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Psylocke had found a small lounge in Xavier's Mansion and she had claimed it as her place of rest for the day. It appeared to be a bedroom converted into a meeting room or lounge. She had spent a little time preparing a fire and then sat down with her mug of hot tea and curled her legs up onto the fancy sofa. She laid back on it and just enjoyed the silence, sipping from her drink and watching the fire.
It was quiet. It was calm. It was even peaceful. And that meant that Jean-Philippe could not be far behind. He had an annoying habit of appearing at the worst possible time, or all time, it was hard to tell. He was just, there… often. But to his credit, this time he subtle. He could do subtly. He was actually quite good at it. The door opened, quietly and softly, as he thought she might be asleep. Not a word was spoken. And he carried a tray. It had a bowl of hot chicken soup and a plate of biscuits beside it. He also had a fresh cup of tea, in case her old one had gotten cold or she had drank most of it. He moved slowly and deliberately into the room, setting the soup down on a nearby end table. "I heard you weren't well, so I brought you chicken soup, more tea, and an extra blanket." That blanket was slung over his right shoulder. It was purple and made of fleece.
Psylocke's eyes had been open and watch the fire, but when she heard the door open she closed them and just exhaled a little. She heard his voice and then looked over at him and the things he'd brought for her to make her feel better. "Thank you." She said quietly in her British accent. "That is kind of you." She sipped the mug she was already holding and glanced back at him. "You needn't take care of me, even though I know you will anyway…. I just don't understand why."
He laid the blanket over top of her; sadly, obscuring her beautiful features, but the warmer she was, the better she would feel, and the quicker her recovery would be. It was a very nice blanket, nothing but the best for her. Jean-Philippe spoke in his own real accent, the English one. "Would you like to?" He asked, simply. Would she like to understand why. He had already let her into his minds once. Would a second time be so bad? And they were safely in the mansion. He took a seat on the couch after laying the blanket, but was far enough away from her that he wouldn't disturb her rest. A part of him hoped that she would switch her position, and snuggle against him. But that was too much to ask for. It would never happen. Still, it was nice that she did not send him away.
Psylocke heard his question and she gently shook her head. When the blanket was lowered over her she lowered down and sank into the corner of the sofa, her head going to lay on the arm of it and her eyes staring forward at the fire. "Not at this particular juncture." She replied to him. "Perhaps in the near future, however." She said, sipping from her hot tea again and just quietly breathing. She was not really in the most talkative of moods, but thats probably not too surprising considering she never seemed to be.
Jean-Philippe watched as she got comfortable. The fire was crackling. It didn't need to be stoked for a while, so he could just sit here, and relax with Betsy. He nodded his head, a smile coming over his lips, and easily seen through the mask he wore. He was dressed casually, well, casually by his standards. He probably looked better than all of the other men at the school, save for Professor Xavier. And as he looked over her figure, hidden by the blanket, he began to sing softly, "Down in the valley, valley so low. Hang your head over, hear the wind blow. Hear the wind blow, dear, hear the wind blow. Hang your head over, hear the wind blow."
He watched as the fire danced, the noise interrupting his voice every now and then. "Roses love sunshine, violets love dew. Angels in heaven know I love you. Know I love you, dear, know I love you. Angels in heaven, know I love you."
He slowly reached up, and pulled his mask off. He had hat hair. It didn't look good. But he didn't mind. Not with her here. "Writing this letter, containing three lines. Answer my question, "Will you be mine?" "Will you be mine, dear, will you be mine?" Answer my question, "Will you be mine?""
And then he looked to her, hoping the lullaby would put her to sleep, despite the lyrics. "Down in the valley, valley so low. Hang your head over, hear the wind blow. Hear the wind blow, dear, hear the wind blow. Hang your head over, hear the wind blow." He looked down at the mask, now in his hands.
Psylocke's eyes had been shut already, she had no makeup on today so she wasn't wearing any of the purple eyeliner or anything like that. When he started to sing though, her right eye opened and she looked confused that the man beside her was singing, she exhaled softly and… just… listened. She had told him, many times, her feelings on being with anyone and she knew he was just… for whatever reasons, insistent on pushing it. When he stopped, she let a second or two pass before she just quietly spoke again. "You befuddle me." She said quietly.
"Ah, so much for my lullaby." It was a traditional British lullaby. He had hoped that she would enjoy it, and ideally, fall asleep, even if she hadn't touched the chicken soup he had brought for her. He was without his own armour, no mask today. But, being alone with her, it did not frighten him as much as it did the last time. He still wouldn't be going around without it often, but it was nice, to trust someone like this. "And you intrigue me." He knew how she felt. She knew how he felt. It was a curious situation, but he wasn't going anywhere. He had hope.