Soap Gets In Your Claws

Chapter Four: Sharp Dressed Man

X-Institute, One Week Later

I: Jean

Sitting at her desk in her office, Jean admired her handiwork.

She had made a list of all the failures in her ridiculous plan to seduce Eddie Blake in one column, and in the other, all the ways she could rectify them.

A Failure Column and a Fix Column.

She looked at the Failure Column, first.

Failure 1: Relied on questionable information, e.g., the memoirs of a perennially cock-struck groupie with visions of spandex dancing in her head.

Failure II: Selected as target a man who is too close to a friend and colleague.

Failure III: Selected a man I dislike, someone who I would only want to know for an hour, tops.

Failure IV: Attempted to do the dirty deed right at the school, with no planning aforethought.

Failure V: Generally handled the situation like I was a cock-struck groupie with visions of spandex dancing in her head.

So far, so good.

Now to examine the Fix column.

Fix I: Don’t rely on secondary sources, only on primary sources and your own research.

Fix II: Don’t try to seduce your friend’s old man.

Fix III: Only go after a man you could imagine becoming your friend, as well as your lover. You may very well need to develop a relationship.

Fix IV: Plan a rendezvous off-campus, and have an alibi for it.

Fix V: Keep your wits about you and quit thinking with your pussy. In a woman, the little head is very, very little.

Jean didn’t have any candidates in mind, and she had work to do.

Her extracurricular activities, however, were going to have to take a back seat of official business, as she put away her notes and began to get dressed.

She carefully selected a blue corduroy blazer, a white shirt, a brown knee length corduroy skirt, brown boots and stockings for the reception at the Avengers Mansion that she had been invited to, on behalf of Stark Industries.

Stark Industries was looking into the sci-tech aspects of telepathy, and Tony Stark had invited Jean to mingle with some of the so-called psychics and telepaths he was considering hiring, to determine which of them were just trying to slide into a cushy corporate job with a nice vacation and benefits package.

Professor Xavier and she had done some research on psi ability, and they found that one in every twenty mutants and one in every fifty ordinary humans who claimed to possess it were either consciously lying, or just kidding themselves.

The ballroom of the Avengers Mansion, built by Howard Stark and owned, of course, by his son was filled to capacity.

Most were wearing formal attire, but Jean, as per her instructions, was supposed to look casual but businesslike, and obviously carry a clipboard and take notes.

This was the second such reception, at the first Jean had dressed formally, in evening wear, also at Tony’s instructions.

Part of his whole complicated experiment to discover if any of these psychics were actually credible. The idea, she supposed was to see if any of them were observant, and mistook that for psychic ability.

Iron Man didn’t just want to rule out the out-and-out liars, those who were convinced they had psi ability but really didn’t wouldn’t be helpful with his Mad Plan, either.

Jean wasn’t sure what made her think of it as a Mad Plan, but, truth to be told she always thought that Tony Stark had quite a bit of Dr. Frankenstein in him.

Anybody who could make a self-generating battery that they wore permanently in their chest that was pretty much a tiny little Tesla coil, and a battle suit out of Vietcong nuts and bolts was a mad scientist.

Jean was mingling amongst the guests, taking notes when she spotted a very unlikely sight.

Well, not so unlikely.

It was a formal dress affair.

“Nice tuxedo, Napalm. It actually makes you look more feminine than most of your clothes.”

“You like it? It’s a present from my father. He had me fitted at his tailor. I got three other suits, too. One houndstooth, one pinstriped, and one blue serge. The Old Man says I can’t always go around in dirty Levis, and since he knows how I feel about dresses, he figured this was a good compromise.”

“You look good. Elegant and professional. And I like the French braid.”

“Alfred did that. Me? Elegant and professional? I better go get my picture taken, then, so I can remember this. So, how are we doin? Finding any psychic wunderkinds?”

“I’m talking to her.”

“Me? Compared to you and Charlie and Psylocke, I ain’t got shit.”

“Maybe not, Liv, but compared to the average human, you do have a greater degree of psychic powers.”

“Yeah, well, I’m a witch, right? Doesn’t that go with the territory?”

“You are not a witch. You come from a family of strong-willed and intelligent women with slight mutations who have a long tradition of practicing folk medicine and possess greater than normal psi abilities.”

“Uh-huh. Like I said, I’m a witch. I got any company?”

“Not much. There’s maybe twenty mutants, here only two of whom have any psi ability, and among the ordinary humans, only three. And you’ve got more on the ball than any of them.”

“That’s because I’m a Chroma.”

Jean’s face twisted.

“Do you have to use Magneto’s word?”

“I can’t help it if he coined the phrase, Jean. Some biologists have picked it up.”

