The Scent of a Woman
by
Blue Fenix


Dr. Jean Grey had finally driven young Rogue out of the medical lab with a combination of adult-to-teenager browbeating and a subtle telepathic suggestion. In the school outside the hidden complex, Xavier's students were returning to their normal routine with their mentor's reappearance. Jean remained in the medical lab. Scott, therefore, hovered close to her. "You said he was stable." Scott's eyes behind the protective glasses fixed on Wolverine's unconscious body. "Cerebro can monitor and let you know if he wakes up."

Jean checked an EKG which had been normal for hours now. "I think it's better if someone stays. I'm not sure he perceives the world the same way you and I do, on a fundamental sensory level. Being left alone with medical machines might bring back unpleasant memories." She adjusted a dial. "We owe him a lot."

A muscle jumped in her fiancÈ's jaw. Scott Summers, Cyclops, had managed his troops badly at one point in this mission; only a near-suicidal solo move by Wolverine had redeemed his mistake. Jean didn't need telepathy to sense the surge of hurt feelings. "I'd owe any X-Man -- or any patient -- the extra effort," she said. "It's not likely to be a long convalescence, with his healing abilities."

She knew that Scott was looking forward to some post-mission comfort of a very specific kind. Normally Jean would have too; some of the best encounters in their relationship had been fueled by combat adrenaline. Right now, the whole thing seemed like too much trouble. Scott was the one who, metaphorically, blinked first. "Okay." He could no more challenge Jean's assessment of a medical need than she would have argued with a tactical command in the heat of battle. "Be careful. He's not exactly predictable." He moved toward the doors.

Jean held back her sigh until the doors had closed behind Scott. "You are." But that was what she'd wanted, wasn't it? Scott was quietly devoted to her personally, and to Xavier's dreams, and the school, and the team. Xavier had all but raised both of them, his first students. He'd been happy, everyone had, when Scott and Jean became a couple. They were the nucleus of the team. Their romance made the whole group stronger, more able to cope with the human outside world. The nested circles of school, surrogate family, and fighting unit reinforcing each other. Jean couldn't remember when that had started feeling less like a safe refuge than a prison.

The post-combat adrenaline was in her system after all. Jean started to pace. She would have liked some thank-God-we-survived sex, she admitted to herself; it was the ... preliminaries that were so annoying. She and Scott had separate small rooms off a private living room in the teachers' wing. When he did visit her bed, he was likely to appear with surgical tape over his closed eyes as well as the protective ruby quartz glasses. Jean understood the precaution. The uncontrollable energy beams could destroy her as easily as an inanimate roof if Scott's eyes were bare. But it gave a grim quality to the whole process, like a bomb disposal mission. She'd never complained to Scott, since he couldn't change the situation. In his own way he was as crippled by his mutations as Rogue was. Jean knew he found her beautiful; his hands were as appreciative as eye contact could ever be. They'd been together since they were virgins. She shouldn't miss what she'd never had, uninhibited sex with no danger zones.

Jean went to the computer and did a file search, on impulse, for small-w wolverines. The household system obediently brought her an encyclopedia entry: a carnivorous wild mammal found in northern Canada. Truth in advertising, Jean thought wryly. The attached photo, startlingly ugly, looked like a bear which had been compacted by a pile driver. She glanced at her unconscious patient, the capital-w Wolverine in the computerized hospital bed. She looked back at her computer screen. The small-w variety was apparently a universal metaphor, north of the border, for all that was nasty-tempered, brutish, and short. He's not that bad. Their own Wolverine wasn't the over-muscled dwarf the name would imply. The muscle was there, but he had a rangy look; more like a coyote or wolf going through hard times. His face had seemed bestial at first. But with a little longer acquaintance, Jean saw him as fully human. No less human than any fellow mutant, anyway. The Wolverine was a mask, hair and beard and ferocious expression consciously designed to scare strangers away. Part of him, yes, but not the only part.

Jean looked up. "Logan." His human name echoed in the room, far too loud in her own ears. Absurd for her heart to pound like this. "I know you're in there. I know you can hear me." The bandaged body didn't move. She was watching for a flicker of eyelids but instead his nose twitched, an animal catching a known scent. He doesn't perceive the world the way people do. Jean took a deep, centering breath. Neither do I.

She was certain that the Professor wouldn't approve, diving into a person's mind without permission or urgent need, but for once Jean didn't care. She ran through the familiar disciplines, focusing her own mind before reaching out to the other's. She'd been here before, at least for a glimpse; that made it easier.

