I guess the one thing he never got was that I wouldn't be honored. Wouldn't be flattered. Wouldn't thank him for the privilege of knowing how he'd degraded everything that was supposed to be us.

He didn't see it that way at first. And I guess that's what made all the difference.

Starting at the beginning. It's the only place to start. Start when he found me, cold and shivering in his trailer.

I knew I couldn't trust him. You don't trust people who hurt other people for money. If they'll do it for money, they'll do it for free--because it's the only kind of life they know. Hurt. Reward. Hurt equals reward.

It becomes a habit. One that you really can't break.

I knew I couldn't trust him, but I did anyway. Because when you're young and the world has beaten you down, you're always ready for that little piece of hope even if you never admit it. Expect the worst--but you never really stop hoping for the best, no matter how bad things get.

Things were bad. But I had that little bit of hope, and he fanned it into life so slowly, so gently. Like he knew how fragile it was and was careful not to overwhelm it. Never let me think he was perfect--but always so close. Chase me down and find me. Save my life. Bleed for me. A slow, stately progression until I truly believed, yes, he was the good thing in my life I'd been waiting for.

That was the beginning. And it was beautiful.

He left and yet he didn't leave, because no matter how far he wandered there was always something of him left--if only because he called to check up on me--and Jean, her face full of conspiratorial mischief, passed on every conversation in loving detail.

Jean, the sister I'd never known I wanted, the mother I'd never known I'd need. The only person in the school other than Xavier himself who knew what it was like to be victim to voices that wanted to own little pieces of your soul. Long nights together in the lab, Jean telling me to concentrate a little harder, breathe a little deeper--she's the reason I kept my sanity.

And I'm the reason she kept hers, when Scott sacrificed himself on a mission to keep her alive. It rocked the school, his death. Rocked it on it's foundations and left us all so shaken up that we couldn't quite get over it. Xavier died a little inside, and that left Jean and Storm to be that much stronger at a time when neither could afford it.

Jean was so fragile. So very, very fragile and I had decided long before Logan came home that if he was the one who could put her back together, I didn't care. Wouldn't care. Wouldn't let him choose me.

My first mistake. Thinking I could make choices. Thinking that I could make /his/ choices, and that for some reason he'd abide by them as if I had the right to decide the course of his life.

I might have encouraged her, a little. Swallowed pain, swallowed pride too--and encouraged her. After all, I'd had him in my head. I knew the interest was there. I thought it would still be there--strong, growing, alive. I thought they had a chance.

I did. In the aftermath, a lot of things got hurled at me that I didn't really deserve. I never did this to prove I was better. To prove I was more loved. I didn't want Jean's pain--I didn't want her broken heart.

I just wanted her happiness.

Funny how little things like that get lost in the translation.

---

I was twenty-two and he was living in the mansion pretty much full time when it happened. Almost a year after Scott's death, and Jean was still trying to be strong on the outside but was so broken up inside that you could almost see the broken starting to seep through again.

I'm not sure how it happened. I'd been steering clear of the two of them, because I'd seen the cracks in Jean's shields . . . and I'd seen how Logan seemed to fill the cracks without even trying. He was the strong that was missing from her life. He was the compass that pointed inevitably north, like Scott always had.

She needed him, and I didn't want to be the reason Jean didn't get what she needed.

Jean asked me once--asked me if I loved him. We'd taken a bottle of wine to the roof and it was just enough to loosen the tongues enough to say the things too personal to share.

I make it a practice never to lie to telepaths.

I told her I loved him.

But then I told her the little lie.

"But not like that."

---

I knew the moment he went to her.

I'd like to say I felt it--that it was something deep inside me breaking, or healing . . .

The sound of her headboard crashing against the wall we shared wasn't subtle. Nor were the growls that couldn't have belonged to anyone but him.

I slipped from the room quietly, softly, not wanting to hear the sounds of my heart breaking in two. On late night television I found a channel showing old movies. . . and I could almost pretend at four in the morning that my tears were for Scarlet O'Hara, and not for myself.

I cherished the pain as I clutched it against my chest. It wasn't clean--it was jagged, the hurt mixed up with sharp razor points of satisfaction that I'd done the right thing. The noble thing.

I had never empathized more fully with Scott before. He'd given his life for Jean, I'd given my happiness.

But she was worth it. I watched the sunlight creep across the floor towards me, and I knew that Jean was worth my pain.

You see, I loved her, too.

