Logan blinks his eyes open when the smell of smoke, faint and acidic, and familiar, reaches his nostils as he sleeps. A hypersensitive nose will do that to you, and while it was useful when there was food around, rarely did he appreciate it anytime else. Except now, because he recognizes that smoke, and knows where it is coming from.
He pulls himself out of bed and runs a hand through his hair -- which is standing up in fifteen different directions -- and zips a sweatshirt up over his bare chest. A pair of workout pants, no socks, and he moves out of the bedroom to make his way down the hall. She'll be downstairs, by the television -- he can hear her movie as he's descending the stairs -- and he almost walks straight in.
Then decides to make a detour to grab a beer from the kitchen, then walk into the room where she's sitting, smirking. "Smokin' in the mansion too?" He chides her softly. "Never would've known you turned into such a rebel."
Jean's eyes widen at the sight of him, sauntering into the room as though nothing in the world matters. Think of the devil and he appears., a cynical part of her mind whispers.
"L-Logan... I, umm, I mean I was..." She sighs, expecting the worst. "I didn't think that anyone would notice. Or care, really." Her eyebrow arches. "A little early in the morning for a beer, isn't it?"
Jean casts her gaze down to her lap. She fiddles with the hem of the t-shirt which rests midway down her thigh. Now that he's there, physically in the room with her, she's braced herself for the worst. "you can sit down, if you'd like. I mean... If you want to stay... You don't have to. I just..." Think of something to say, her mind is screaming at her. "I couldn't sleep. It happens a lot. Or, not a lot, but occasionally. I mean, sometimes. Very rarely. So, umm... What're you doing up? You're not usually an early riser
( ... )
"Never too early for a beer." Logan retorts, quickly downing the bottle in three solid swings, setting the empty on an endtable with a quiet thunk before he looks at the television and cocks his head to the side. He doesn't recognize the characters at all, or the actors...this is what he gets for never watching television.
Or remembering television.
"It ain't early," He says, with a shake of his head. "Just smelled smoke," He circles around the back of the couch and gives a pointed, teasing glance at her hair. "And where there's smoke, there's fire." It's not mean or malicious in the slightest, and he drops onto the couch, stretching his legs (and bare feet) out and dropping them onto the low coffee table with a thud and a grunt.
He looks back at the television and narrows his eyes slightly, then looks at her, an eyebrow arching slightly towards his hairline. "T'be honest," He starts. "I don't remember them."
"Well, if I can forgive you drinking beer this early, then you can ignore me smoking inside. Besides, the Professors not here. Dead or gone or something, but in general the permanent sort of gone. So he can't complain, now can he? Emma won't care, and Scott is still mildly afraid of me." She snuggles deeper into the plush of the couch, pulling her knees in to her chest and wrapping her arm around them
( ... )
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He pulls himself out of bed and runs a hand through his hair -- which is standing up in fifteen different directions -- and zips a sweatshirt up over his bare chest. A pair of workout pants, no socks, and he moves out of the bedroom to make his way down the hall. She'll be downstairs, by the television -- he can hear her movie as he's descending the stairs -- and he almost walks straight in.
Then decides to make a detour to grab a beer from the kitchen, then walk into the room where she's sitting, smirking. "Smokin' in the mansion too?" He chides her softly. "Never would've known you turned into such a rebel."
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"L-Logan... I, umm, I mean I was..." She sighs, expecting the worst. "I didn't think that anyone would notice. Or care, really." Her eyebrow arches. "A little early in the morning for a beer, isn't it?"
Jean casts her gaze down to her lap. She fiddles with the hem of the t-shirt which rests midway down her thigh. Now that he's there, physically in the room with her, she's braced herself for the worst. "you can sit down, if you'd like. I mean... If you want to stay... You don't have to. I just..." Think of something to say, her mind is screaming at her. "I couldn't sleep. It happens a lot. Or, not a lot, but occasionally. I mean, sometimes. Very rarely. So, umm... What're you doing up? You're not usually an early riser ( ... )
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Or remembering television.
"It ain't early," He says, with a shake of his head. "Just smelled smoke," He circles around the back of the couch and gives a pointed, teasing glance at her hair. "And where there's smoke, there's fire." It's not mean or malicious in the slightest, and he drops onto the couch, stretching his legs (and bare feet) out and dropping them onto the low coffee table with a thud and a grunt.
He looks back at the television and narrows his eyes slightly, then looks at her, an eyebrow arching slightly towards his hairline. "T'be honest," He starts. "I don't remember them."
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