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"He's okay because he's Scott and he never lets his guard down."
That, Scott thought, was not precisely true. It was just that he'd gotten a flu shot ten days before the calamitous field trip, unlike anyone else in the mansion. The professor, too, admitted rather sheepishly that it had slipped his mind, as he, not yet sick, made a hasty exit in the direction of New York for a "very important meeting." Fortuitous timing, Scott thought, and glanced around as if a telepath might jump out and accuse him of being uncharitable towards the professor, who had, after all, ensured that Scott was healthy and no one was actually dying before telling him to look after the others. The professor would be back in three days, barring any unforeseen emergencies.
At this moment, an unforeseen emergency would not have been unwelcome. Scott eyed the kitchen counter warily. He had the vegetables lined up according to chopping difficulty next to a large pot half-full of chicken stock.
The onion first, then.
Scott took a deep breath, unaccustomed to the weight in his hand. The blade of the knife gleamed a dull red and sliced through the vegetables as cleanly as blasting a line through practice targets with his optic blasts during training sessions. Well, that wasn't so bad; maybe the ruby quartz also protects against onions. His eyes weren't even stinging, much less tearing up like he'd heard onions could do to a person. In no time at all, onion, carrot and celery lay in neat, even sections on the cutting board.
"Very geometric."
"Jean!" Scott jumped in surprise and hastily set down the knife. "What are you doing down here?"
"Ran out of tea." She held out her empty mug.
"Ah, right." Jean was standing very, very close and her robe was not done up tightly at all. He shouldn't be looking at her when she was sick-- He probably shouldn't be looking at her at all, except that his eyes weren't listening to his brain – when did they ever – and… This was not why the professor had put him in charge! Scott cleared his throat. "Uh, kettle's over there." He pointed to the opposite counter top, eyes fixed on a cupboard knob above Jean's head.
Instead of moving away, she floated the kettle over to the stovetop and dropped it with a loud thud.
"Jean!"
"Oops." She frowned at the kettle, and it obligingly centred itself over the burner, which then clicked on with no visible movement from either of them. "It was heavier than I thought."
"Shouldn't you be in bed?"
"It's just the flu, Scott." Nevertheless, she sat down at the counter and started rifling through the small container of tea bags.
"I just… I mean… Don't overdo it, okay?"
A small smile played at the corner of her lips. "Worried about me?"
"Yes, of course. As I am about all the other members of our team," he said quickly. Jean sighed and dropped her head into her hands. Scott wondered if her symptoms were getting worse and what he'd do if they were; he could contact the professor, but that would be a little too much like admitting defeat. "Are you sure you're alright? Maybe you should lie down?"
Jean looked at him through her fingers. "That's the second time you've told me to go back to bed. If I didn't know better, Mr. Summers…"
Whatever else she might have said was interrupted by a great, hacking cough. Jean glanced over her shoulder in surprise.
"Hi, Bobby." Scott wasn't sure whether it was relief or annoyance he felt, but it wasn't Bobby's fault that he and Jean were…well, whatever it was he and Jean were. "Feeling any better?"
Bobby coughed once more and pulled himself up onto the stool next to Jean. "I think so. Hank and Warren are still out like logs."
Scott nodded as if Bobby made perfect sense and returned his attention to the vegetables.
"Wow," said Bobby. "We actually have food in here."
"I think the professor stocked up before he left." Come to think of it, when would the professor have had the time or inclination for such mundane activities? Scott tipped the ingredients into the pot and turned on the second burner. "Or maybe he has someone do that for him. Us. Like the costume repair box."
"And good thing too," said Jean. Scott belatedly remembered the professor's one and only attempted to get them to repair their own costumes; Jean had sewn her armholes shut, not that the rest of them had fared much better. Following a recipe was much easier than that. So far, anyway.
"I still think we should have a real X-Box," Bobby said. "Maybe Hank could modify Cerebro? It wouldn't have to be the whole machine," he added. "We'd put everything back again. The professor wouldn't find out."
"Yes, he would." Scott looked at Jean for help. She couldn't think this was a good idea too, surely.
