24 Hours

. I .

            More than three years had passed since the Destiny saga.

            Since Rogue had left the X-Men, the group had slowly undergone more changes, with many of its team members also packing up and leaving for destinations unknown.  Piotr and Kitty had set up home together in Chicago, while Jubilee had left to study engineering in college.  After the unfortunate death of Lorna Dane, Iceman too had left to go his own separate way.  Hank had taken up a teaching post at the Massachusetts academy.  Nightcrawler had gone to take up a parish in Germany.  Of the core team’s original members based at the Westchester Mansion, only Cyclops, Phoenix, Storm and an ever-transient Logan were left.  Times had changed.  The X-Men were no longer considered outlaws, but heroes.  The mutant ‘problem’, while still far from being resolved, was now being discussed without the inflammatory rhetoric of the anti-mutant lobbyists.  While anti-mutant sentiment was still generally felt on a widespread scale, it was no longer as vehement.  The X-Men no longer needed to fight the battles they had once been so accustomed to.

            Remy himself had left the X-Men not long after Rogue had.  There had been little reason for him to stay after her departure – but he had remained for a while to pick up the various shattered pieces Destiny had left amongst the teams, as well as out of a lingering sense of loyalty.  Soon afterward, there had been a general consensus that Rogue’s decision to leave and start a new life had been an astute one.  Lives had been changed – the call of duty no longer seemed to apply.  True to his nature, Remy had been the first to lead the mass exodus from the X-Men.  The Professor had not tried to stop those who wanted to go from going.  He had even expected it.  He had quietly thanked Remy for staying behind to sort things out after the crisis, and had simply wished him the best of luck in his future endeavours.  Of course, the Professor had always known of Remy’s wayward nature, and that he had stayed in the mansion under great sufferance since Rogue was no longer there.  Besides, Remy had nothing left to offer the X-Men.  He had other things to do with his life – what they were exactly he wasn’t sure; but he figured it was time he found out.

            There was only one thing he was really going to miss about leaving, and that was Ororo.  For the longest time she was the only one who he had considered a true friend amongst the X-Men.  While their relationship had never been especially deep, there had always been a bond, an affinity between them that had remained intact despite all the various troubles over the years.  Sometimes, Remy pondered, it was easier to tell a real friend from a false one when you didn’t have to say anything and they would understand you.  That was the bond he shared with Ororo.  And that was why neither of them had been too worried that they might not see each other again for a considerable while.  Both were secure in the knowledge that when their paths did cross again, the old friendship would still remain.

            And so Remy had left, heading back for New Orleans.  With him had come Belladonna, who had also decided to leave the X-Men – feeling, no doubt, that her tenuous ties there had always rested with Remy anyway.  Together they set to work unifying the Thieves and Assassins Guilds – Bel taking most of the administrative work, Remy the official mantel of Guild leader.  The idea of it had never entirely appealed to him before, but he decided it was time for him to take up what was rightfully his and make some sort of bash at it.  Strangely – once he’d got past the certain animosities towards him from both the Thieves and the Assassins quarters – he found he’d actually liked it.  It was certainly a different world from the erratic, risky one he’d always lived in, the thief’s life on the edge.  But, after his ordeal at the hands of Destiny, he found that it was what he needed – some sort of stability, something to work for, something to care about.  It was certainly something he had found difficulty getting used to at first, and without Bel’s partnership he certainly would have floundered, but somehow he coped and managed to make good.

            As for Bel herself, he could not have asked for what he might previously have called a better ‘partner in crime’.  Once the previous hostility that their split had conjured up had been passed, they managed to get along like a house on fire.  Remy knew that Bel still secretly haboured strong feelings for him and that her hope was that someday they might get back together again.  Remy himself had actually entertained the idea on several occasions only to finally decide against it.  While he still cared deeply for Bel, his heart was simply no longer in any form of commitment, much less marriage; and besides, he told himself, his heart already belonged to someone else – a sad state of affairs for a former thief of hearts.

            That of course, didn’t stop him from having short-lived affairs of his own, much to Belladonna’s chagrin.

