He feels guilty.

He never feels guilty. It's not in him to do so.

She asked him for help, and he wracked his brains all night to come up with an answer for her, and he couldn't.

So, he feels guilty.

She smiles at him the next morning, and he has to remind himself that his heart belongs to someone else, not to her. She's too young and inexperienced. He likes women, not girls; redheaded women with legs for days, not waifish schoolgirls with soft eyes and full lips.

But his eyes stray toward her, in her flirty clothes -- gray pleated skirt so short it's almost indecent, black tights covering her legs, crisp white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, baring her delicate wrists and hands encased in the finest black leather money could buy.

Because only the best will do for her. He's decided that, and he's stuck to it over the past two years, gifting her with gloves of soft leather, scarves of cashmere and silk -- anything she wants, he will give her, anything to ease her way in the world and make her feel less isolated.

Except his heart.

As he reminds himself, that belongs to someone else.

When he'd come back to Westchester, he hadn't had any intention of actively pursuing Jean. She had rejected him, and he'd respected that. He's never asked how her relationship with Scott had fallen apart, and she's never volunteered the information.

He's happy, Jean's happy, and Marie is... well, the kid was hurt, but she's gotten over it. He is almost positive.

Except sometimes she looks at him, and he can feel his heart turn over, because there's something in her eyes that disturbs him, even as it arouses him.

So, last night she'd asked him for help with one of her silly teenage problems, which he'd tried to use as proof she was still a child, until he'd actually listened to her words.

"Bobby likes me," she'd said, her eyes downcast, a slight blush staining her cheeks as she sat on his bed, "but I know Kitty likes him, and has forever. I don't -- I don't want to get involved. I don't want to lose my friends. What should I do?"

He'd sent her off to bed after promising to think of a solution; his room was no place for her while she was in those flimsy things she called pajamas and he was only half-dressed himself.

He'd lay down on the bed, waiting for Jean, and her words had come back to haunt him.

Specifically, the words she hadn't said kept him up all night. She hadn't told him how she felt about the Iceman, and that bothered him.

And then, closing his eyes as he'd made love to Jean, he saw her face, and had to bite his lip to keep from calling, "Marie," as he reached his climax.

Watching Marie now, as she licks the last of the oatmeal off her spoon, he once again runs through the list of reasons why what he's feeling can't be what he thinks it is.

He sits down next to her, and her eyes sparkle as she smiles.

"Marie," he says, and his voice is hoarse from lack of sleep, and other things he still refuses to name. "How do you feel about him?"

Her brow furrows and then clears as she realizes what he's asking. "I like Bobby," she says, her eyes never leaving his face, searching for his reaction, "but my heart belongs to someone else."

He exhales, not realizing until that moment he's been holding his breath. He squeezes her hand and then rises abruptly, leaving her with a stunned look as he searches the dining room for Jean, trying to reconcile the swell of emotion he feels toward Marie with the comfortable lust he has for his girlfriend.

He finds her sitting with Xavier and Ororo. "We need to talk," he tells her, pulling her from the room.

In the hallway, he takes a deep breath and says, "I'm sorry. My heart belongs to someone else."

She nods, resigned, and he wonders how he's the only one who hadn't seen it before. "I know," she says. "Mine, too."

They reenter the dining room, surprisingly in harmony for a newly broken-up couple, each seeking out the someone else who they now realize was the someone right all along.

End