Logan cradled the receiver in one hand and absently wiped down the bar with the other. "Hello?"

"Jeannie," he said, stopping his ministrations on the bar. "Warren just left and he told me to tell you he's on his way and to be ready because he feels like going out for dinner tonight."

"Alright," Jean answered quietly.

Logan perked at the sullen hint in her usually silver-specked voice. "Somethin' wrong, Red?"

"Who is-" the voice was faint but perfectly audible to Logan's razor-sharp senses and it was coming from somewhere very close to Jean.

Logan pivoted for the same unexplainable reason that people make body gestures when speaking with someone over the phone. "Jean! Is that Summers guy there with you?"

Silence. Logan slammed his palm onto a convenient stool. "Get him out of there! Now! Warren will be there any minute!"

Jean winced at his restrained tone. "Alright, alright, Logan. I will. I promise, he's leaving right now. Good-Bye Logan," in her sweet voice.

Able to think of nothing more to say, he slammed the phone down and rushed for the door. Emma stopped him.

"Don't even think about it, Sir."

**

Jean sat curled in a ball in her tank and underwear, her thin white sheet draping over the curve of her shapely thighs and tucked securely under her arms, leaving her milky lily-white shoulders bare. She watched Scott tug his turtleneck over his head, mussing his hair.

He watched her watch him and almost screamed with ecstasy. He'd come last night to see how things at the trial turned out. He was as shocked as the rest of them had been at Remy's confession, but somehow, in the solemnity of the mood, they'd found themselves in each other's arms, kissing and pawing and prodding and caressing with a famished passion starved for far too long.

During the blissful afterglow of their lovemaking, she had had a sudden burst of energy that possessed her to stand on the bed and spread her arms wide to announce to the world that the two of them were going to elope and live happy and madly in love until they were dead. Then she'd burst into a fit of giggles and tumbled back onto the moon-bathed mattress, nuzzling her nose against his neck until he could feel her long, ink-black eyelashes fluttering against him like a tiny angel's wings. She inhaled a lungful of air and exhaled slowly, her warm breath brushing his stubble, and mumbled a comment about how she loved the scent of his cologne. What is it? Eternity.

It was then that Scott had nonchalantly breached the subject of the whole happily-ever-after nonsense she had suggested moments earlier. Detecting the masked genuineness in his subtle approach, Jean looked up from where her face was contently wedged between her lover's jaw and collarbone. After a short runaround of dodged questions, she had milked from him that he did indeed wish for her to leave Warren for him, "Immediately," in fact.

God knew she longed for it, but it seemed impossible. To leave Warren was to nibble through iron bars. But Scott assured her it wouldn't be that way. It was a simple one two three step process and she'd be his forever. Jean felt horrible for being the one not to know all of this. She felt like the blind sheep following wherever she was ushered. It made her feel stupid and inferior but Scott convinced her that it was all Warren's doing. He kept her locked up in his own world like a princess in some dark lord's castle. "I'm your knight in shining armor." Scott said, kissing her round red mouth.

It was settled: they'd leave first thing the next morning. Scott dressed wordlessly and Jean watched. Soon, she'd rise too and run to the bank to pocket as much money of Warren's as possible without displaying obvious intentions. It wasn't terribly important she get a lot- Scott had earned an impressive savings at Xavier's and had nothing to spend it on except room and board for one person until now. Now it would be two, maybe more. Yes, definitely more... some day.

The couple shared a brief kiss before Scott pressed the gas of Jean's Benz and they sped off together. Jean couldn't resist the urge to unwrap the silk scarf tied in a loose knot around her petal-soft neck and fling it at the sky, the wind whipping it everywhere before finally settling it on the sidewalk in front of their apartment building. But they were long gone by then, Jean's laughter only faintly heard in the growing distance.

**

Upon entering his apartment, Warren knew everything was wrong- completely, wholly and indescribably wrong. He stalked to his bedroom and flung open the closet doors. Racks and racks of her button-down silk shirts and modest gray skirts and sexy red dresses and those casual blue slacks and the pastel green sweater ensemble he loved so much were gone. All gone. Blinded by fury or fear, it was too early for even Warren himself to tell, he charged at the drawers like a raging mad man searching for one thing, one scrap of her belongings that would purify his soul but to no avail. Not one piece of her possessions was to be found. Well, almost none. As he stumbled incoherently into his kitchen (his alone now, no one at all to share it with) he noticed a tiny bright white light dancing from the mini-bar like an enchanted fairy. On closer examination, it was seen to be the diamond Warren had slipped around her finger as a naïve young man with dreams the size of his ambition. His trembling fingers picked it up and jammed it onto his pinky with only slight difficulty.

It was said that Warren Worthington couldn't cry, but he did indeed shed tears for his wife. He knew the last time he'd ever see her was when he kissed her scarlet lips good-bye that morning on the way to he club, and even if he sent out everyone he had there'd be no way he'd ever get her back. Scott Summers had set his beautiful creature free. Damn him. Damn damn damn Scott Summers.

Mechanically, with all the fluidity of a robot, Warren retrieved a pen and paper from the 'junk drawer' in his kitchen and fixed himself a brandy. He sat these things at his desk then pulled up a chair. He wrote:

Scott Summers,

I'm addressing it to you because even in letters I've penned, I'll never be able to utter another syllable to Her again. Will you capitalize the 'H' when you write of Her like I did? Will you ever love her so much the way I did?