            It was one thing for Remy to keep up his boyish philandering; it was another entirely for him to attend to Guild business.  Usually Remy had no problems attending to both at the same time – it was, he always insisted, a talent born from his natural flare for style.  How he managed to win women’s hearts while attempting to get himself out of precarious situations had always been instinctive to him and yet at the same time rather beyond him.  He’d always avoided questioning it for fear that one day he might lose his charm.  Today though, the ability to mix pleasure with business seemed to have eluded him.  It was, to say the least, rather distressing to him.

            He had been in London two days, on what he had always liked to call ‘fam’ly business’ during his days with the X-Men.  One night, and he’d wrapped everything up rather nicely but also rather abruptly.  The ‘trouble’ he’d been expecting hadn’t turned out to be a trouble after all, and so he was left with a full day doing nothing before he had to catch his flight back to the US the following afternoon.  He had been unable to sleep the night before.  Early in the morning he’d left his hotel room, dressed in a casual suit yet still unshaved and bleary eyed, to wander about the city, have some coffee and read a newspaper.  He’d ended up going on a cafe-crawl, finding that he’d needed more caffeine than he’d previously thought, and realising that he was in dire need of some cheering up.  His surroundings weren’t exactly helping.  It wasn’t that London was an ugly place – on the contrary it was quite the opposite.  There was something about it though, that made him feel nostalgic.  The old, ostentatious grey buildings, the relatively narrow, winding streets, the pokey little alleyways and the quaint little parks.  One could get lost in this city, lost in maze of roads and antiquated architecture and never know where one was, nor even care.  And though there was something romantic and compelling about the whole idea, it was not something that Remy needed at the present moment in time.

            He had decided to plug himself firmly into the cosmopolitan core of the city, finding a small park to find refuge in, sitting down on a bench that faced the fountain in the square’s center.  It was an odd place, an encapsulated world of its own, noisy, surrounded by the bustling streets of Central London, yet at the same time strangely divorced from it.  In the center pigeons were happily taking a morning bath in the fountain; a line of ducks were waddling across a patch of grass towards God knew where.  In the corner was a cafe – a large migration of dark suited commuters were making their way there to grab their morning coffee before heading on to work.  Remy had sat there watching them idly, the faces coming and going, nameless, mindless, each one indistinguishable from the last.  He didn’t know why he was feeling this way.  It was a form of displacement, and that he wasn’t following this herd made him feel even more alienated.  Still, he was content to watch them, while he chewed on a cigarette and considered the previous evening’s events.  Even better, the fact that this time tomorrow he’d be preparing to leave the damned place for home.  Spring in New Orleans was temperate.  Spring in London was bloody freezing.

            He was just considering getting up and catching a cab back to his hotel room for warmth, that something caught his eye.  Amidst the flock of faceless commuters was a single person walking against the tide.  It was like watching a fish swimming against a current, and he sat for a moment, oddly entranced and not even knowing why.  It was a woman, walking with such a free easiness and against such adversity that at once he felt drawn to and envious of her.  It was only as she walked past him, and the crowd parted for that one split second that he saw the streak of white in her long flowing hair.  At once he was on his feet, his heart racing at an impossibly wild pace – but already she was lost again amongst the throng.

            For a moment he stood there, reasoning with himself, telling himself that it could have been any old girl with any old white streak in her hair.  But it was a futile battle, because, without a shred of doubt, he somehow knew it was her.  He now realised that every single movement she had made had belonged to her, and had been displayed there as though just for him – her gait as she walked, the tilt of her head, even the way her hair had flowed behind her, he had all been able to read them like some secret prearranged message.

            Suddenly breathless he plunged into the crowd after her, desperation welling in him, fighting against the tide, unable to catch sight of her again.  Stopping he searched again, scanning the crowds intently before that glimpse of white amongst brown shown out like a beacon to him.  This time he didn’t waste a moment, hurrying through the myriad conspiracy of heads and bodies and elbows towards that single streak of white.  And suddenly he was behind her, a blaze of red and brown and orange amongst the blacks and blues and navys, and once more he knew, without a shred of doubt, that it was her.

            “Rogue?”