Jean was standing in a different place, or the illusion of a place. She was in a seedy, wood-paneled bar. If it wasn't the one where Wolverine and Rogue had met, from Rogue's description, it was a near cousin. Logan was there too, one hip propped on a barstool in a pose of lazy, predatory grace. He wore his X-Men uniform leathers, battle-damaged and open at the throat. The military-style dogtag was visible, its chain half-hidden in the hair on his chest. Not your style, Red. He lit a new cigar and inhaled smoke. You're way too much class for this dive.

Jean slid onto the next stool. Maybe I go where I want.

You always went where ol' Chuck Xavier wanted you to go.

Maybe I'm learning.

That you can surely do. A beer rested on the stained plywood bar top now. Logan accounted for about half of it at a gulp. So. Does this mean I'm dead?

He still wasn't fully conscious, Jean realized; this must feel like a dream. He hadn't asked after Rogue, or the endangered human politicians, or Xavier. You aren't dead. You aren't going to die.

Damn. A beer, a smoke, no closin' time, long tall redhead -- I'd take that for Heaven. He fidgeted with the glass. When he looked up again there was naked emotion in Logan's eyes, more complex and painful than lust. You could do it, you know.

What could I do?

Anything. There's so much more to you ... dunno why Chuck can't read it in your mind, when I can smell it. Maybe he doesn't want to. He needs a cute couple in business suits who can do his job when he's gone. The pencil-dick for field commander, and you for the school and the kids. But you could be so much more. You could be ...

Jean was flattered in spite of herself; this space outside normal reality made her feel reckless. Wild, like you?

Hell, wilder'n me. You'd be doing it by choice. He reached out; one hand rested on her waist. See yourself; that's something else you can do.

Jean looked up. There was a mirror behind the bar, now. She was dressed in gold, an off-the-shoulder top which incorporated some mind's-eye equivalent of a Wonderbra. Her hair was longer than she'd ever worn it, curling loose in glorious disorder. She looked down at herself. The gold theme was continued in tight leggings which merged somewhere along the way into golden spike-heeled boots. It should have given the overall effect of a cheap hooker. Instead Jean looked vibrant, dangerous, capable of kicking someone's liver out through his left ear if her dignity was offended. This is what you look for in a woman? He shrugged, unrepentant. It's my dream, darlin'. Anyway, it suits you. His nostrils flared slightly. And you know damn well it does.

This 'place' was an image in Wolverine's mind. Jean wondered whether his brain really did map the world so differently that he'd interpret her telepathic signals as scent along with sight, sound, and touch. The alternative -- that his real body was detecting sexual interest in her real scent, back in the medical lab -- didn't bear thinking about. This wasn't real; it didn't count. She glanced down at the sturdy-boned hand still caressing her waist. You're touching me.

Yeah. Logan stubbed out his cigar in the beer mug with his other hand, somehow giving the gesture the air of spreading a cloak over a mud puddle for a queen. I figured you'd take my arm off if you didn't want me to.

What girl wouldn't? Sarcasm laced Jean's inner voice, but she found that it was more sincere than she'd expected. She couldn't find Logan, or Wolverine, frightening. She'd seen him fight to kill. She'd seen him nearly kill a friend, in a moment of broken control, against his own will. None of that seemed relevant. Jean apparently believed he'd never hurt her, even by accident -- or else that she had the power to protect herself. Here you go. She pushed his fingers away.

Logan's hand closed warmly around hers. I can play nice, too. Want me to take you out for a chocolate malt, neck in the back row at a Disney movie? Would that get it done for you?

Not really. The acute sense of smell seemed to be contagious. His warm male musk, flavored with sweat and smoke, was fascinating. Logan smelled like a real adult, a stranger; nothing like the boy she'd known since they were both children. She hooked one finger in the dogtag chain and pulled him forward an inch.

Wolverine didn't need a lot in the way of subtle hints. A second later he had both hands buried in Jean's hair and his tongue in her mouth. There was no air here, no need to breathe, but she was dizzy and gasping. His blunt fingers trailed fire down the sides of her face. He explored her mouth like he owned the place. His obvious experience was a little intimidating and, far more, stimulating. He broke the kiss, breathing like a surfaced diver, and began nibbling down one side of her neck. Logan inhaled against her, taking in great lungfuls of her scent. Red ... His teeth met her skin, nipping and then letting go before it started to bruise. Jeannie ...

The need in his mental voice broke her heart. Jean got her own grip on two handfuls of hair and brought Logan's face level with hers. He stared at her from a distance of inches, a wild creature caught in the headlights. Someone, not her, could get badly hurt doing this. But he never let pain stop him; suggesting it now would be an insult. It's okay. It is. She hardly knew what she meant, but it was the right answer.