Something else that got lost in the translation.

---

Jean was happy, so happy that she didn't realize that everyone was starring at me, watching to see if I'd fall apart in front of their eyes. My love for Logan was no secret--everyone knew.

Everyone watched, and the watching was worse than the broken heart, because I had to work twice as hard to hide inside myself. And I hated it.

But Jean smiled at dinner, and the little bits of broken that had been seeping through were gone--because Logan did what he was so good at, and protected what was his.

We would have gone on like that--would have gone on forever with Logan keeping Jean together and me getting over it day by day--because heartbreak is never so bad that you can't get over it just a little.

I thought I was doing well, and maybe I was. Maybe I was doing too well. Because Bobby, sweet, caring Bobby who had always loved me just a little--

He did what I had done. He threw aside his own feelings and fought to give the person he loved what they needed.

He confronted Logan.

For breaking my heart.

---

Logan came to me that night, shirtless and disheveled and for a moment I thought he'd come to me from Jean's bed, but he didn't smell of sex, just of sweat and frustration.

"Bobby said that you love me."

It was hardly subtle, but with Logan standing not a foot from me, nearly vibrating from some withheld emotion, it was hard to fault him. He looked like he was about to fall apart.

A split second to decide--lies or truth. Lies or truth.

Lies.

Truth.

I couldn't tell the difference anymore.

But my time was up. "You've always known that, Logan."

"But you _love_ me," he repeated, taking a step forward, and he looked like he was ready to jump on me.

"And you love Jean." It seemed important to get that out, to remind him before he forgot. Remind him if the woman on the other side of the wall, the one who loved him. The one who was only living again because he was making her feel like it might be possible.

"I want you, Marie." His voice was low and heated, and I couldn't help the thrill that went up my spine. God, how I'd wanted to hear those words. I'd wanted to see him, standing over me, trembling.

But when he took a step closer I shook my head and showed him my bare hands. "Not safe."

"Damn it, girl." He stared down at me, and despite his protestations of love, he looked furious. "I'm in your damn head. You got everything else--I'd think you would have realized that I want you." Another step, and he said the words that I didn't expect, because I never thought he'd actually say them. "I love you, Marie. God damn it, I love you."

And for one blissful moment--I was almost ready to forget about anything. Forget about the woman on the other side of the wall, forget about deadly skin and confusion and the fact that this man could be my father--my grandfather--hell, my great-grandfather, for all that I knew.

Then he spoke the words--the only words that could break the spell.

"I pretended she was you, Marie."

---

I guess the one thing he never got was that I wouldn't be honored. Wouldn't be flattered. Wouldn't thank him for the privilege of knowing how he'd degraded everything that was supposed to be us.

He left the mansion that night, after I turned my back on him and refused to talk to him.

Jean crept into my room in the early morning, laying on her side and facing my back. "The walls are thin." It was half admission to eavesdropping--half apology. I don't know if she was apologizing for the eavesdropping--or for the many nights of sex I was forced to live through.

"I'm sorry, Jean." My voice was thick with tears--because now I'd given up the man I loved twice, once for a better cause, and once for nothing but pride.

"Rogue, you loved him." Her voice was shaking, on the edge of tears. "And he loved you. Why did you give that up for me? Why did you lie?"

It was a question I'd be asked a lot in the next few days, and no one would be as kind about it as Jean was being. "Because I love you too, Jean. And you've been here for me--been here more than he ever has."

"I had true love once." I wasn't even sure she was talking to me anymore. "Logan wasn't true love. He was . . . warm. And strong. And I could pretend for a few moments that I hadn't left my heart and my ability to love in the grave with Scott." I heard her shift, and her hand was on my shoulder. "But it was just pretend, Rogue. It wasn't real. Not like what you have--"

"I don't have anything, Jean." And my voice is firm. "I don't have anything at all."

Jean gave me a careful hug, and when she crept back to her own room I rolled over and stared at the ceiling until dawn.

I knew I'd have a lot to face the next day.

---

People asked me why I'd played a game with Jean.

I denied it.

People asked me why I'd wanted to prove I was better.

I hadn't.

People asked me what my motivation had been.

I told them that I'd loved Jean.

I did. In the aftermath, a lot of things got hurled at me that I didn't really deserve. I never did this to prove I was better. To prove I was more loved. I didn't want Jean's pain--I didn't want her broken heart.

I just wanted her happiness.

Funny how little things like that get lost in the translation.