Chapter Text
They were sitting on the couch.
It was a quiet afternoon. The city hummed outside. The radiator clicked its familiar rhythm. Somewhere in the apartment, the half-finished Death Star sat in the corner, waiting for the next building session. Peter was reading a book. Jean was curled against his side, her head on his shoulder, her eyes half-closed.
It was peaceful. Normal. The kind of moment Peter had learned to treasure.
Then Jean pulled his arm.
Peter didn't think much of it at first. She shifted, pulled his hand toward her face, and pressed her lips to his knuckles. It was gentle. Soft. The kind of absent-minded affection she'd been showing more often lately.
Then she bit him.
Peter froze. It wasn't hard—not enough to break skin—but it was definitely a bite. Her teeth pressed into the space between his thumb and forefinger, and she didn't let go.
"Jean?" he said.
No response. Her eyes were unfocused. Glassy. She was staring at something far away, something he couldn't see. Her jaw worked slowly, rhythmically, like she was chewing on a thought.
"Jean?"
She bit down a little harder.
"Okay. Jean. Hey." Peter gently pulled his hand away. It came free with a soft pop, and she blinked. Once. Twice. Her eyes snapped into focus.
Then she looked at his hand. Then at him. Then at his hand again.
Her face went through a remarkable transformation.
First, confusion. Then horror. Then a strange, twitchy embarrassment that Peter recognized as her "I did something weird and I don't want to talk about it" face. She scrambled back, putting distance between them on the couch.
"I didn't do that," she said quickly.
"You did."
"I didn't."
"Jean, you bit me."
"It was an accident."
"That's not a thing. You can't accidentally bite someone."
"You can if you're distracted."
"Distracted by what?"
Jean opened her mouth. Closed it. Opened it again. Her cheeks were burning.
"I was thinking," she said.
"About what?"
"Nothing."
"Jean."
"Nothing."
Peter held up his hand. There was a faint red mark between his thumb and forefinger. Not a wound. Just evidence.
"You were in a daze," he said. "You looked like you were somewhere else. And then you bit me."
"I did not look like I was somewhere else."
"You did. Your eyes were glassy."
"I have allergies."
"To what?"
"To—" Jean paused. "To questions."
Peter stared at her. She stared back. The silence stretched.
Then something in Jean's expression shifted. Her posture changed. She straightened, lifted her chin, and fixed him with a look that was somehow both defensive and haughty.
"It wasn't that hard," she said. Her voice had changed. It was crisper now. Sharper. Almost... British.
Peter blinked. "What?"
"The bite. It wasn't that hard. You're being dramatic, Parker."
Peter's eyes widened. "Parker?"
Jean's eye twitched. "I meant Peter. Obviously."
"Did you just call me Parker?"
"No."
"You did. You called me Parker. Like—"
"I called you Peter. You misheard."
"I didn't mishear. You said Parker. In a British accent."
"I don't have a British accent."
"You do have a British accent. Right now. You're doing it."
Jean's face went through several expressions in rapid succession—panic, irritation, and something that looked suspiciously like a pout. She crossed her arms.
"I don't know what you're talking about," she said, still in that crisp, proper tone. "I sound perfectly normal."
"You sound like Malfoy."
"I do not."
"You literally just said 'I do not' like you're about to tell me your father will hear about this."
Jean's mouth opened. Closed. Her cheeks flushed deeper.
"My father will hear about this," she muttered.
Peter laughed. He couldn't help it. The sound filled the apartment, warm and bright.
"It's not funny," Jean said.
"It's a little funny."
"It's not."
"You bit me, went into a daze, came back, and started talking like a British aristocrat. That's objectively funny."
Jean glared at him. Then, slowly, her glare softened. Her arms uncrossed. She sighed.
"I don't know what happened," she admitted. Her voice was back to normal now—American, soft, hers. "I was just—I was thinking about last night. The cosplay. The way you looked at me. And then I was—I don't know. Somewhere else. And I wanted—"
She stopped.
"Wanted what?" Peter asked.
Jean's cheeks burned. "I wanted to bite you. To—to mark you. To claim you. It's—it's a telepath thing. Sometimes. When we feel connected to someone. We want to—to put our mark on them."
Peter stared at her. "You wanted to claim me."
"Shut up."
"That's adorable."
"It's not—"
"It's adorable."
Jean threw a pillow at him. He caught it, still laughing.
"So," he said, "you went into a telepathic daze, bit me to claim me as yours, and then came back so embarrassed that you started channeling your inner Malfoy to cope?"
Jean buried her face in her hands. "That sounds so stupid when you say it."
"It sounds amazing when I say it."
"I hate you."
"You love me."
Jean peeked through her fingers. "I do. That's the problem."
Peter set the pillow aside and moved closer. He gently pulled her hands away from her face.
"Hey," he said. "For the record, I don't mind being claimed."
Jean's eyes widened. "What?"
"I mean, it's a little weird. But I've been bitten by weirder things. Literally. There was this one time with a radioactive squirrel—"
"Peter."
"—and honestly, a psychic claiming mark is pretty tame compared to—"
"Peter."
"Yeah?"
Jean leaned forward and kissed him. Soft. Slow. When she pulled back, she was smiling.
"Thank you," she said.
"For what?"
"For not making me feel like a freak."
Peter cupped her cheek. "You're not a freak. You're just—" He paused. "You're just Jean. And Jean happens to bite sometimes. I can live with that."
"I don't bite sometimes."
"You bit me today."
"That was a one-time thing."
"You said that about the Malfoy cosplay."
"The Malfoy cosplay was art."
"The Malfoy cosplay was hot."
Jean's cheeks flushed. "Parker," she said, slipping back into the accent without meaning to. She caught herself immediately and groaned.
"It's happening again," Peter said, grinning.
"I know."
"The British thing."
"I know."
"You can't stop it."
"I know, Peter."
He laughed and pulled her into his arms. She resisted for a moment—a half-hearted tsundere protest—then melted against him.
"I hate you," she mumbled into his chest.
"You love me."
"Shut up."
"Make me."
She bit him again. Gently. On the shoulder this time.
Peter just held her tighter.
"Hey, Jean?"
"Yeah?"
"I'm glad you claimed me."
She was quiet for a moment. Then, softly: "Me too."
They stayed like that, tangled together on the couch, the city humming outside, the Death Star waiting in the corner. And for the first time all day, Jean Grey felt perfectly, completely, ridiculously herself.
Even if she did keep accidentally talking like a British wizard.
"Peter?"
"Yeah?"
"My father will hear about this."
"I know, Jean."
"I'm serious."
"I know you are."
She smiled. And she stayed.