            He was too far to reach out for her, but not for his suddenly weakened voice to carry.  She paused and turned, and for a moment he thought that it wasn’t her and that he had only been imagining things in his nostalgic state.  But as she finally faced him, all doubt was swept away.  Those same familiar green eyes looked back into his from that same familiar round face – a little older, a little wiser, but still the same.  And he can’t have looked much different too, because the eyes grew wide with recognition, the wind-bitten cheeks grew pink, the soft red lips opened in amazement.

            “Remy?” she spoke, and it was the same familiar voice with that same familiar old Southern accent, tempered only slightly by British tones. “Is that you?”

            He took in a sharp breath, his mind reeling.

            “Mon Dieu, Rogue, it is you.”

            They stared at one another for one split second before she suddenly gave out a cry, the lips widened into a broad smile and she laughed out loud in delight.

            “Mah God, mah God, mah God!” she cried, hardly able to contain her excitement and flinging her arms about him. “Remy LeBeau, Remy!”

            She hugged him fiercely, and he could only contain his wits just in time to return the embrace.  She called his name a few more times, deliriously almost, as though this were a dream she could not quite wake up from; then she let go of him, stepping back to take him in, her smile so big he didn’t even know how it could fit on her face.

            “Well, of all the places to meet up!” she cried breathlessly. “What in tarnation are you doin’ here?”

            “I was gonna ask de same t’ing of you,” he spoke, equally bemused, looking her over once or twice.  He realised now why it had been so easy to spot her out – dressed as she was, she had stood out from the businessmen and women like a sore (but very beautiful, he mentally added) thumb.  Her ensemble was more bohemian than he remembered it – flared red pants, an orange crop top, and only a thick, long crimson cardigan and a soft brown scarf to ward off the cold.  He hadn’t remembered since when she’d been into knitwear, but then again, who knew what kind of British fashions might be rubbing off onto her nowadays?

            “You look…great,” he added instinctively, despite the fortuitous and unexpected manner of their meeting.  She laughed.  God, how he’d missed that laugh – and that smile.

            “You never change,” she commented slyly.

            “What, dis cajun?  Change his spots?  You know me better, chere.” He grinned.

            “Good enough to know when not to fall for that smile, sugah.” She grinned back.

            Here we go, he thought wryly, two minutes into meetin’ each other again an’ we’re already flirtin’ like there be no tomorrow.

            “So what’re you doin’ here,” he asked, feeling he should make normal conversation. “I mean, s’been, what, three years since…”

            “Three years and two months,” she interjected, a little too quickly.  He caught the minutest of blushes on her cheeks. “Ah’m studyin’ at Birkbeck College.  Doin’ a degree in Psychology.  Ah’d always been kinda interested in it, an’ well…after everythin’…” She paused, a little uncertain of what to say, “…Ah figured maybe ah’d be good at it.”

            “Came to England to study Psychology?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

            She bit her lip, looking down at her feet. “Ah needed a change in scene.  Ah’d heard London was a pretty cool place. An’ ah’m not just talkin’ ‘bout the weather,” she joked, a little awkwardly. “Coulda gone to Paris, but well…Ah guess ah kinda preferred to speak my own native language.”

            “I see,” he nodded. “An’ how’s it goin’?  The degree I mean?”

            “Great,” she smiled. “This is mah last year.  Hopefully ah graduate in the summer.”

            “Cool.”

            “Yeah.”

            There was a silence.  Remy fumbled desperately for something to say.  They had been apart for too long.  Now he felt the palpable gulf between them, the awkwardness that time and distance had put between them.  Upon first meeting her, the sparks had flown both ways.  And now…Now he was left feeling strangely cold, apprehensive, even.  Why was it always so easy for them to flirt but never to get down to talking about real things? 

            “So,” he began again, after a short moment. “You goin’ to class?”

            “Nah,” she shook her head. “I don’t start for another two hours or so.  Ah was gonna meet a friend for breakfast.”

            “Oh.”

            “But hey!  If you’re hangin’ round, then we should definitely meet up sometime.  How does that sound?”

            “I’m leavin’ tomorrow.”

            “Oh. Well…How ‘bout ah cancel breakfast with mah friend and we can have a coffee together?”

            Coffee?  If he had another coffee he’d probably die.  He was wired enough as it was.