"What's the point of being left alone," Bobby went on, like Scott hadn't spoken, "if we're not going to take advantage of this place? I bet it's got all sorts of gadgets and secret hideaways we don't know about."
"You've given this a lot of thought," said Jean, sounding quite amused.
Bobby shrugged. "Not much else to do, being cooped up inside."
Scott forbore to mention that an X-Box – or tinkering with Cerebro – would hardly mean spending more time outdoors. "You could try sleeping. It's supposed to help you recover faster."
"It's the middle of the day." Bobby shook his head, and then clutched his head with one hand. "Ow."
The kettle chose that moment to let out an earsplitting whistle and Scott spun around, one hand going automatically up to his eyes, before he remembered he wasn't wearing his visor and that the kettle wasn't an enemy. Jean had telekinetically switched it off by then, though she didn't appear to be making any effort to lift the kettle towards her. She stifled a yawn. "It might be daylight still, but I'm going back to sleep."
Scott found potholders, wrapped them around the handle of the kettle, and carefully poured the hot water into a mug for Jean.
"Thanks, Scott." She pulled her sleeves over her fingers and wrapped both hands around the mug, then softly padded out of the room, down the hall, and up the stairs.
"What are you cooking?"
Scott shifted his attention back to his immediate surroundings and found Bobby standing with his head in the fridge.
"Chicken soup, I think." Scott re-read the recipe. "But there doesn't seem to be any chicken in it. It should be done in twenty-seven minutes."
"Oh," said Bobby, shutting the refrigerator door. "Maybe I'll stick to tea for now." He made himself a mug, took a sip and grimaced.
"Too hot?"
"No. I—" Bobby gave up on speech and bolted out of the kitchen as quickly as he could – which was not very quickly at all, given his current constitution – to, Scott presumed, the nearest bathroom. He hoped their costume-repairing X-box came with cleaning personnel too.
Scott checked on his soup and discovered a slight problem when his glasses fogged up as soon as he got close enough to see the vegetables. He stirred them around anyway, just to feel like he was doing something; he didn't think the pot would boil over as soon as he left the kitchen, though he turned the heat down low to be on the safe side.
Armed with two more steaming mugs and several packets of tea, Scott made his way up the stairs. Bobby's room was first, and Scott was glad to see he'd made it out of the bathroom on his own. Despite Bobby's earlier protests, he seemed to have fast fallen asleep. Hank, too, was a still, large lump under his blankets, and seemed content to stay that way, so Scott left a mug on the desk, next to the nearly empty box of tissues.
Two down, two to go. The light was on in Warren's room, but when Scott called out his name, there wasn't any answer. He poked his head into the room. Warren was sleeping on his front, with the blanket pushed down to his waist and his wings nearly drooping off both sides of the bed. If Bobby could be cold when he was sick, Warren probably was too. Scott walked in silently and placed the last mug down on the dresser on his way over to Warren. He paused, one hand hovering over the blanket. What if Warren slept this way on purpose? Maybe the blankets were confining against his wings. Besides, he didn't want to wake up Warren and have to explain what he was doing. Scott turned out the light as he exited the room.
"Jean?"
She was sleeping too, her riotous hair the only thing visible over the blankets. Scott left the tea packets next to her almost full mug. The water would likely cool down before she – or any of the others – woke up, but he didn't think she'd mind. In any case, she'd have tea in her room in case she forgot again.
There was a house full of people and he was the only one conscious. He ought to take advantage of the lull in activity to work on a motorcycle he'd salvaged – since he'd snuck it into the garage (though he was pretty sure the professor knew by now) a few days ago, he'd turned down offers from Bobby to help and Warren to buy him "a new one, or at least one that works" – but first he had to check on his soup to make sure it was edible and not in danger of burning down the mansion.
The objective of this mission, clearly, was to place one Scott Summers in previously uncharted territory; it was useful, after all, to know how his fellow teammates might react when they were under the weather – not that the professor had stated it in so many words. But when he called in the evening to check up on things, Scott would be able to say, without hesitation, "Day one accomplished, sir."