Logan moved in still closer, chest to chest. His hands stroked the sides of her breasts; nothing else was accessible at this point-blank range. Jean, still balanced on the barstool, hung on with both arms and legs to keep from falling. Hey, I like that. Logan's hips moved against her thighs; it qualified as foreplay only because they were still dressed. C'mere. His hands moved down her back, cupped her buttocks. He lifted Jean bodily and set her on the bar.

I don't think so.

He pretended to sulk. It's my dream.

I've got some say around here too. Jean focused. The surface under her widened, becoming softer and lower as it mutated into a bed. The rest of the room blurred and refocused into a bedroom. It lacked the fine detail of the original space, since she was inventing a generic room rather than copying something in the real world, but Jean doubted that either of them would pay much attention.

He was lying over her legs now, his metal-clad bones making him surprisingly heavy. Logan sat up on his elbows and looked at her. That's a cute trick. Let me try. Muscles tightened around his eyes as he concentrated. Both sets of clothes melted away. Now that would be a fun mutant power. Logan grinned and buried his face between her breasts.

Jean had never complained about her sex life; Scott was an attentive lover who made every effort to please her. Maybe that wasn't all good, she reflected as she gripped the headboard like a swimmer caught in a flash flood. Effort was exactly the word for it sometimes. Scott worked so hard trying to bring her the heights of ecstasy, and Jean worked so hard reassuring him he had, that the goal of sex-as-fun often got lost. Logan's philosophy, if he had one, seemed to be less orchestral perfection than close enough for jazz. He dove right in, apparently without a second's self-doubt.

Logan was arrogant at close quarters, almost as much as he was in combat; a smug certainty that he didn't need to ask for feedback to keep a woman happy. Maddening, but as in combat he had the abilities to support the attitude. He shifted her weight like it meant nothing, still grinning like a pirate. One word, Jean thought below the level of speech, one sound implying anything about bucking broncos and he's going through the ceiling no matter what it takes. Her knees, to her surprise, were straining close to her chin. Spine, Jean sent with an edge of real worry. I'm not you.

Thank God for small favors. Logan gave her a little more air, and pressed on. Sudden transition; his heavy-boned face was transformed by pleasure. Jean touched him back, running her hands over his skin and hair. She could barely believe herself the cause of this much raw joy. He was losing control. Jean didn't feel entirely rational herself. Guilt gnawed at the edges of her mind. She pushed it aside; not forever, but long enough. If she was going to have to pay the price later, then she might as well get full value now.

Logan was transparently not worrying about futures or broken promises or any other concept of more than one syllable. He was pumping away like a mink on shore leave. Jean, growing squashed and breathless, wondered if he still knew or cared which woman he was with. Almost before the thought settled into words in her mind he shifted, one hand sliding down between them. Jean held back a sharp cry of pleasure. He persisted, teasing her until holding back was no longer an option. Her thrashing around would have thrown a lighter man out of bed entirely. It might have thrown Logan too, if both of them hadn't held on with more than human strength. Her addled brain shook itself and tried to recover higher neural functions. Reading scents ... she thought, practically is reading minds, if the emotions are strong enough.

As Jean quieted again he cradled her face in both hands. A softer expression crossed Logan's face, tenderness she hadn't imagined. She knew he was capable of gentler emotions, she'd seen how he treated Rogue, but she hadn't guessed how dazzling it would be at close range. Somebody ... she blocked the thought with all her skill at shielding. Say it later, or never. She put an arm around the back of his neck and pulled down. His hungry mouth landed on hers. With her own needs sated she focused full attention on his. Logan was happy to seize the moment. He regained the previous plateau of frenzied activity in seconds.

Jean found an unexpected second wind of her own in helping him toward his goal. His weight and energy were murderous, but she found she could handle them. Jean had never known herself this strong, and this ravenous. Nothing Logan could do could hurt her. She felt him realize it too, and abandon all pretense of self-control.

Jean felt she was dying of sheer sensory overload. When she shifted, trying to get a mental grip on herself, the frenzy only increased. That's impossible, I've never ... Then Logan was roaring in her ear, the primal force of his orgasm pressing them both deep into the mattress, and Jean was coming with him with no less intensity. He rolled his weight off her, still spasming, still holding her close, and breathed in the scent of her pleasure as if it was the most precious thing in the world. They both grew calmer, breathing slowing. With all tension gone his embrace was looser but Logan still held her against his chest, his face buried in her hair.

