Disclaimers, notes, and warnings in chapter one.


Chapter Two Beta Readers: A.J. and Laura. Thank you for two being so incredible and taking me under your wings.


Chapter Two



Scott became sick of the looks fast. People walked on eggshells around him, like he was a time bomb and if they stepped in one place too hard, he'd explode, taking them all down with him. Grief was a vindictive beast. Every time they looked at him that way, with their faces shaded by knowledge of just how BAD he was hurting, grief reared up and sank its teeth into his heart, thrusting its rusty knife into his stomach, and he'd have to turn away. He'd have to close his eyes and put himself in another time when it hadn't been like this.


That time was getting further and further away from him. A grain of sand that escaped each day, and he mourned for every single one. Every glance of hers that he remembered, a punch in the gut that he wouldn't give up for anything. And if the hallways seemed a little too long, with all the people crowding around him and staring with those eyes that said 'sorry' so often, then maybe he could take it, and they could just stop already.


Scott sat at the desk of the room he and Jean had once shared, with nothing to grade and nothing to plan. A pen hung from his limp fingers as he leaned back in the desk chair, staring at the ceiling. It swung back and forth, a pendulum that followed the beat of his heart. He took a breath, swallowing air into his lungs, and waited for yet another moment to pass. The seconds were long.

Wolverine had said something like that to him the other day.


"Cyke," he had grunted, pushing his food around on the plate. "You've just gotta stick to the second hand. An hour is too long right now."


Strange, to have Wolverine speak of grief, and still feel the slight sting of jealousy that had no place any longer. He'd loved Jean as well. There was no doubt about it. Except there was a difference between them. Wolverine, Logan, whatever he called himself these days, didn't know what he was missing.


Scott did. Remembered. Every second was spent missing it. But couldn't they stop looking at him like that? It didn't make it better. It didn't make the truth any easier to bear and it certainly didn't make any of it go away.


Jean was dead.

And at night, he could still smell her on the pillows. Visceral, sweet, the scent made him hungry for someone that was no longer there to be hungered for.


* * *


Mornings were blue, quiet creatures.

A noise would pull Scott from sleep; a scent, or a feeling in his stomach, and he would've forgotten already that she wasn't there in bed beside him.

Every morning was finding out all over again. His hand would stretch toward her side of the bed, a habit learned long ago, and there wasn't soft skin to be stroked anymore. He couldn't move the hair out of her eyes and kiss her awake.


Today was no different. He opened his eyes, realizing he was holding onto a pillow. The wall on the other side of the room confronted his gaze, tainted red, the only color he ever saw.


One heartbeat, and he remembered. Slammed his eyes shut and tucked the pillow close to his chest, shoving his nose into it. Here, he cried. Here, he didn't have a choice. A pinpoint of light arched through the room, and when he opened his eyes a long time later, it was time to get out of bed.


The clock stared at him as he pushed the covers from of his body, crawling off the mattress and stumbling toward the bathroom connected to his bedroom. *His* now. Just his. He lifted his shades, keeping his eyes closed, and wiped the drying tears from his cheeks. Set the glasses back down on his nose, behind which the beginnings of a headache throbbed.

Scott began his ritual. Shaving. Showering. Avoiding looking too closely at his own face. It became easier to live within the boundaries of everyday activities, going through the motions. It was like he was living, but never really, and why should he? Hadn't known. Jean was always able to keep things from him. He'd never even had a chance to save her, not when she didn't want him to.


But no. Don't think of that. He scraped the razor over his cheek, pressing down on the skin of his jaw to make sure it was taut, shaving the stubble off his face. A bit of lather fell from his chin, dripping onto the sink. Scott eyed it, irritated, before setting the razor down onto the porcelain and reaching for a wet washcloth, dabbing the surface clean.


It was obsessive. It was compulsive. Just the thing that had always driven Jean crazy. Scott took his hand away from the towel. His fingers curled into his palm, forming a fist that he slammed into the porcelain. Pain slapped up his arm, stinging the tips of his fingers, biting into his elbow and shoulder.


Real. Physical. It'd go away one day.


*One day*.

