Bedside Manner

©2000 Mparkerartist

Sex Content: R

Violence Content: none

Language Content: R

Characters: X-MEN Characters

A gentle stroking of fingers across his forehead pulled him up from the numb darkness and into the bright pain of consciousness.

He hurt. He felt the grinding twitch of muscle and organs knitting back together. The feeling of limp weakness, of helplessness, infuriated him. The fingers helped. They soothed away some of the lingering pain, eased some of the tension.

He heard a whisper of cloth on cloth, and the motion of a nearby body washed her scent over him.

Jean.

He heard her tiny relieved sighs as her hands fluttered over his skin, searching the places where last night he had been horribly wounded and finding this morning only perfect, healthy skin. She was bent over him now, and the smell of her overwhelmed his senses; soap, spice and the unmistakable scent of herself. Her hands left his face, moving lightly from one wound site to another, tearing away bandages and tiny hairs with an itching sting. Fingers traced over his shoulders, across his chest, tickling against his skin.

Oh, Jeannie. Please. Stop. No. Don't. Please. Jeannie. Jean.

The scent of her, her touch; each was a tiny miracle. Each sensation roused him further from the numb weight of unconsciousness. His senses awakened and sharpened, raised to an almost painful intensity after days of deprivation. He kept his eyes shut, his breathing tightly controlled so that she wouldn't be aware he was awake. So she wouldn't take her hands away.

Ah, Jean, don't ever stop.

As her hands moved lower, down his chest, across his stomach, her touch became firmer, more lingering, less professional. Her breathing came quicker, from lower in her chest.The heavy, sensual heat of pheromones radiated out from her in waves.

He weakly cracked his eyes open, slitting them against the bright Med- Bay lights.

strong lamps. Her lips were open slightly, her pupils were dilated. She didn't notice that he was watching her. She was focused on what her light, feathery touches had wrought on him. Her eyes were fixed on the rising swell of his flesh against the soft, thin cloth of the school's regulation black sweatpants. She watched as the fabric stretched tighter in pulses.

Oh, God, Jeannie, what're you doin'? You don't want this Jeannie. As much as I need you to, you don't want this. And dammit, I don't think I'm strong enough to stop you.

He saw it in her face, in the slightest hardening of her features. She had made the decision. Her hand slid slowly across his stomach, tickling, tantalizing, reaching for him. His muscles beneath her touch tightened in anticipation.

As the hard knot of need built against the base of his spine, another knot wrapped it's way around his heart, constricting his chest, making it impossible to breathe.

This is wrong, Jean. Very wrong.

In that moment he knew. He needed her, but wouldn't accept only a part of her. Jean was in love with someone else, and he couldn't let her do this.

He summoned the shreds of his tattered strength. He caught her hand, pulled it tight to his stomach, to safety, away from the aching, throbbing column of hard flesh which strained agaist supple cloth and tight, restricting elastic.

She looked to his eyes, her emotions as clear to him as his must have been to her: shock, surprise, embarrassment, hurt and, overpowering everything else, concern.

He did the only thing he could, he bluffed.

"Hrmhmm...no. That tickles."

"Hey," she said softly, covering her embarrassment, "how do you feel?"

"Fantastic," he said weakly.

"That was a brave thing you did."

He wasn't sure if she spoke of Rogue, or of what had just passed between the two of them.

"Did it work?" he asked. It was a fair question to either.

"She's fine. She took on a few of your more charming personality traits for a while, but we lived through it." Jean smiled, but it was bittersweet and never reached her eyes.

He attempted a laugh, but it ended as more of a grunt. He still hurt, more now than ever. Though she had responded verbally to the question about Rogue, there was a sadness in her eyes and a tremble to her lips.

Yeah Jeannie, I know. Hurts don't it? Jean, can you hear my thoughts? Do you know why I stopped you?

"I think she's a bit taken with you."

"Well, you can tell her my heart belongs to someone else," Logan said, unable to stop himself, but the mingled pain, desire and regret that sprung to her eyes at his words cut him to the bone.

Dammit, Jeannie. I can't have you, but I'm sure as Hell not gonna deny how I feel.

"You know...you and I..."

"How's the Professor?" Logan interrupted her before she could finish. The words she had been about to say didn't need to be aired. They both knew. His own emotions shown reflected in her eyes and he flinched from them. To speak it aloud was to go beyond even his tolerance for emotional masochism.

Don't talk about it, Jean. We won't ever talk about it. Just let it go.

Relief bloomed on her face. "He's good," she answered. The smile she gave him was genuine, if slight. She had regained her composure. The moment had passed.

"Good."

He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed his lips to her fingers. He channeled all the passion, the pain, the love he felt for her, all his desire for everything that was denied him into this one chaste gesture. He didn't allow himself to linger. It passed, unhurried but brief, this only contact he would ever be allowed to have with her.

I could have given in, Jeannie. It would have been so easy to give in. And we both would have regretted it for the rest of our lives. And darlin', I've got a feeling I'm gonna live a long, long time.

As she turned to leave the lab he called out to her.

"Jean?"

"Yes, Logan?" She turned to him, leaning against the doorjamb.

"I'd like to talk to the professor. It's time I moved on. I've gotta get a handle on my past." He paused and added softly, in almost a whisper, " I need to get out of here for a while."

"I'll speak to him for you, Logan."

She turned and walked out. Her scent remained, floating in the room like a ghost. He noticed that his lips were dry and licked at them. The taste of her skin exploded on his tongue. He savored it, touching the tip of his tongue to his lips until it had faded and was gone.

He buried the hurt, tucked it away to keep it safe and warm. At least the cause of this pain would be remembered, and he wasn't about to let anyone take that away from him.

The End