for the first time since finals, scooping hard ice cream entirely by hand. Takes much longer, but so very much worth the elbow grease. Three scoops. Perfection in a bowl. Soon to be perfection on Scott. This day *will* be a good day.

"Ice cream is the perfect solution to most every problem." Looking at them now, putting the carton away. "You should try it sometime."

Oops, shouldn't have said that. She's said too much, said too much, don't really care, gonna have ice cream with Scott, gonna get out of the kitchen from hell with tension thick like mud.

And out. Gone. Free.

Freedom is deep breaths against a corridor wall, pulling your tattered shields together enough not to break down when you finally get to your husband and he opens his eyes and then the link and wonders what's wrong, or worse, before.

Freedom is the cool ice cream bowl grounding you even as you can feel the tension thicken behind you and you know something else has happened to disrupt the status quo in the kitchen, but you're okay for now and it doesn't matter so much, beyond the fact that there is shopping to be done and maybe advice to be given.

***the end***

To Bobby