After Scott had taken a quick shower (still hadn't taken her shampoo and soaps out of the bathtub) and dried off, he escaped the steam-filled bathroom, shaking slightly in the chillier air of his bedroom. A towel was wrapped around his hips, but it did little to warm him. Not much warmed him now. Even the few stray drops of hot water that clung to his body were fast cooling. He briefly thought of Bobby Drake, Rogue's boyfriend, and wondered how he tolerated the cold.


Thoughts of Bobby brought to mind thoughts of Rogue, and he considered her while he dressed. Underwear first, socks second, and then the pants. She'd been something of a comfort, not quite behaving like the others around him, not quite wearing the same look. It was strange how a girl he hadn't paid that much attention to before (hadn't ignored or not seen or even not talked to), who had existed in the background of his life like the pattern on the wallpaper, that girl who'd been there when his lover died, had been able to offer the first true moment of comfort in this entire month since Jean had been gone.


It was almost ironic, and if he'd been inclined to laugh, he would have. The girl with the deadly skin, never allowed to get close to anyone, had been able to perfectly gauge what would make him feel better, if only for a little while. By the next day, he'd come to a small realization about himself. He needed a friend. So, considering she'd been the only one to comfort him, he'd made that clear to her. She hadn't exactly welcomed him into her life with open arms, leaving him to feel like the strange older man, trying to hang out with the kids to make himself feel younger. Then again, he wasn't that old, and Rogue was... *Rogue*. And being Rogue, even if she had nearly agreed that they would make decent friends, she had still managed to slip through the cracks of his life these past weeks.


Shaking his head, Scott buttoned up his shirt, methodically closing the halves and slipping a tie around his neck, thinking *nothing*. Without realizing it, he was looking at the half open closet door, where a single suit of Jean's could be seen.


Ping.


An ache that never really quit, but sometimes just stayed glued to his backbone and allowed him to function on the everyday tasks that life required of him. What was it that Rogue had called him? 'Fearless Leader.' Yes, he had to be. If not that... then what?

No answer came, and Scott strode to the closet, sure that he would slam the door shut. But when he got there his fingers froze on the doorknob, and all he could do was stare at the clothes he'd watched her accumulate. It was a wardrobe, an outfit for every occasion. They didn't smell like her: instead they carried the scent of soap and sunny days. But they looked like her, felt like her, had been worn by her.


He pictured her face, smiling up at him as they made love.


Scott didn't move for a very long time.



* * *


"Hey..."


Scott turned at the slightly hesitant, familiar voice that had called out from behind him as he walked toward the rec room. Rogue stood by a table overflowing with stacks of aging magazines, her hand on the back of a wooden chair. She must have been sitting there when he passed, his mind a million miles away, or maybe only a hundred, buried beneath a mile or so of water.


"Rogue," he said in greeting, offering her a tired smile. "I didn't see you at dinner."


"No... I..." Rogue shook her head, blushing slightly. He wondered why, until he saw her glance down the hall, toward the boys' rooms.


"Wasn't really very hungry." Deliberately, she looked back toward him, firming her jaw. "I've been meaning to talk to ya."


Scott raised his eyebrows, and then turned fully, facing her with his body as well as his face. "Well, my attention is all yours."


He saw her swallow, before she gestured to the other chair at the table she'd been sitting at. Scott took a hint, as well as a seat, pushing a few magazines to the side so that he could thread his fingers together and rest them on the table. There, he waited, while she sat down herself and for a moment, just stared at him with the look she had that the others didn't. Not like he was gonna break, but that maybe he'd do just the opposite and turn to stone before her.


While she gathered courage for whatever she had to say (was he really that frightening to her?), Scott glanced down at the magazines he'd shifted out of the way. A little shocked to find that the cover story of one was about research being made into rare skin diseases, although he shouldn't be. After all, for a long time, he'd been reasearching his own mutation, cataloguing articles and creating his own personal library.


"Rogue," he began, uneasy.


She shook her head, the white streak Magnento had left catching the dull yellow glow of the lamp sitting in the center of the table.


"I've been thinking about what you said," Rogue spoke at last, looking at him seriously, with eyes too old for her face. "About needing friends. Especially in a time like this. And you're right. I've just been... it seems strange, the idea of being friends with one of ya'll. I'm better at watching from afar, ya know?"