Don't let me go to sleep on you. His inner voice was transformed, the abrasive note a contented purr for once rather than a growl. But even here, Logan hadn't completely relaxed. Jean knew why. He didn't trust himself to share a bed; his partner could get hurt. Don't worry about me. I'm safe. Physically, or what passed for physical here. Emotions were something else again. The unfamiliar body cuddling hers wasn't a novel excitement or an adventure any more. Pleasure past, the burden of responsibility looming in the future. She still belonged with Scott, that hadn't changed. Now Jean had to either lie to her lover or tell him the truth. No good choices. And Logan himself. She hadn't thought of him as someone who could be hurt by rejection. He was all but indestructible physically; she'd treated him as if he was equally invulnerable emotionally. No, worse. Jean hadn't cared enough to consider him at all. She put up a light shield and said to herself what she'd nearly said to him in the heat of passion; Somebody ought to love you. She'd proven that someone was not her. Logan was no telepath and never would be. He couldn't pick up her shield, but he sensed or scented her emotional distance. Jeannie? His arms slid further around her, trying to recover the intimacy of five minutes ago.

I'm sorry.

He understood more, and faster, than she'd wanted him to. Logan pushed back from her, demanding eye contact. She'd wanted that novel experience, or thought she'd wanted it. His expression turned harsh again. Is that a fact. Darkness loomed in his eyes. For a second, Jean wondered if she was safe after all. Then he pushed back further with both open hands. He fixed his attention firmly on the ceiling. I wasn't sure ... The last time I had this dream, you weren't sorry. The words came slowly, as if speech itself was alien. Jean could sense the strain on him, holding back the betrayed beast. He'd slid both arms behind his head, under the pillow, an attitude that had nothing to do with relaxation. Jean guessed what he was hiding. There must be streaks of blood between his fingers, where the points of the claws were showing.

She didn't dare touch him, but she couldn't leave that pain unanswered. You didn't deserve to have your feelings hurt.

Yeah. His eyes fixed on Jean again. His expression softened; she found herself afraid for him, not of him. Only ... you know what the hell of it really is? It's still better than nothing.

An unfocused mental wave pushed at her like a wall. Logan lacked her telepathic skills, but he had tremendous force of will. Here, in the territory of his own mind, that was power enough. You better go. The mental space grew blurry around Jean. Her mind's eye refocused in her own body, in the medical lab, with Wolverine lying unconscious in front of her.

She expected him to wake up immediately; there was no medical reason against it. Then, she expected him to wake within a few minutes. He wasn't faking sleep, in any ordinary sense. He simply wasn't going to come out until he was good and ready. Jean continued monitoring his condition at intervals, keeping as much of a distance as she could. They'd all had plenty of warning by now about the dangers of waking Logan unexpectedly. Jean was checking the bandages on either side of his chest -- pointless now, he'd healed without a scar -- when his hand closed on her wrist. She jumped, though she didn't need to. No blind reflex aggression this time; he was fully awake, calm, and in control. "That tickles."

He started sitting up.

"How do you feel?"

"Fantastic."

He was so relaxed with her that Jean wondered if the whole mental encounter had faded like a dream for him. Maybe that would be better. She drew her mind back to the last thing that he'd done in the real world, giving his healing abilities to the dying Rogue. "That was a very brave thing you did."

"Did it work?"

"She's fine. She took on a few of your more endearing personality traits for a while."

Wolverine smiled at that too; he knew what he was like. "But we all survived." Jean was almost sure, now, that her own interference had left no memories behind. "I think she's got a little bit of a thing for you."

He met Jean's eyes, and the comfortable, teasing mood died away. "You can tell her my heart belongs to somebody else." Logan still had her hand. He brought the back of it to his lips, briefly, and let go. He'd forgotten nothing; he'd only forgiven her. Jean felt unworthy of the generous gesture. She hoped again, fervently, that someone else would see through the half-animal faÁade and care about him as he deserved.

For a moment Jean wanted to try it herself, and damn the consequences. She wouldn't, but she wanted to. She tried to put it all into words. "You and I ..."

"How's the professor?" It was as if he'd stepped back from her. No grudges, no hostility ... but better to stay at arm's length. Or further. In his own mind Logan was already gone. She didn't need telepathy to see that.

"He's good." Jean had stopped listening even to herself. Another few minutes and Wolverine was gone from the room physically as well. She knew there wouldn't be a goodbye; he would disappear as calmly and completely as a stray cat. Jean closed down the lab systems and went back to her own life, to Scott.



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