A Chroma, as Magneto called them, were otherwise ordinary homo sapiens with a chromosomal or other significant genetic mutation rather than the X-Factor.

Charles did not include Chromas as mutants, but Magneto considered them part of mutankind; it was, primarily, a difference of scientific opinion.

“What do you think, Liv? Are Chromas mutants?”

“Biologically speaking? Yes. But I can see why Charlie is iffy about it. If you include Chromas as mutants, that takes in albinos, conjoined twins, people with parasitic twins, microcephalics, you know, pinheads, and pretty much half the freak show. It also takes in people like Eddie and Paulie, who both have an extra Y chromosome, and people like me, women who have an XY chromosome that has manifested itstelf in the somatoform rather than in the sexual cells. Did I lose you?”

“At the end, a little.”

“Okay. Lemme use myself to explain. I am what geneticists call an a viable XY female. So was my mother. And my grandmother. Viably XY females produce normal XX daughters and HY females, but no sons. Viable means fully female and capable of normal sexual functioning and reproducing. Which means the mutation didn’t affect my sex characteristics. It affected my non-sexual cells. I’m stronger, and I have greater bone density and muscle mass and I’m more aggressive than ordinary XX females, which masks sense, because I have more testosterone. Eddie and Paulie, having an extra Y chromosome, that explains, at least some geneticists think, why both of them are such big beats. Well, Paulie’s more of a gentle giant. But the thing they don’t understand is why people like us are usually of greater intelligence, physical endurance than any ordinary humans, but also have increased psi-ability. Now, the people Magento is talking about when he talks about Chromas, are people like me and Eddie and Paulie. Not albinos and intersex people, and guys with three legs and six fingers or people with another face on the other side of their head. But we’re all mutants, just as much as anybody who has the X-factor. That’s just another mutation of the human genome. The thing is, Magento doesn’t want to admit that him, and you, and Logan and Charlie are pretty much biologically equivalent to Zippy the Pinhead and the bearded lady and that one kid you went to school with who had an extra nipple. Mutation is mutation. And mutation is biologically normal, and fairly consistent from generation to generation, in all living things, unless there’s some kind of major evolutionary event, which you don’t want to get into. If people with the X-Factor were really another species, they wouldn’t be able to breed with homo sapiens. And they wouldn’t arise from homo sapiens lines of descent. So, pretty much everything Magneto says is bullshit, and Charlie knows it. I think he wouldn't mind having the Eddies and the Paulies and people like me at the Institute, but then he'd have to take the normal guys with six fingers, too, and they might not do so well against Colossus in the Danger Room. So he had to draw the line, somewhere, and limited his student body to people with the X-Factor. Ya dig?”

“I’m going to try and remember ever word of that, so I can repeat it back to Charles, verbatim.” Jean told her.

“Wait. Do I hear beautiful girls talking about science?”

They were suddenly joined by their host, in his white tux and black tie, with a cigarette in one hand and a drink in the other.

He looked like he had stepped whole and breathing out of a some glamorous movie from the 30’s or 40’s.

“I was just explaining the difference between sexual and somatoform chromosomal mutations in homo sapien populations to Jean.”

“With or without bottlenecks and extinction events?” Tony asked.

“Without.”

“I’m sorry I missed that. I love it when you talk dirty. Nice tux. Double breasted was a very good choice.”

“It was my father’s idea. I know nothing about fashion.”

“Well, your father may be a deranged homicidal maniac and a menace to the very foundations of society, but he is an excelled dresser. Can’t take that away from the man. And Jean, I must say, even in your business clothes, you look a lot more glamorous than most of these women in these off the rack at Macy’s numbers. Very tasteful and classic.”

He excused himself, gracefully, and continued on his rounds.

“One thing about Tony, he really knows how to work a room. I’m gonna go see if they laid out anything good to eat, yet. See you around, Jean.”

“See you around, Napalm.”

Napalm had a point about Iron Man.

Tony managed to flirt with every woman in the room, heavily with the ones he found attractive, and still make each one of them feel like they were the only woman he had looked at all night.

And he spoke to all the men as if they were his oldest and best friends.

At dinner, Jean sat at the same table with Harlequin and Iron Man, and noticed both of them having more than their usual allotment of drinks, but the S.H.I.E.L.D Moderation Program rules did make exceptions for special occasions, as long as they didn’t number any more than one every three months.

And it wasn’t as if they were getting hammered.

Jean, on the other hand, was.

After the reception, and feeling every drink over her usual limit that she had, Jean met with Tony Stark in his office to tell him her findings.

It was very modern, but yet, very Art Deco, like the rest of the mansion, with its high celings and Deco arches.

