This fic was actually written for a lovely reader who also liked my Facebook page and requested a fic of this pairing. I hope everyone (especially you, Kristina), enjoy this fic.

Scott was right.

Ever since Liberty Island, she had been different.

However, the differences didn't solely rest upon the changes with her mutation. Sure, that itself was different, but it wasn't what she chose to focus on.

Scott had begun to quietly complain about her telekinesis shaking the room when she had one of her wicked nightmares or her struggle to lift something as small as a book across the space of a room.

Anger bubbled inside of her. She guessed he'd never noticed the countless nights shaken by that same telekinesis before Liberty Island. She guessed he didn't quite understand how much harder it was to focus on a small object that a larger one.

Or maybe he just didn't want to.

She sighed, setting aside the book she'd been attempting to read. Jean knew that was it. If he admitted that he knew, Scott wouldn't have a convenient excuse to leave her as she knew they had both been tossing over within their minds.

Leaving her is exactly what he had done the night before.


Jean looked at the digital clock on the nightstand : 2:47 a.m.

"Is this something you want?" Scott asked, holding up a picture of them smiling together, a rare event.

She shook her head, "Nah. I have an album full, and I'd rather just get done as fast as possible and crawl into bed."

He flinched, but they both ignored it, "Well, this is the last box, so I'll just leave. Have a good night, Jean."

"Good night, Scott. If I find anything else-"

"Well, it's not as if we don't live in the same building. I'll be pretty easy to find," he said, placing the picture in the box.

"Does it feel strange to you?" she asked. "Ending on such good terms?"

"Perhaps because we're used to the over dramatised break-ups we see on television, but we were friends before lovers, so it's really just reverting back a step we never should have taken," he observed.

Now she flinched, and it once again went ignored, "Why now? Four years isn't exactly a blink of an eye and something easily forgotten. Why did it take this long for this to happen?"

Scott grinned, a smile similar to the one which made her fall for him four years before, "Why don't you ask the students? They seem to know all the answers to our questions."

And carefully avoiding a question he knew she wouldn't pursue, he walked out with the last box of memories and shut the door behind him.


And that's why Jean was sitting on a garden bench outside, attempting to ignore the empty, lonely feeling like she was the delighted cries of the children enjoying the early spring's sun. She picked her book up, brushed it off of a few stray grains of dirt, and promptly set it back down, not at all interested in reading yellowed, torn pages.

A familiar sound met her ears just then, a sound which had the heads of the smaller children turning with curiosity. A sound she was sure would get Rogue and Bobby off of the couch in the student lounge in greeting. A sound now associated with the man controlling the device rather than the man who originally owned it.

The dull roar of a motorcycle.

It's terribly, terribly short, I know, but the next chapter is working its way out of my brain as I type this. Please cast the ritual of writers to ward off writer's block and it will be out that much sooner.

Oh, and end the ritual with a review, please. ;)