Yes, I'm a damned bastard but I'm also a bit of a poet and I won't take my secret to the grave, simply for the glory. The whole root of this entire mess: I'm a sick fuck that gets off on the whole rape/ murder thing. No, of course I'd never even considered Jean, but other beautiful women just like her: Kitty, Betsy, probably eventually Emma, and the ultimate conquest, the Munroe whore. Ha! In my final words I can degrade the supreme and goddess bitch Ororo.

Anyways, I'd had my eye on Betsy for quite some time, but before I committed any murder I needed someone to break my fall. Enter a Mr. Remy LeBeau. A fine fellow, I'm sure, but just too perfect for my purposes. After the little scene he caused in my club with the Drake kid, I did a bit of research on him and what do you know? The old brute's an ex-thief. Bingo.

Elisabeth surely wasn't cooperative at first when it came to making her drug the Cajun and sleep with him. Poor guy never saw it coming. But she was more than willing after a few minor adjustments in her attitude- namely me threatening Ororo's life had Betsy not done what I required of her.

I was going to leave it as 'Remy kills Betsy after she threatens to confront Rogue about the affair', but I, Scott, am like a son to Lady Luck. We go way back. And the lovely Lady herself provided Elisabeth with an occupied womb. And so, it moved from my original aforementioned excuse to 'Remy kills Betsy after she threatens to have the baby'. (Betsy of course was unaware of her pregnancy since I had the results from the doc's office sent straight to me.) So I moved quickly, catching her in her dressing room and savoring every last moment 'til the triumphant finish when I spill inside of her struggling body. After that, it was her choice between my knife or her swallowing every last speed pill I happened to notice she stashed in her dressing room table drawer. She wisely selected the latter option. Smart girl.

Then it's "Oh no, Betsy's dead!" Boo-hoo, boo-hoo.

Next thing I know, I'm pulling some strings I happen to have tied in the ole NYPD and my good friend Guy Marks (who is a real sucker for curly brunettes if you ever want to do business with him) is eating up my story about Betsy's confession to me before she died about wanting to keep the baby and all that. I mention LeBeau's name, they do a record check, uh-oh, it's dirty! I go home and make love to my wife and we all live happily ever after.

Fuck you, Summers, for screwing up MY fairy tale.

I ask you again: Will you ever love Her so much the way I did? You had better. Or else my damned soul will wreak agony on your every individual fiber and nerve. Tell her I love her. No. Don't tell her anything about me.

Very Sincerely,

Warren Worthington III

Warren scrawled his name in a flourish of liquid movements- the last time he'd sign his beloved name. He pulled open the desk drawer, fumbled through it, and retrieved the small revolver they kept in there for safekeeping. No; no 'they.' Just him, now, and his void soul. He grazed the barrel with his temple, just where his blond hair grew from his scalp. Upon pressing the trigger, a multitude of things happened: a splatter of crimson exploded from behind his right eye, staining his perfectly fair features, a gunshot bellowed through the empty silence of the apartment, and Warren dropped dead over his desk, wife's wedding ring still snug on his left pinky.

"Police!" The front door flung open and a herd of cops scurried in and assumed a defensive position, led by Emma Frost, small handgun clutched in her fist and bulky blue jacket with the white letters NYPD printed over the left breast. But they were too late. Warren's blood streamed steadily from his scalp.

**

"Will you marry me, chere?" He was finally able to do it and there he kneeled, black box in hand, diamond smiling from inside it.

Rogue's hand clasped over the perfect "oh" of her mouth. "Yes, Remy. Yes."

Not that he expected any less, but Remy sighed a huge sigh of relief. "T'ank God, Rogue."

It'd been about six months since the end of the whole incident, and the southern couple had wanted to resume their old way of life as soon as possible. After discovering the truth from the letter the police discovered under Warren's corpse, Rogue was hesitant in taking Remy back. Lately it seemed to be nothing but fights and deceit between them. But all was settled when Remy was released from jail and walked right into the apartment they shared, fell on his knees and buried his face in her lap. His broad shoulders heaved with every sob begging for her forgiveness and Rogue lifted his face in her hands and began kissing the tears away faster than they could well. It was the first time she'd seen him cry, and his tears had purified their whole relationship.

Rogue quit the club, which ended up in Logan's possession. He renamed it the Scarlet Halo.

Jean and Scott weren't seen again until Remy and Rogue's wedding day. It was a beautiful ceremony and Jean had cried, regretting just a bit that she and Scott couldn't have shared the same experience. But one thought back at their wedding night was all they needed. It was tiny, one witness, cheap, Jean had been wearing her best Versace dress and that was the most expensive thing in the room, but it was magical for the both of them and they'd both been sublimely happy.

AUTHOR: Okay, that's it folks! I'd had another ending for this story, but it was so long and I was sick of glancing at my notes every three seconds to see if this was the direction I had planned to head. So one night, I just sat down in front of the screen and said, "I'm going to finish this." I like this version so much better. Hope you enjoyed it!

THANK YOU FOR ALLLLL OF YOUR REVIEWS! You guys are too good to me!