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FIC: My Girl (1/1) R

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  • Diana
    I should be writing an essay. I wrote this instead. It s not laboured-over. It s just some cute fluff that I needed to get out of my system. :-) TITLE: My
    Message 1 of 1 , Jun 1, 2001
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      I should be writing an essay. I wrote this instead. It's not
      laboured-over. It's just some cute fluff that I needed to get out of my
      system. :-)

      TITLE: My Girl
      AUTHOR: Diana
      EMAIL: dee@...
      RATING: R for big, fun adult concepts.
      SUMMARY: "If I had to do that, she wouldn't be my girl." Scott reflects on
      what makes his girl so special.
      DISCLAIMER: No ownership. No money. No nothing.
      NOTES: The question: Why did the whole Jean/Logan thing in the movie have
      the sexual tension of a dead fish? The result: Just a little snippet of fun
      written because it made me laugh too hard not to. Some badly written
      Gay!Scott fic was definitely a catalyst. Oh, and my Scott in here is
      different from most Scotts, I suspect. He's got more confidence. The
      tweaking I did with his relationship with Jean sort of required it. Yes,
      Diana's writing Scott/Jean. Will wonders never cease?

      WORDCOUNT: 2500


      "You gonna tell me to stay away from your girl?"

      Frankly, it's all I can do not to laugh out loud. But I manage it. I've
      had a lot of practice putting on the Stern Leader face. And that's one of
      the things this constant eye-wear is good for; hiding unseemly mirth behind.
      Still, I'm lucky Logan doesn't know me at all, or he'd hear my amusement
      clearly in my voice, the way I roll the vowels.

      "Well, if I had to do that, she wouldn't be my girl."

      He was just raring for this, I can tell by the way he bounces on his toes.
      The way he almost stalks across the room. "Well then, I guess you've got
      nothin' to worry about, do you, /Cyclops/." Condescension heavy in the
      stressed sibilants of my codename, but he doesn't really think it's that
      childish or inane. He's just poking. Just trying to get a rise so that he
      can relieve... whatever. Leftover adrenaline from the tussle we pulled him
      out of, maybe. Perhaps it's a feeling of helplessness from giving in,
      staying here, being penned in by the walls. I don't know.

      Frankly, I don't care one bit for his equanimity, physically or mentally. I
      don't like him, and I'll be perfectly honest about that. Just one of those
      things, like a splinter that got immediately under my skin. I'd just prefer
      to live without him, and I knew that after barely half an hour. Would have
      known it even without that wonderful start he got off to scaring the hell
      out of Jean and just about choking her. But regardless of all that, we need
      him to be here, and slightly pliable, for a while at least. So if that
      means I have to play up to his Alpha-Male posturing, then I'll do it.
      Lounge a little more smug and insolently against the doorframe. Smirk a
      little, but not too much. Otherwise I'll let it all out, and that won't do
      at all.

      Because inside, I'm laughing about this. For more than one reason.

      "Must just burn you up," I note, "that a boy like me saved your life, huh?
      Better be careful, I might not be there next time." It's enough for now.
      Except for just one parting shot: "Oh, and Logan? Stay away from my girl."
      I give him a tight smile that, as soon as the door is safely shut behind me,
      broadens into one of genuine amusement. It sticks with me all the way down
      the corridor.

      "What are you smirking about?" Jean asks, sitting in front of the mirror and
      brushing her hair. She's in her nightgown, ready for bed.

      I come up behind her and rest my chin on the top of her head, looking at her
      in the mirror. "Nothing much," I reply. I trace a finger down the side of
      her neck, trailing lightly over the bruises that Logan left her with. Just
      starting to show now, they'll be stunning in the morning. The neck's a bad
      place for bruising. The hickie she gave me a couple of months ago backed
      that little theoretical lesson up for me. "I recommend something
      high-necked tomorrow."

      She bats my hand away, setting down her brush. "Did you have a good game of
      'Whose Is Bigger' with Logan?" Amusement in her eyes goes from mirrored to
      head-on as she stands and turns to face me, sliding her arms around my neck.

      "We just about knocked down walls with the sheer masculinity of it all. I'm
      sorry you missed it."

      Jean just laughs, and kisses me, nipping at the stretched line of my mouth
      until I stop smiling and start paying attention to business. With just the
      flimsy nightgown between my hands and her skin, it's enough to make me more
      than merely interested. But I know she's tired - an experiment gone wrong
      before Ororo and I went to Canada, on top of everything since then - so I
      don't push it. Like she doesn't push it when I'm in the grip of a migraine.
      Saying that we're 'comfortable' makes it sound boring, dull, but it's not.
      And the fire's still there, every time. It just doesn't have to be 'now',
      because we've got 'always'.