He didn't, but nodded anyway.


Rogue continued, "I've been meaning to talk to ya. But there was that idolization thing to get past, you being an X-Man and all... Well, after that, I'm just not very good at being a friend, so you'll have to understand that. Okay?"


Scott only stared at her, vaguely amused at her rambling. No eggshells here. "I'm fairly sure I can live with that."


He could live with a lot of things. Deal? Not as many.


"Good," she said, dipping her chin decisively. "Now, with that cleared away, I figure that you want to be friends with me for a reason, and I'm really curious why."


Scott looked away from her, over her shoulder, where he caught a glimpse of Wolverine standing with a beer in his hand, the other pushing the curtains aside to stare out the window, up at the moon. And then the man had moved away again, vanishing around a corner, leaving the curtains open, and the moon shining in. Distracted, he dragged his gaze back to Rogue, who was waiting for an answer, a curious expression on her face.


"You helped me. That's a good start to friendship, I think. Don't you?"


Rogue blinked at him. "Well, yeah, I guess it is."


"There you go."


"Hmph." Rogue curled her eyebrows together, wrinkling her nose. "This is still kinda strange, but I'll let that go. I have something for you."


Scott frowned when she began rummaging around on the tables, making the scent of old magazines stronger as she fumbled with the stacks, searching for whatever it is that she wanted to give him.


"Something for me?" He asked, confused, eyeing her studious expression as she searched.


"Yeah, something that made me think of you the other day when I was reading it," Rogue replied, finally shoving at one stack of magazines. It fell over, landing with a flop of slapping pages, onto the floor. She didn't seem concerned about it, but it was in his nature to bend down and pick them up. When he sat straight again, placing the magazines onto the table in front of him, he found her smiling at him and holding something to her stomach.


"What?"


"Here," she said, handing him a book. Scott looked at her, and then down at the aged gray cover, streaked with dust.


"I was in the library," she explained, while he ran his finger over the title engraved into the book, written in gold. "Reading up on some..." she stumbled over her words, before finishing with a careful, "Things."


"T.S. Eliot," Scott said, lifting his gaze to hers.


Rogue nodded, reaching out to touch just the edge of the binding, grazing her gloved finger across it. "I know it seems like a strange thing to give you but... He understands grief. Sometimes that's enough, I think."


Scott's lips moved, but he found himself unable to respond. Yeah. Sometimes it was exactly enough. "Thanks," he said at last, pushing the words past his dry throat. "Don't get into the habit of giving me things, though. I'm not very good at receiving gifts."


Rogue laughed. A small, dry chuckle. "It's not like I bought it or anything. I just found it. You're gonna have to return it when you're done with it." She lowered her eyes, looking at her fingers as they plied each other. "*If* you get done with it. I won't tell that you have it if you don't."


Scott tucked the book beneath his arm and stood. Rogue looked up at him in surprise, wearing *that* face.


"I'm better at keeping secrets than people think," he said, before casually chucking her beneath the chin, too quickly for her to stop him or for her mutation to snap out and suck his life away. "Thanks for the book."


He turned, once again walking toward the rec room, the book heavy at his side.


* * *


Scott was reading the book Rogue had given to him when Xavier's voice abruptly filled his head, making him jerk out of his chair and nearly knock over the lit candle on the desk. He dropped the book so he could stop the candle from tumbling and starting a fire. It landed with a heavy thump on the floor.


"Sorry about that," Xavier's voice said, hollow and amused in Scott's ears. Scott glared at the wall through his glasses, waiting. "Anyway, I'd like to speak with you. Do you think you could come to my office?"


"When?" Scott asked in his thoughts.


"If you're available, now would be a suitable time," came the professor's reply, the amusement gone from his voice. Now it was somber, a tone Scott was growing quickly irritated of. "I assure you it will only take a moment."


Scott nodded, even though the professor wasn't there to see him do so. "I'll be right there," he replied in his head.

"Thank you."


He felt it when Xavier's presence was gone from his mind. With a frustrated shake of his head, even though he loved the man dearly, Scott bent down and picked up the book he'd dropped, noticing that it had fallen open. A phrase written on the page before him caught his eye.