Jean couldn’t shake the feeling that she was in some crazy Golden Age movie, especially sitting on the other side of Tony Stark’s huge Art Deco desk.

“Well? Did I waste all my money in a profligate way?” he asked her, swiveling away from the window in his chair.

“Honestly, yes. Out of all of these people, there were only five with any significant psi ability, and out of those five, the only one who has the qualifications for what you’re planning Napalm, especially considering she’s already a scientist with two masters degrees.”

He didn’t seem disappointed, as he untied his tie, put it in his pocket and unbuttoned his collar.

“I knew it! I have been telling Napalm that she is the only person in New York qualified for this job, and now I have proof! Objective proof from none other than one of the world’s most powerful telepaths. How many drinks have I had tonight? I’m only allowed five. Oh, what the hell, it’s a special occasion. Would you care to join me?”

Jean wanted to say no, but she found herself totally unable to do so.

Napalm had a point about Tony Stark, he did look like a cross between Errol Flynn and Sean Connery, there was the air of Robin Hood and James Bond about him, and the man did a lot for a tuxedo.

A wink and a bit of the twinkle in his eye, and you were ready to follow him, anywhere.

“I don’t think so. I have to drive home, tonight.”

“I think you’ve already had a few too many for that, Jean. You can leave your car here, I’ll have Jarvis drive you home.”

Wait a minute.

Maybe she had something here.

Tony Stark was about as close as you could come to a professional philanderer. Which meant he probably knew how to conduct an affair discreetly, and without getting…overly attached. He was devastatingly handsome, like, well, like a movie star, and if even half of Napalm’s stories about him were true, a phenomenal lover, and, most certainly a real goddamn man.

He had class, style and glamour; if you were going to have an affair with Tony Stark it was going to be a genuine affair, just like in the movies.

Nothing cheap and tawdry, Jean didn’t think she could have lived with herself if she did something cheap and tawdry.

She didn’t have to gather information on him, she knew him well enough from working together with him. He and Napalm were only passingly involved; they were more friends and colleagues having a contest in sexual and scientific one-upsmanship than anything else.

Tony was certainly someone she could see herself becoming friends with, and seeing on a regular basis, completely outside the school.

And she was going to handle this in a clear-headed fashion.

“Well, in that case, why not?” Jean answered.

Tony brought her drink to her, and she caught a whiff of expensive men’s cologne and even more expensive brandy.

What a life.

Hundred year old Scotch, English cigarettes, white tux and black tie, a swashbuckler’s grin, movie-star good looks and merry, laughing blue eyes.

Jean was beginning to feel a little giddy.

She wondered, absently, if he could do it with the Iron Man suit on.

Maybe it was the booze going to her head.

Then again, maybe it wasn’t.

She suddenly began to remember Napalm’s Avengers Meeting table story, and she blushed a little, and coughed, discreetly.

Oh Jean, you can’t.

The hell I can’t.

Now he was standing by the window.

Swishing his drink around in the glass with a certain attitude his hip cocked just the right way.

Lightening flashed across the sky, framing him and his window and his Deco desk just perfectly, and Jean almost found herself looking around for the camera.

“Look at that. It’s raining, again. Coming down in buckets. I’ll bet it’s freezing out there. What a horrible night to go out in. You know, I hardly ever do, but I think I’ll stay in my apartment, here, tonight. Let me call Jarvis, and ask him to get the car for you. And an umbrella.”

Jean put her glass down on his desk.

“Are you trying to seduce me, Tony? Because, if you are, I’d rather you were more direct about it.”

He turned away from the window, a very in like Flynn sort of grin on his face.

“The thought has crossed my mind. But I didn’t want to speak out of turn.”

Tony sat back against his desk, rattling the ice in his glass before he took another drink and sat the glass down.

There was something about the way he did that which made Jean realise she wasn’t giddy from the booze.

“You see, I’d be lying if I said I had no ulterior motive in getting you to come here. I could have asked Charles to do the job you did. But, well, I must admit I did notice that you’re in need of some understanding male companionship.”

“I take it you mean when my tits fell out of my costume.”

“You shouldn’t be embarrassed, Jean. I thought they were lovely. But, no, if you’ll forgive me for mentioning it, it had nothing to do with you zipper breaking. I noticed the way you were looking at Cyclops before the mission, and that determined look on your face when you ever so hesitantly unzipped your costume just a little.”

“And he didn’t notice. At all.”

“No. But I did.”

That last salvo, delivered with a drink and a twinkling smirk, and Jean was completely prepared to fetch the cushion and assume the position right over the big brass “A”.

“So, you will be sheltering me from the storm tonight, then?”

It was a corny thing to say, but Jean was trying to have some decorum, preserve some of her dignity.