      So I kiss her again, short and hard, and step away. She brushes past me,
      pulling down the covers and climbing into bed. A quiet chuckle pulls me up
      just as I'm heading into the bathroom, and I look back to her, snuggled down
      under the covers.

      "So, /did/ you tell him to stay away from your girl?"

      I grin. "Of course I did." Her laughter follows me into the bathroom.

      As if it mattered. As if she would be tempted if he were near her, if he
      made an effort. As if I had any insecurity about her faithfulness.

      The thought of Jean and Logan together was what had made me want to laugh
      before, and it did make me laugh now.

      Oh, I know what you're thinking. You're thinking I'm in denial, or
      something. That I'm just talking myself into believing these things, or
      refusing to face facts, because I know, deep down, that Jean's got to be
      attracted to him. At least on a primitive level, right? He's like pure
      testosterone rendered in human (hairy) form, and all that. So male, so
      intensely and without even thinking. And Jean is the most beautiful woman
      in the world (or so I think, though I may be a little bit prejudiced on this
      one). It's more than that, though, it's her confidence. Her quiet
      certainty. It's damn sexy, right there in your face. He had to see it, had
      to want her.

      In the face of all this, how can I possibly be so sure?

      Jean's already dozing when I come out of the bathroom, but she wakes enough
      as I slip beneath the covers to slide over a little, snuggling back in
      beside me again.

      "So what do you think of our new arrivals?" she asks as she lifts her head
      drowsily to let me slip my arm underneath her neck.

      "Logan's going to be a problem," I state blandly.

      She murmurs agreement sleepily, and then her lips curve into a smile that's
      pure wickedness. "Rogue's cute, though."

      At my laughter, her eyes open in surprise, head rising slightly off my
      shoulder. "What? She is!"

      "Yes," I agree, kissing the top of her head. "She is."

      That's why I'm so sure. Because Logan, with all his manly, gruff sexuality
      is exactly what my girl /doesn't/ want.

      If you want a gross simplification, she's technically bisexual, I guess.
      But if I've learned one thing in the past five years, it's that people - any
      aspect of them - can't be easily compartmentalised. Take Logan for

      Actually, forget it. I don't even want to go there.

      I said 'technically bisexual', because we're getting married as soon as our
      lives calm down, but she freely admits that until me, she was more or less a

      And boy, is that the sort of declaration that can inflate a guy's ego.
      Let's face it: it's a racially-entrenched fantasy, that of 'curing' a woman
      of her lesbian tendencies by nothing other than your own charms and skills.
      But that fantasy usually involves you, the man, being so much of a man that
      she couldn't possibly deny her need for your masculinity any longer. Jean
      always takes care to deflate me whenever she thinks I'm getting too puffed
      up by reminding me that it was my /feminine/ aspects that attracted her to

      That explained a lot, once I found out about it. It explained something
      that happened when we first met. When she came into the Professor's office
      where I sat, eyes clenched as tight as they'd been for two months. She
      brought with her my new hope; the first of a series of increasingly improved
      glasses. She keeps such tight control over everything, but she was young
      too, and new to the whole telepath thing. When my hand touched hers, in the
      process of the glasses-transfer, I caught the hint of a whispered thought,
      that sounded vaguely like: "...pretty as a girl."

      I forgot all about it in the suddenness of having my sight returned to me,
      which was just as well. At that stage I was very aware of the fact these
      fine features of mine have something of the effeminate about them. Kids are
      quick and blunt to point out those sorts of things. I'd taken care all
      through school to avoid anything that might be considered ambiguous,
      gender-orientation-wise. That didn't help my early pursuit of Jean.
      Playing the macho male rates about zero with her.

      She could have got rid of me easily. What better way to stop me pestering
      her than to tell me I was too young and, what's more, of the wrong gender?
      She didn't take the easy path, though, and it wasn't just because of my
      pretty face. Because I was running a cunning, multi-faceted campaign; we
      were becoming friends. It wasn't so much that we had a lot in common, but
      we just seemed to complement each other. We fit together so very well that
      I think it scared her a little. If I'd been thinking about it, it probably
      would have scared me, but I didn't think about it. Not until I was well and
      truly in love, and then it just made me smile.