"...The memory throws up high and dry. A crowd of twisted things..." Scott read aloud, a line between his eyebrows. Staring at the words, his lips curled up into a bitter smile. Nothing but the truth there. Scott was a man of duty, who wanted to help people, who had a cause. And yet, memory stalked him. Memory was stealing him.


Feeling sick at heart, Jean's face before his eyes, he closed the book and set it onto his desk, avoiding looking at the bed and its rumpled sheets as he passed it. Everywhere there were memories. Still... Scott wasn't sure he wanted to escape them. It had only been a month. A very *long* month.


Xavier had his wheel chair rolled over to the window when Scott knocked quietly, and peered around the door into the office. Xavier waved him in with his thin white hand, never turning to see who it was. Of course he knew. Scott felt tense, standing there behind Xavier's back, as the older mutant looked out at the night sky with an odd look of wonder on his face.


"You know," Xavier said in a tone meant to ease Scott's tension. "I've never quite believed in space travel. Yes, I know it's old news and with all that I've seen, I should be able to accept it. I'll tell myself that and then I'll look up into the night sky and see how vast it really is, how extreme and untouchable, and I won't believe all over again. In my head, I know it exists... but my heart, well my dear boy, it just doesn't want to see something so beautiful conquered."

Scott remained quiet as he listened, looking out the window himself, where above the line of trees, stars pricked small glittering holes in the night sky. The wind shifted the branches, breaking his view for a moment, before the stars were back within his view. In his head, there was a litany of explanations for why they twinkled, why they seemed to throb. He could recite the names of constellations and knew that stars weren't that extraordinary, only gaseous blimps, fireballs hanging nowhere. In his head, he knew this, but Scott felt like a child staring at the hugeness of the universe.


"Yes, it is beautiful, isn't it?" Xavier asked rhetorically, even though Scott hadn't spoken his thoughts out loud.


"Very," Scott replied, pushing his hands into the pockets of his pants. "Why did you ask me here?"


Xavier sighed, looking for another moment at the sky, with something like longing on his face. And then he gripped the wheels of his chair and maneuvered himself, turning it so that he was facing Scott, standing so tall and yet slumping so low, in the middle of his office. Scott fought to keep any revealing thoughts out of his head, fought to hide the true depth of his misery. If Xavier knew, he might ask Scott to take a break, or worse, go away until he could handle the idea of working on a team without Jean on it. Thinking of that brought thoughts of the X-Men's first mission since Jean's death, of the empty seat, of how fucking HARD...


"My poor boy," Xavier whispered sadly, breaking through the wall in Scott's mind. "You musn't force yourself to be so strong. That comes naturally. It's the grieving that's the hard part for you."

Scott stiffened, gutted.


He didn't let it show, just clenched his jaw and took his hands from where they were bunched in the pockets, locking them behind his back. Like a soldier. So Xavier, the man he looked up to as something like a father, who could read minds and sometimes hearts, was going to take a crack at it as well? His heart pinched. He couldn't just get over it and make it easy for the people around him. Jean was DEAD. Gone. Couldn't they understand that he needed time? And that, at the end of the day, he didn't want to forget, he wanted to remember her.


"So you should," Xavier said, responding to the thoughts in Scott's head. "I understand that people coddling you isn't what you want, Scott, but you must understand that they worry for you. It's their natural reaction. Not everyone can be as insightful as our dear Rogue."


Scott's jaw cracked as he fought not to speak. Fought not to *think*.


"I brought you here, not to tell you to let Jean go, but to speak to you about certain arrangements. I know you've been waiting for her..." Professor Xavier paused, as if searching for a delicate way to put it. "Body to be found, but it's been a month, Scott. Jean deserves to be put to rest. She needs some form of official services preformed for her."


"I..." Scott bit his lip, looking down at his feet. His shoes shone. He'd been more obsessive about them lately, polishing the scuffmarks singlemindedly. That didn't need any psychoanalyzing when it was very obvious why. A man with very little else to focus on but the death of his lover had to focus on menial tasks to keep sane.

"I'm sorry, I'm not sure what I..."


