Summary: A single act brings hurt and grief. (Scott and Rogue, implied Logan and Jean, implied Rogue and Bobby, Logan and Ororo, implied Scott and Jean)

Disclaimer: I don't own X-Men

Rating: T

BETRAYAL

Chapter 3

Westchester, New York: Present Time

"So, how was he?"

Rogue turned sharply, her hand halting in midair. She'd been reaching for the cream located on the top shelf of the kitchen cabinet to add to her chocolate milk. To her utter annoyance, she came face to face with the one woman she'd desperately tried to avoid for the last few days.

"What did you say?" she asked, her eyes coming together.

Jean swept gracefully into the kitchen, her nightgown open to reveal a sexy green satin nightgown. Her long scarlet hair fell in a tangled mass down to her back. Bloodshot green eyes glimmered with disdain as she peered at the slender, plain brunette.

"Deaf too, I'm not surprise," she spouted, airily, and rolled her eyes. "I said how is he?"

"That's what I thought you said," Rogue attacked. She was no fool. Logan's sensitive hearing had kicked into gear, allowing her to pick up on the nasty little remark. She knew exactly what Jean was implying and didn't like it one bit. But she was in no mood to engage in a shouting contest with the witch. "He's just fine. Glad to be alive. Your lover certainly did a number on him."

Lip curling into a sneer, Jean scoffed. "Logan is not my lover."

Rogue shrugged and went back to putting the finishing touches in her chocolate milk. Hiking onto her toes, she reached the top shelf and grabbed a can of whipped cream. She swirled a gob onto the surface of the dark mocha. "You could have fooled me. They way Scott caught you guys all tongue tied and limbs entwined…"

"Logan was a mistake," Jean snapped, resting a hand to her forehead. A headache throbbed adding to her already miserable disposition. Now she had to listen to crap being spewed by a child.

"It's always a mistake," Rogue turned cupping her mug, warming her palms. "You got caught and so now it's a mistake."

"It was a MISTAKE…." Jean hissed, her eyes growing black. "I love Scott."

"You certainly have a funny way of showing it." Head bowing, Rogue took a careful sip of her hot chocolate milk. Savoring the rich, sweet brew, she swallowed and trembled as the warmth slid down her throat to warm her all over.

Anger settled root at the base of Jean's skull. Radiated in waves. Making her conjure unspeakable acts that would leave Rogue a twitching, bloody stain on the kitchen floor. Eying a butcher knife, her eyelids drew closer together as she watched the handle of the menacing weapon move and stir in the stand.

"I wouldn't if I were you," Rogue sensed what course of action the older woman dared to take. "The death penalty still applies most severely to mutants and it won't make Scott love you anymore than he does now."

Face bleached white, Jean gawked at the girl. Had she seen what was in her mind? She gritted her teeth till it felt as though they might shatter in her jawbone. Clutching her night gown, she tugged it fiercely about her body. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"Sure you don't," Rogue said, marking her close as Jean walked about the kitchen. The room was silent for a period of time. The two women did nothing but stare at the other. Gauging. Distrust evident in their eyes. "Are you going to apologize?"

Head snapping round, Jean stared dangerous darts into Rogue. "I have apologized! He won't accept my apology."

"I'm not talking about Scott. It's pointless to seek his apology. He won't forgive you."

"Oh," Jean folded her arms, tossing her head in the air. "You are so certain of that. You're the little expert in the matters of relationship. You…who send every boy save running for the hills with your toxic skin."

"It's not so toxic anymore." Rogue grinned and sipped her hot chocolate. "But I'm guessing you already know that."

Eyes falling close, Jean sucked in a hard breath. Yes. She knew perfectly well.

Westchester, New York: Three Weeks Earlier.

Quarter to eleven Scott had still not come to bed. Easing onto the opposite side of the bed, Jean let her hand travel across the sheets to the space where her fiancé should be resting. He wasn't. She was to endure another cold night alone. It had been that way since Logan returned to the mansion. But not always. Usually, Scott handled his return without a hitch. The two would cross paths, bark insults at each other, make weak threats but that was it. Scott went about his business and so did Logan till he rode off on another quest into his past.

It was different this time.

But it wasn't always.

Before she would wake up in the morning to see love of her life fully roused and getting ready to make a start at another day. They'd trade words, kiss lightly, and walk to their perspective jobs at the Xavier Institute. Join one another for lunch outside underneath the great oak tree, or if the day was too hot in the cafeteria. Later it would be dinner, tedious conversations regarding school work, and if they weren't too tired a quick tryst beneath the sheets.

Regrettably, the situation had become worst. And it was her own doing.

Scott caught Logan and her red-handed kissing in her office. She was so terrified all she could do was stare at her fiancé dumbfounded. A look of heartbreak screamed in his shielded eyes. No outrage. No violence. Scott backed out the room and had not come near her since. He even took to sleeping on the floor. When her pleas for forgiveness seemed to aggravate him, drive the wedge deeper, he slept in his office.

"I don't want to talk about it Jean," he said earlier. He sounded exhausted. Broken. He was sitting in his office going through endless amounts of papers…grading them randomly. He barely looked at her, opting to ignore her entirely.