      So I troubled Jean Grey's assurance in the sexual orientation she'd taken
      years to get used to, but had been comfortable in. It was worse than a
      straight woman wondering if she was gay, she told me later, because she had
      to wonder if maybe this wasn't a subconscious desire to conform to the norms
      of society, to have a heterosexual relationship. Didn't know if she was
      really being honest with herself. I didn't know any of this at the time.
      All I knew was that where there had previously just been a flat 'no', there
      was now the teeterings of a 'maybe'.

      Of course, I was going to have to find out some time. And the longer it
      went, the more awkward it became to tell me. It eventually came out on the
      night of what I'd considered our first real date. I was back from college
      and wearing smart clothes and a mask of fake assurance. She was wearing
      perfume that completely scrambled my wits. I'm sure we were both as nervous
      as the other, and dinner was a little stilted until eventually Jean just
      grabbed my wrist and practically dragged me out of the restaurant. Not even
      all the way out of the restaurant, because it was in the foyer, as our coats
      were being fetched, that she took my face firmly between her hands and
      kissed me. Not the friendly pecks I'd contented myself with previously, but
      a real, honest-to-God kiss.

      I'd barely been able to move when our coats were held out with a discreet

      That had broken the tension a lot, and we walked through the park, talking
      like we usually did. Except we didn't usually hold hands, and that simple
      fact was disrupting my thought processes a lot. Finally, she stopped, took
      a deep breath, and told me. That she was a lesbian. That she'd been amused
      by her attraction to me, and then confused, but now she just accepted it.
      She wanted me. A careful, prepared speech. The only reason she got it all
      in was because I was too shocked to speak.

      That passed, unfortunately. I proceeded to put both feet in my mouth. The
      evening, which had been so perfect, degenerated into a bit of a nightmare.
      It would be easy to blame most of it on that temper Jean tries so hard to
      hide, but there were two people screaming at each other that night, and it
      certainly wasn't her who kicked the trashcan. She did uproot the bush,
      though. Telekinetically. And afterwards, she took off with the car in a
      blinding rage, leaving me to walk all the way back to the Mansion.

      It was far enough that I'd thought everything through by the time I arrived
      back. And the conclusion I'd reached was one that stressed quite heavily my
      own stupidity in the whole thing. I went straight to her room, and poured
      out an apology. Then we talked. Talked like we never had before, on and on
      with sentences that barely made sense by the end of it, but somehow still
      communicated. That was the first night she fell asleep in my arms, and I
      watched the sun rise through a curtain of her hair. I couldn't have slept,
      because somehow my prayers had been answered twice in one night.

      It wasn't all sweetness and light from there, of course. I didn't become an
      enlightened male overnight, and Jean had her own personal issues to deal
      with. There were a lot more screaming arguments. We both did a lot more
      apologising. But most of all we talked. Things became smoother, easier. I
      stopped flinching at references to anything feminine about myself. She
      began to trust me, and herself. She started teasing me about being in touch
      with my feminine side. I started teasing her about choosing me as the
      socially acceptable option. We watched movies together, comparing notes on
      the attributes of the female stars. And, occasionally, the male ones. She
      has a soft spot for Alan Cumming. I knew she would. If there's one thing
      we've figured out, together, it's what Jean likes and doesn't like.

      Which is why Logan can prowl, and growl, and be as indelibly, undeniably
      male as he likes. And he can do it as close to her as he pleases. Hell, he
      can show up naked and gift-wrapped in her lab, for all I care. The only
      problem I can see is that it could get damn annoying. I'll be there if she
      needs me. Always. But my girl doesn't need to be guarded. Not from that.

      I remember all this a few days and a million events later. Sitting quietly
      for the first time in what seems like weeks, our kids scattered around us.
      The squabbling over the television is the most relaxing thing I've heard in
      forever. When Rogue growls and stalks out, slamming the door behind her,
      Jean and I just laugh.

      "Still think she's cute?" I ask, settling myself more comfortably. One arm
      around her, the newspaper folded open to the cryptic crossword balanced on
      my leg. She's reading some dense scientific text. Or pretending to, at
      least. She hasn't turned the page in a good fifteen minutes.

      Jean giggles. "Interesting, isn't it, how his traits show in her. A little
      girl acting so masculine."

      "Yeah, well," I reply, bracing my leg to fill in an answer. "Male,
      female... It all mixes together, right?"

      Cause for more laughter, and she sets aside her book. "Speaking of which, I
      should go and check on Logan again." She stretches as she stands up,
      groaning a little. "He's going to wake up and he's going to try and flirt
      again. Think I should just tell him I'd prefer him in a skirt?" With a
      wink, she heads out of the room, leaving me to spread out on the sofa,
      grinning to myself.

      Yep, that's my girl.

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