"There is no need to apologize," Xavier admonished quietly. He gripped the arms of his wheelchair, leaning forward. "If you would like, I'll take care of the necessary arrangements. It's time, Scott. There must be something done."


The Grandfather clock in the corner of the office suddenly chimed eleven bittersweet times. Scott glanced at it while swallowing down the truth. Xavier was right. Jean deserved something, and he'd put it off for far too long.


"No," he said. "I'll take care of everything. But... right now I'd just really like to go to bed."


Xavier nodded, only a gracious dip of his chin. Scott turned, walking past the still chiming clock, counting away the seconds that never stopped slipping away from him.

Wolverine had told him to stick with the second hand, but maybe that piece of advice was no longer helpful. Because now it felt like he was constantly on the move, jumping from one second to another with no time to sit, breathe, and just love her.


* * *

As it turned out, Scott couldn't sleep at all. Trying to was a fitful process of kicking at the covers, glaring at the ceiling, fluffing and re-fluffing his pillows, all while cursing himself for ever caring about anything, much less something as impermanent as a human life. A giant hole sat in his chest, throbbing hollowly every time the numbers on the digital clock changed and the hour grew later.

Throb. In red, of course. He watched the clock for a long time, a tick at the corner of his mouth, his hand heavy on the space beside him.


Sweat dripped into his eyes, a sting of salt that made him flinch, slap at his eye socket. Did they have to keep it so hot in here? He wiped it away angrily, scraping his palm along his face, and then shoving his hand beneath the pillow, pressing his face against its surface and inhaling. Her scent was fading.


There was a glass of water on his dresser, half-empty from when he'd guzzled it down to wet his parched throat. It was probably room temperature by now, tasting like the stale air around him. He swallowed, throat dry once more. Couldn't sleep. Couldn't *sleep*. He thought of opening a window, letting in the breeze, but he knew that soon enough instead of being too hot, it would be too cool.


The bathroom door creaked. Hot sound. Burning in his ears.


Was this what Xavier said? Him fighting grief?


After about an hour's struggle toward unconsciousness, he gave up, throwing the covers off his body and lunging angrily from the bed. His mind was fat with too many things for sleep to come. He was jumpy, heart itching like something gaping open with flies crawling around inside it. Like something dying and waiting for it all to end.


Heated, flushed, Scott tugged on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt, not bothering with socks or shoes. Struggled with the button on his pants, sucking in his gut, staring down at his fumbling fingers. He needed *out* of the bedroom that held so many memories. Skin on skin, an arm around his waist, her flesh wrapped around his. Her lips. Her sweet tongue in his mouth, twisting against his teeth. Fading, that taste. Stuck to the roof of his mouth where he couldn't quite catch it anymore.

It was a swift change of heart, this need to be away when he had fought so hard to hold onto even the smallest, most insignificant moment he'd had with her. Torn, that's what he was, between wanting to remember... and tonight, this absolute *need* to forget. So swift it took away his hard earned equilibrium. He needed order. Balance. He had nothing.


Xavier'd said he was strong.

Well, he didn't *feel* strong: he felt as weak as an infant, struggling to walk a straight line toward his the door without falling over.

The floor was somehow cool on Scott's bare feet as he walked the hallway. Heat rose, so it made sense, but his toes didn't appreciate the science. He should have put socks on. To be truthful with himself, he should be still trying to go to sleep. The ghosts would still be there when he returned, and there was absolutely nothing he could do about that.

He couldn't run from it. At least if he had stayed, he would have tangled with them sooner, and had it over with. But still, cold toes and all, he didn't feel ready to be back there, wrestling with the sheets and other, more untouchable things.


Scott found himself outside of Rogue's room, hand balled into a fist, knocking. He licked his bottom lip as he waited, tasting left over tears, the struggle of sleep and sweat. His stomach muscles clenched as the door opened to him. Jubilee stood there wearing a yellow shirt, boxers, and an angry, fuck-you-for-waking-me expression on her face. When she saw who it was, her eyes widened. Scott shifted uncomfortably, wearing a tense mask that felt all too familiar.


"Mr. Summers! Something's wrong isn't it? Someone's dead!"


"What?" He heard Rogue screech from somewhere inside the room. "Who?! Oh God!"