"When do you want to talk about it?" She stood before his desk, hands clasped together. "We can't leave this to fester. It will become a problem."

Scott raged then, surging to his feet. "The problem isn't the kiss. The problem is my fiancée behaving like a horny schoolgirl who doesn't know how to keep her legs close."

Tucking a quivering lip, Jean swallowed the thick lump in her throat. She'd never seen him this way before. So cold. Cruel. She sought some means of salvaging her wounded pride. "You should know something about schoolgirls Scott. After all, you seem to take interest in a certain…girl."

"Don't you dare drag Rogue into the mud with you and Logan?" He attacked, pointing an accusing hand at her. "There is nothing going on between us. So get that filthy thought out your head."

Groaning, she winced, rolling onto her back. She gazed up at the ceiling, her heart swelling as the incident replayed in her head. Scott had defended someone other than her. He was always one to take her side. But no more.

Pushing up into a sit she stared at the door and then checked the alarm clock. She sighed. "Where are you Scott?" she whispered into the unfriendly darkness. Without knowing, she felt her thoughts go as she searched for the man she truly loved. To her horror and dismay, she located Scott in the kitchen, and he was not alone.

Scrambling out bed, Jean drew on her robe, and stormed out of their bedroom. Her bare feet slapped against the cold tile as she made her way to the kitchen. Rage seared her countenance as Scott's voice reverberated in her head.

"There is nothing going on between us."

Heat rose in her eyes and her vision turned red. "Nothing," she hissed. "Nothing." The kitchen was dead ahead. Light poured out like a floodgate. She heard laughter and clenched her fists. Slowing her pace, she crept closer to the entrance, peering inside. Her eyes narrowed to slits. Her thoughts screamed.

Seated at the island counter, Scott and Rogue were laughing and sharing a carton of ice-cream. They seemed so content and happy, it was downright sickening. Rogue's face beamed as she chattered on and on about mindless, teenage drivel and even worse Scott appeared to eating it up. Just when she was about to burst in and break up the scandalous charade, Scott reached out took Rogue's hand.

Her bare hand.

Jean blinked in horror. Unable to believe what she was witnessing.

How was it possible he was touching…holding her hand…and nothing was happening to him. He wasn't dying. Observing the pair lace the fingers together, smiling and laughing, made her ill.

"There is nothing going on between us."

Her hand clenched into a fist as she swung around and dashed back upstairs. Instead of returning to her room, Jean sought out another room. She knocked on a hard oak door. A deep voiced boomed on the opposite side. Turning the handle, she entered Logan's room.

Westchester, New York: Present Time

"…I hope you intend to apologize to Ms. Munroe…"

Jean's face altered in grim disapproval. She had plainly forgotten about the skinny twit in the kitchen as her thought revered to the weeks where her whole, perfect life turned upside down. She stalked to the Cuisinart already bubbling with coffee and poured a cup. She shifted and leaned against the island counter.

"Since when do you give me orders," she said saucily.

"Don't you care that you may have broken Ms. Munroe's heart?"

Jean narrowed her eyes. "Of course I care." She dashed the rest of her coffee in the sink. "Listen you this has nothing to do with her."

"Isn't Logan her man?"

"She had no real claim to him. Come to think about," Jean lightly tapped her chin with a perfectly manicured nail. "Neither did you."

Rogue shook her head. "That might've hurt if I still had a crush on him but I don't. Ms. Munroe, on the other hand, held genuine feelings for him. But I guess, by the way you say, it her feelings don't matter. Some friend you are."

Jean stalked to Rogue furious. "I am her friend."

"Then act like it." Glancing away, the southern girl let out a breath. "I don't know why we are having this conversation."

"Yes," the redhead darkened, "why are we talking?"

"Well it's not exactly like everyone else is talking to you these days," Rogue pointed out. "Ms. Munroe is the one you should be talking to. If you still have heart." She left the elder woman to ponder her words, seeing somehow they may or may not have much effect.

Westchester, New York: Present Time

...Two days later…

Timid. Uncertain. Jean made her way towards the greenhouse.

It was a gloriously beautiful Saturday morning. The skies were clear, blue with one or two clouds floating in the spacious heavens. The sun was warm and golden on her skin. It was perfect weather. Whether by act of nature or Storm's design, Jean knew the African goddess would not miss this opportunity to tend to her greatest love.

A trembling hand rested on the knob, she inhaled sharply, and then turned and pushed the door open. It was moderately warm. Storm kept the interior temperature between 78 – 83 degrees Fahrenheit in order to grow a wide variety of plants.

It was pleasant. Well-organized. A varying array of plants made up the greenhouse. Some plants were dying species she was preserving and growing before she sent them to wildlife reserves. Storm's personal crusade. It astonished Jean to realize she'd never been in the greenhouse before. Once perhaps. And was when it was being instructed. So she decided to take a tour to see what the weather goddess had achieved.

"What are you doing?"

Jean whirled around in time to see Ororo holding a plant and a nasty pair of garden shears.