Summary: Rogue calls it quits.

Universe: AU ... taking up Jenn's gauntlet after Andariel dropped it ... the third story in Jenn's "Not Unspoken" *series*. (See, Jenn, another series. Aren't you proud of yourself?) Short, unedited and looked back over only once. This is just for fun; I hope Jenn doesn't mind me playing in her sandbox.

Notes: I'm doing the unexpected. I'm writing from Rogue's point of view . . . Somebody ELSE can do Scott – someone who doesn't usually write him. C'mon, I dare ya. Btw, the idea of Scott dating a young
Marie who is or was his student really squicks me. I've aged her. This *is* AU, right? And if Scott's her fiancé, I've assumed that he *does* know her name.

Warnings: They're fighting. Of *course* there are bad words. Passive aggressive guilt trips.

Archiving: Jenn, you started it. This one is yours. :-) I'm not even putting it in HTML. (I'm joing wrbeta long enough to post it there, since it seems to be going out to both groups.)

Marie was waiting on Scott in their room, when he got back from the lake. She'd come back up there from the den after talking with Logan, only to find the room empty. Quietly, with concise and quick movements like a small animal, she packed an overnight bag with some changes of clothes suitable for daily wear and teaching, then took all her toiletries out of their bathroom. Maybe she should have made him leave, but it was her decision to go. And it had been his room first.

He still hadn't returned by the time she'd finished, so she sat down on the bed -– their bed -– and folded her hands in her lap, stared at the door. Waiting.

God, she wanted to slip out that door right now, leave in the between places, let the end of it lie obvious but unspoken, not even the melodrama of a farewell note in lipstick on the bathroom mirror like a country song cliche. He'd figure it out when he returned. Scott Summers was no dummy. On instinct, she reached over to turn out the bedlamp, leaving the room in darkness, shuttered, like her heart. But quiet. Holding its breath.

He returned when the moon rode low enough to shine in the window and walk silver squares along the floor. Opening the door quietly, he came inside, turned and shut it with the kind of contained force that she knew meant he wanted to slam it.

*Oh, Scott,* she thought. Strange, how pity for him could twist her heart right along with the rage.

She heard him sigh and he switched on the overhead light, started to unbutton his shirt -– then stopped dead when he saw her sitting on the edge of their bed. His eyes traced a triangle between her face, her pillow which showed no signs of being slept on, and the bag at her feet. Then the eyes -– always shuttered behind red –- came back to her face.

"You had the lights off."

It was inane. But she knew he couldn't ask the question he wanted to ask. They had too much history, too much water under the bridge, for him to let go so easily. Scott clung. Partly, it was his sense of duty. Partly it was a deeply buried insecurity. But she knew damn well that some of it was out of real affection for her, too. Whatever he felt for that red-headed bitch, he hadn't stopped caring about her.

When she'd first come to the mansion, plucked off the street in the dead of winter, he'd been home from college on Christmas break. Three years her senior and cocky with it, he'd flirted with her while going out of his way to make her welcome. He'd showed her around the mansion and teased her, left a rose on her desk, caught her once with mistletoe, and played table hockey with her in the den, both of them against Warren and Ororo. They'd won. On New Years Eve, they'd snuck a bottle of champagne up to the roof and gotten roaring drunk. Then he'd kissed her again -– without the mistletoe. They'd been an item ever since. Not that there were many choices for a date on Saturday night when you went to Mutant High.

And maybe that had been their problem. He'd found her charming, she'd found him dashing, and both were 'the mutants with uncontrollable powers' -– deadly powers. She'd lost her virginity to him in the midst of goggles and bodysuits, rubber and gloves. She'd been willing to risk having her body ripped through by his eye blasts since he'd been willing to risk having the life sucked out of him by her skin. He'd been so careful with her, and she equally careful with him, but the very danger that always lurked beneath had added an edge – made their sex good. He even knew exactly how many seconds he could rest his lips on hers before the dragging pull started. Two and a half. But it was touch -– skin to skin. And he had been the only one willing to risk it.

Eventually, they'd become comfortable enough that he'd dropped a diamond ring into a bowl of cream of broccoli soup when they'd met for lunch between their classes. He was the math teacher; she was the English teacher. He always wore glasses; she always wore gloves.  It had seemed fated that they should get married. Until now.

"I figured I might should wait, to say good-bye. Didn't feel right to just leave. Southern manners, I guess."

Dropping his hands from the front of his shirt, they fell helpless at his sides. "Marie –- "

"Don't, Scott." Reaching down, she picked up her bag and then stood.  "What are you gonna say? That you love me? I know. That you don't want me to go? Only half true. You can't say what I need to hear most, can you? You can't tell me that you don't want her."

"What does that have to do with anything?" His voice had ratcheted up a notch, like it always did when he was nervous. "I gave you a ring –- "

" -– and I'm giving it back."

"Hon, we can work this out."

"Maybe we could. But do you really want to?"

She could tell, even through the glasses, that he couldn't meet her eyes.

Squaring her shoulders, she said what broke her heart. "You've never cheated on me that I know of –- not once in six years. Though God knows, you must have wanted to lay with a woman whose flesh you could touch –- "

"NO, Marie." Both hands went up. "That was *never* -– "

"Don't interrupt. Let me finish." He sighed but dropped his hands and nodded to her, to go on. Taking a breath and licking her lips, she continued. "Like I said, you never looked for greener pastures. So there must be something . . . really different, here. Jean" -– she kept herself from spitting it out like a curse -– "must have something for you that I just don't have. So I'm getting out of the way."

But instead of relief or gratitude or even guilt crumpling his expression, his face just reflected anger. "Oh, pity for poor Rogue.  See what a noble sacrifice she's making!"

"Don't be a bastard."

"Then lay off the guilt trip! I can lay the guilt on just fine for myself, dammit." His jaw had gone hard.

"So I'm not allowed to feel angry?"

"Feel angry all you want! Just be honest about it. I won't take martyrdom from you. I came back here to our room because I was willing to at least *try* to make a go at it. I gave you a promise. I'm trying like hell to keep it."

"I don't want your freakin' duty, Scott Summers. I want your *heart*! Can you give me *that*?"

He looked away, his jaw working. The overhead light glittered on his wet cheeks, which was all the answer she needed. Her breath caught on a sob. "I'm sorry, hon," he said finally. "I do love you."

"But you love her more."

"It's not love, not yet. I don't know what it is. Something . . . elemental." He looked back at her finally. The tears were still there and he wiped at his cheeks, the swore softly. "Godfuckingdamn. Marie, I -– I didn't ask for this. I didn't expect this. I wasn't looking for anyone else. I was happy."

"And now you're not."

Finally, he met her eyes, and told her the truth. "No. I'm all torn up inside. I don't want to hurt you." A beat pause. "I'm sorry."

She nodded, and switched her bag to her other hand. "So am I."

And Marie left him standing there.

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