Scott rubbed a tired hand over his forehead, pushing hair away from the skin and scowling at the girl before him. "Nothing's wrong, Jubilee. I'd just like to speak with Rogue, if I could."


Jubilee stopped panicking, closing her mouth and considering him closely. Like he was a bug under the microscope, Scott fought not to squirm. Rogue appeared behind Jubilee, peering over her shoulder with a frown.


"Scott?" A question - what the hell are *you* doing here this late?

"Yes, I thought so myself," he replied testily. Maybe this hadn't been such a good idea. But considering it hadn't been an idea at all, simply an impulse (which he wasn't used to following), it didn't surprise him overmuch that he was already regretting it. "But the way Jubilee keeps staring at me is beginning to make me wonder."


"J.," Rogue muttered, pushing Jubilee aside. "It's okay. He's not here to molest me."

Jubilee gave Scott one last look before sauntering off, somewhere behind the door where he couldn't see. Scott's eyebrows shot up in response to Rogue's last statement.


She glared. "What? You'd rather I told her ya wanted to?"


Scott blinked, shuffling his feet, before shaking his head. "Ah, no, actually. I'd rather you didn't." He looked down the empty hallway where he'd come from. The window sat at the end, black and sleek with the night outside. A set of curtains twisted around it, hungry. Scott met her curious eyes again, draped in a few errant strands of what Jean had told him was white-shocked hair. Just a few chunks of it, curving around her cheeks. "I imagine you're wondering what I'm doing here."


"The thought did cross my mind," Rogue admitted, a slight twang to her voice. "Just once or twice."

Scott smiled ruefully, feeling some of the tension drain from him. For that alone, he stopped regretting. He untucked his hands from his pockets and held one out toward the hallway, taking a step back from her door. "You up for a walk?"


Rogue pursed her lips, holding onto the edge of the door. He noticed that her hands were bare, nails painted some color that he would never see. And then she nodded, not looking any less confused. "Let me get my shoes."


Other words she didn't have to say: 'And my gloves.'


Scott waited, arms at his side, facing her closed door. An image of himself standing there flashed in his head, the lonely older man hanging around outside the a girl-woman's bedroom, tapping his thumbs against his hipbone while she dressed. It would probably look strange to everyone else, like something it wasn't. Scott wasn't sure he cared.

He looked up when she opened the door again, slipping past and shutting it behind her. She was wearing a jean jacket, her hands curled inside them, gloved-fingers peeking out, curving around the material and tugging nervously.

Rogue met his eyes, looking worried. "So, what's wrong?"


He thought of the world, frowning. "Pretty much everything."


She eyed him strangely for a moment before shaking her head and slipping her hands free from where she'd been grabbing at the cuffs of her jacket. They walked down the hallway, past the other closed doors with light peering from their cracks, past the table with the half broken vase that had been pieced together by Kitty, who had knocked it over. Its glue was apparent, fleshy between the cracks in the hardened clay. The flowers in the vase were black with the shadows, but their smell flattened the air, making room for itself.


Rogue was quiet, waiting.


Scott didn't speak until they'd stepped outside into the slightly cool northern air. His bare toes flexed against the cement steps, getting accustomed to the feel. He could feel her by his side, tense with nervous energy. He was surprised she could hold that much inside her and not bounce off the walls. And yet, another part of him wasn't shocked at all. For one thing, Rogue was a very closeted person. She must hold things within herself all the time; after all, her walls had grown pretty thick. He had a few walls of his own.


He understood exactly how much pressure they could stand.


His lover was dead. Those walls were cracked, but they were still standing, even if Scott sometimes heard them rumbling like there were going to fall at any moment.


The door snapped closed behind them, abrupt and chilling, breaking the companionable silence they had been idling in. Scott rubbed his palms together, feeling the breeze twine through his fingers, plucking at his uncombed hair and lifting it from his forehead.


"What's your favorite color?" Rogue asked suddenly, as if she couldn't think of anything else. He stared at her blankly for a moment, thinking she was kidding. When it became obvious that she wasn't going to retract her question, he lifted a single eyebrow and made a listless gesture toward the visor he'd quickly put on. They were heavier than the glasses he liked to wear, which were much more compact and less obtrusive. The visor stood out, and even though it fit his nose perfectly, it was still uncomfortable.


