[Jean doesn't even put on a good show of fighting back, only scratching vaguely at Harry's arm as he's pushed back and away from the door. He doesn't have the energy to make this A Thing right now. Something about picking battles, if he wants to make it sound really sophisticated. It's more than he's just been worn down to a half-Jean, but he likes the idea of battle in a state like this. Next time, he'll give Harry hell.

This time, he stands back a few feet, warily eying the bundle like it might explode.]

I don't want your soup. You can't cook.

[He repeats it, informative instead of disbelieving.]

You can't cook. I'm not even sure you know how to fry an egg. Fuck do you mean about my soup?

[His voice is rough with disuse, and his fingers pick at tufts of his newer, softer hair.]