She promised herself that if she was going to have an affair with Tony Stark, she was going to watch some more of those old movies with Kurt, and have some conversations with him about them.

“Not tonight, Jean. I already have plans for this evening. However, if you think you can tear yourself away from your work, I’m free on Tuesday, around one in the afternoon. You can just tell everyone at the X-Mansion that you had to come back and re-screen some of the applicants. No one will suspect you in the afternoon, and I can have Jarvis drive you home in time for dinner. I’ll be very discreet, and very swashbuckling.”

He leaned over the desk, took her hand, and winked at her.

“I promise you’ll be thoroughly ravished.” He said, in a soft, seductive purr

That was only a faintly dirty thing to say, and Jean began to feel like she was going to melt out of the chair.

“Well, that’s an appointment you can count on me to keep.”

Jean felt terrible about making an appointment to be unfaithful to Scott, it seemed so, mercenary.

But, if she was spontaneous and indiscreet, he might find out she might be discovered and that would be much worse.

Jean had another drink.

Now she was getting drunk.

“So, who’s tonight’s lucky girl? An underwear model with the body of a Greek goddess? A blonde TV starlet constructed almost entirely of silicon who’s poster is on the wall of every teenage boy in America? The latest Broadway ingénue? Twin Swedish stewardesses?” Jean joked.

She was getting good at this witty repartee thing.

“I’ve never been to bed with twins. That whole incest angle, it’s too kinky and weird. Actually, none of the above. Just a little Irish-Sicilian mutt of a car mechanic and barroom brawler from Brooklyn.”

“Napalm?!”

“Well, Prince Charming is off on a mission, assassinating the head of the Bolivian army with a shrimp fork, or something like that, and in the light of what you just told me, I have some important business negotiations to undertake.”

Another one of those impish grins.

Jean realised then that his air of excitement, those twinkling eyes, that puckish smirk, they weren’t for her.

They were for Napalm.

He was making an appointment to have her later on in the week, at his convenience, for a bit of harmless good fun, as a, well, almost a chivalrous gesture, to rush to the aid of a damsel in distress.”

It was a friendly gesture, not something born of real desire, true fire.

That was reserved for the girl who always got away, the girl who was always just a little dirtier and crazier than he was, the fellow mad scientist with whom he could share his most Promethean dreams.

What did Liv said he called her?

The fire haired porno queen of superhero ultravixens.

And she was Poor Jean, whose boyfriend had abandoned her, alone in the world, with no solace.

No hope?

Maybe her desperation was palpable.

“Napalm, huh? And I thought it was me that you’ve been getting all hot and bothered about.”

“Well, Jean, Liv and I have a history. You and I, we have a future.”

Oh, he was good.

Very good.

But, it was too much like a movie and not enough like reality.

“And you’re terribly handsome, and terribly dashing, and terribly sweet. And it’s almost chivalrous of you to offer me your…assistance in my hour of need, as it were. But I’m looking for fire. For passion. For a man who burns for me with the strength of a thousand dying suns in supernova.”

“My God, Jean, that was beautiful. I have never felt that way about a woman, or had a woman feel that way about me. I suppose everyone is looking for that.”

“Thank you. I don’t suppose you know anybody like that.” She joked.

“Actually, I do.”

So did Jean.

He was about five foot three, and he was fond of beer, hockey and great literature.

“Maybe you know him, too. He’s a littler taller than me, more of the lanky type. Brown hair, red visor, leads the X-Men. A bit of a stuffed shirt, but a real good guy.”

That answer surprised Jean.

“Scott?” she found herself almost snorting.

“Yes, my dear. Haven’t you ever heard that charity begins at home? I don’t need it. He does. I’ll call Jarvis for the car.”

As Jean was being driven away in the back of the vintage Bentley by Tony Stark's dignified and greying proper British butler, she looked through the rain-soaked window.

Framed by flashes of lightening, she could see the lights were on in Tony’s office on the second floor, and, through the huge window with the Deco arch, in front of the Deco desk, she could see two figures in an embrace, before Tony closed the blinds.

Music swells, fade to black, the end.

I’ll have to tell Kurt about this.

It was like being in one of his favourite movies.

***

Another week crawled by, and Jean made a decision.

She would accept no substitutions.

If she could come onto the Comedian and Iron Man, then she could certainly get aggressive with Scott.

Maybe he was waiting for her to make the first move, after all.

(Author's Note: Hurm, seems like Jean doesn't want to fall into the silver screen with Tony Stark. But, is it Scott she really wants? And even if it is, if he remains cold and distant, well, then our Jean only has one other pair of arms to fall into, doesn't she? Hmmm, it looks like we might finally get some ball scores in this game, sports fans! Tune into the next exciting chapter, same X-time, same X-channel!)