Rogue's nose wrinkled and she sliced her palm impatiently through the air. "Before that," she said, agitated. "You must have had a favorite color before your mutation." She paused. Thought. "Or was it..."


"Red?" Scott put in before she could speak. "No. Ironic, isn't it? I always thought it was." He peered out over the walls, remembering the many, many times when he had rose up over them in the plane, preparing to go risk his life for the peace between mutants and humans. Lines of stars tickled the horizon, glittering fiercely as he looked on. "Actually, I've always loved silver." A small, wistful smile tilted his mouth. It was nearly a frown. "I loved the look of it. Glittering, but not gaudy like gold."


"It's a very pretty color," Rogue agreed, nodding her head. There was something wise and sad on her face, like she was speaking to a child. He wondered at it, this ability of hers to change faces like they were masks. He was suddenly out of his depth with her, not knowing her at all, but wanting to.


"What about you?" he asked, trying to keep the strangely cliche conversation going. The curve of her mouth answered him, a piece of hair caught at its edge. She just shook her head, taking her gaze away from his face and turning it toward the sky, looking for... *something*. Now that he could understand. Always looking for something more, but never really being sure about what that might be. An absence.

A car passed out on the road, its exhaust loud and grumbling. They both tensed when they heard it, a white noise spreading through their chests as they watched the beam of the head lights bounce off the walls of the school. Things were so dangerous for mutants now. Slowly, the rumbling died away as the car passed, neither stopping or slowing down.


They both sighed, in relief and quiet understanding of just what they'd been fearing. That was all it took now, a single car, passing in the middle of the night.


"Red," she said eventually, after a long silence had passed and he had given up on her ever answering. "It's red."


"I live my life in red."


Red sky, red stars, red horizons, and a red Rogue standing beside him.


Her eyes, on his, old again. "I know. I'm sorry."


"What are you apologizing for?"


"You know how you said everything was wrong earlier?" Rogue asked, waiting for his nod. The wind picked up her hair, much as it had done his own, tossing it against her face. She fought the tugging with her gloved fingers, holding the errant strands flat against her cheek. "Mostly that."


"I couldn't sleep," Scott confessed, puffing out his breath. It wasn't cold enough to see the air leave his lungs like white powder, but he could imagine the months passing by in a blur of summer days, falling leaves, and crawling winter suns until it *was* that cold. He could imagine being without Jean for that long would drive him crazy. He suddenly wished for a jacket to cover his arms instead of the goose bumps that coated them now. "I had a conversation with Professor Xavier tonight. It's been on my mind ever since... and I just... couldn't sleep."


"What did he speak with you about?" she inquired, and his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth like he'd just eaten peanut butter.


"Certain arrangements," Scott muttered in a low voice, pushing the words past his clogged throat. He heard her shift beside him, a rustle of clothes and a soft sigh that made him wonder if she somehow already knew. "I've neglected to make any firm decisions regarding them. And it's... time. But I don't know how I'm going to deal with them."


"About Jean?" she asked quietly. "I've wondered about that."


Scott nodded, thinking that he'd been wondering a lot about that himself. "That makes two of you and counting. Do you think I should have had services performed by now?"

Rogue looked at him sharply, in surprise. "Me? I don't really... Scott, I don't know. If you're asking me if I think she deserves some sort of ceremony, I'm gonna tell ya yes, but I didn't know her as well as you did. It's been a month..."


"I know!" Scott growled, spearing his fingers through his hair in frustration. Abruptly jerking into motion, he stalked down the steps away from her. "I know that already, but I wanted to find her first... I wanted to be able to look at her, and tell her goodbye! She didn't let me. She was able to talk to me, through Xavier, but it's not the same."


Rogue stayed on the steps, shifting nervously from one foot to the other, indecision written all over her face. He stopped a few feet away, glaring at the same horizon he'd been admiring moments before. And then, slowly, his head dropped down on his neck and he looked at his bare feet, the grass sticking up between his toes. Tears burned behind his nose, building up, making his entire head ache. Scott swallowed convulsively, trying to bring himself under control.


