Author's Note: For the record, I'm hopelessly obsessed with the whole Rogue/Jean romance thing. So I'm writing a story about it. Again, if you don't like it you don't have to read it. And if you read it anyway and start flaming me about it, let me just remind you that my favorite X-woman manifests giant firebirds at random. Flames do not frighten me, puny mortals! For everyone else, please review. The more reviews I get, the sooner this fic starts living up to its rating (and you know what that means...SEX SCENES! YAY!) So yeah...please review. Thank you and enjoy!

And for anyone who cares, Rogue is 18 and Jean is 28. So there will be no one calling Jean a pedophile, a child molester, or any other name of that sort. Is that clear, children? We wouldn't want to make Phoenix angry, now would we?

Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men. Marvel does. Lucky bastards.

Everything felt wrong. But then, everything always felt wrong. Like there was something missing. Something important. Something she needed more than even she knew. But Jean knew. Jean always knew. No great surprise then that now, as her life tore itself apart at the seams, she needed Jean to know. Everything.

"Rogue?"

Her name was spoken softly, so softly that it sounded less a question than a prayer. Her voice was so tender, so gentle, so…desperate. Suddenly unable to find her own voice, Rogue struggled to form a coherent image in her mind. Something to do with an anvil and a roadrunner. The roadrunner got away.

"Well, Miss Coyote, maybe next time you'll know better than to play with heavy metal objects."

Jean always knew.

"That's really not funny, you know," Rogue said after a moment, her bleary eyes still trying to adjust to the harsh lighting of the infirmary. "And you know that's not what I meant."

"Yeah, I know."

The ghost of a smile danced across Jean's trembling lips. Rogue felt like she was drowning, and yet any inclination to fight the feeling had long since been abandoned. She was suddenly very glad they were alone. She hated when people saw her cry.

"It's okay. I won't tell."

Jean always knew.

"It's not fair," Rogue said finally, refusing to meet the older woman's eyes. "I don't want to play anymore."

It was strange. Everything had happened so fast. Probably a little too fast, but what the fuck, right? When you're eighteen there's no such thing as "too fast."

Jean cocked a disapproving eyebrow.

"Now that wasn't funny."

Jean always knew.

But that was the problem, wasn't it? She'd known. She'd known from the moment metal touched skin, if not before. Probably before. Typical. A perfectly good suicide attempt undermined by a telepath who couldn't keep it in her own damn head.

It was supposed to be so simple. Slip once, maybe twice…and that's it. The end. Point, set, match. Except that it wasn't. The anvil missed. The roadrunner got away.

"Well, to be fair, the roadrunner had help."

Jean always knew.

"Yeah, I suppose I did." Rogue's dark eyes held a hint of sad irony. "And by the way, it wasn't heavy."

"What wasn't?" Jean looked confused. Rogue decided to count it as an accomplishment.

"The razor. You said heavy metal objects. The razor wasn't heavy."

Jean offered a cheerless smile. "Clever, smart ass."

"I thought so."

If it was anyone else, she wouldn't care. If it was anyone else, it wouldn't matter. But it wasn't anyone else. It was Jean. And that made all the difference.

"Jean?"

Brown eyes met green for the first time.

"I want you to know."

Jean's lip was trembling again.

"Everything."

Author's Note: So...yeah...PLEASE REVIEW! And by the way, I would just like to apologize to the author of the Rogue/Remy story also titled "Razorblade Romance." I only just found it today, so I swear I didn't steal your title on purpose! If you want me to change it, just let me know and I will. Sorry.