After a long moment, he heard her clear her throat, and then there was the sound of footsteps on the stretch of grass behind him. He dipped his head further down, until his chin nearly touched his chest, feeling strangely exhausted and embarrassed. She was just a kid really, even with what she had been through. What was he thinking, using her as a buffer for his feelings? He *wasn't* thinking.


Rogue touched his shoulder blade with butterfly-light fingers. Said, "Hey."


He tilted his head to the side, eyeing her. "Hey."


She licked her bottom lip, and then quirked her mouth up, eyes shining at him in the dark. "Well, if that's why you've been waiting, I think it's been just long enough. Not everything has to be strictly organized and completed by everyone else's standards. Just... do what she would have wanted ya to. That's all."


He frowned at her, considering. Then, "Who are you, Rogue? What the hell happened to you?"


She froze for a second, like a deer trapped in the headlights of an oncoming car. There was a fear in her gaze that gave him pause, made him wonder all the more. Just what had she been through? Then her eyes clouded over, and she ducked her head, avoiding his gaze. The porch light behind her outlined the stiffness of her shoulders, cresting over her hair. Her face was only half visible to him, looking taut and edgy.


"Same thing that's happened to every mutant I know," she replied, still not meeting his eyes. "The world just didn't care."


"The world cares," Scott argued, fingers twitching. He kept his hand firmly at his side. "It may not seem like it, but there are people that care about you. You have to know that. You push us away, but we feel for you."


"I don't want pity," she said stubbornly, chin at an angle as she studied him with a look he recognized. The look said she could do it by herself, that she didn't need anyone, and she was just amusing herself with this situation. Her cheeks were sharp with lying.


"That's good," he told her. "Because you certainly don't have mine."


Rogue's eyes sliced up to his, and then realizing that she was looking at him directly, skittered away. "That's something then, ain't it?" Shook her head. "I don't mean to be rude. My words just come out like that sometimes. I'm trying to change it."


"Don't change. Not for anyone."

Silence. The night moved around them, shifting in size and shape. Her pajama pants flapped gently at her ankles when the wind picked up. They stood, listening to it, trying to find words. Things could be said, important things.


'Jean's dead.'

'Yeah, but not your love for her. You got that. I don't love anybody.'


'There's always Bobby...'


'Yeah. Yeah, there's Bobby.'


'I think it's going to rain. I can smell it.'


'It's always raining. Not such a big thing to think about.'


'We should sleep.'


'Can you?'


Finally, he pushed his voice over the silence. "Would you help me make the arrangements? Just... be there? I'm not sure I can do it alone, and there's no one... You can say no. Of course, you'll say no, I shouldn't have..."


"Yeah. I mean, yes. I'm saying yes."


'So, can you sleep?'


Scott looked back at the big building waiting for him. The large bed that would be just as empty as before.


'Maybe. I think... yes, maybe.'



* * *


He had a dream about maybes. Something wistful and thin that held him by his throat, but not hard enough to choke him. Something that breathed heartening things into his ear and made him hope.

"Where are you going, Jean?" he growled in his sleep, holding the sheets around him and seeing his fingers wrapping around her wrist. Her face was bright, flushed with sex.


"Away?" She looked confused, that adorable frown knitting her face. "Maybe. I don't know."


"Don't."


Scott awoke, lifting up the arm he had thrown over his face, looking for her. The curtains were open and the day burned in, the sun hot and red, twisting over the bed as the clouds spun around it. The glass couldn't hold it back, just couldn't keep it away...


He remembered.


"She's gone."



End Chapter Two (2/15)


Next chapter coming soon.


Thank you to the following people (in no particular order) for giving me wonderful feedback on ff.net for the first chapter, it really convinced me to post this sooner (I am SUCH a pushover): China Sea, Cherry, drama-nerd016, nightstone131302, TheBlackRaveness, A.J., New Fan, Alicia, Damn *g*, silent luscinia, Baloo, Lucky439, Kristal, Cyke 2 Lite, Me (reveal yourself my dear), Carrie M, X, Lori, kallista_feral, HornedGummieBear, Kail, and Sapphira. Thank you all VERY much, and I hope I continue to hear from you as this story progresses.