            “I’d love to, chere,” he answered quickly, before he had time to think about it. “But your friend…?”

            She made a brushing off motion with one hand, reaching into her bag for her cellphone with the other. “Don’t worry, he won’t mind.  Ah mean, ah get t’ see him practic’ly every day, and when was the last time I saw you?”

            She dialled a number quickly on her phone, while Remy chewed on this new bit of information, unable to stop himself from feeling jealous even though he knew it was irrational.  So what if she had a male friend?  So what if she was having breakfast with him?  It was a free country, right?  And besides, the two of them hadn’t been together for over three years.  Still, he couldn’t help but feel envious when he heard her talk to her friend with such casual familiarity.

            “Pete?  Hey, sugah!  Yeah, ah’m fine.  Yeah, the tube was hell, but ah made it.  Huh, Don't ah know it…Hey lissen.  D’ you mind if we pass on the breakfast this mornin’?  See, I met an old friend from the States, haven’t seen him for three years an’ he’s leavin’ tomorrow so…Is that okay?  Sure?  Okay, thanks Pete, ah owe you one.  Yeah, ah know, only kiddin’.  Okay, see you soon then.  Take care.  Bye!”

            She switched off the phone, beaming up at him.

            “Sorted!”

            “Pete?” he repeated darkly.

            “Classmate,” she explained, before smiling coyly at him. “Remy LeBeau, are you jealous?”

            “Wit’ you, belle, who wouldn’t be?” he answered innocently.

            “Ah’m flattered,” she smiled, linking her arm in his and leading him away at a slow pace. “But ah’m also footloose an’ fancy free at the moment, so you don’t need to worry.”

            “Who says I’m worryin’, chere?” he played along, but inwardly frowning.

            “Every part of you but your own mouth, sugah,” she replied playfully, but there was an undercurrent to her voice. “An’ by the way,” she lowered her voice conspiratorially. “Do you still go by the codename Gambit?”

            “On the odd occasion,” he replied with mock seriousness. “An’ do you still go by de codename Rogue in dese backwater parts?”

            She laughed. “My name round here is Anna,” she answered. “No one here knows ah was ever the Rogue.  Can you imagine the butterflies ah got when ah heard you call me by that name?  That was some blast from the past y’ gave me there, cajun.  Ah thought it was the cops or somethin’.”

            “I still give you butterflies, chere?” he asked smoothly, gazing at her and raising an eyebrow suggestively. She retaliated by elbowing him playfully in the side.

            “Ah’ll give you butterflies, mistah,” she levelled at him.

            “Not a problem, chere,” he muttered under his breath, rubbing his side comically. “Y’ still do.”

*

            She led him to some quiet cafe in some unknown back street, all the while chatting to him with the easy confidence of a woman who had found her place in the world and saw no reason to deviate from the path she had laid out for herself.  He was content to listen to her for most of the time, amused as well as comforted by the familiar huskiness of that voice he knew so well, softened ever so slightly by the more moderate English tones.  She spoke with an exuberance that he almost envied – he felt almost embarrassed to admit that while she had been seeing and doing things she had always dreamed of, he’d somehow come to be stuck in what he considered a very deep rut.

            “So, you never answered me,” she spoke up, once she’d settled down to a cup of coffee and he, wisely, to a simple glass of orange juice. “What’re you doin’ over here?”

            “Fam’ly business, chere,” he replied, checking for a no-smoking sign before lighting up. “You know how it goes.”

            “Still with the Guild then, ah take it” she mused, staring at him. “Ain’t you given that up by now?”

            It took him a moment to realise she was talking about the smoking.

            “Ah, non.  One day, perhaps.”

            “That’s what you always said,” she remarked archly.

            “I’m ‘fraid dis fool ain’t changed much,” he admitted in a blase tone, nevertheless feeling a little embarrassed by the admission.

            “Ah can see that.” The corner of her mouth twisted into a smile.

            “You, on the other hand…”

            “Ah’d be lyin’ if ah said ah hadn’t,” she shrugged, her tone airy; but it was not hard for him to catch the deeper, edgy note to her voice.  Rapidly she changed the subject. “So if you’re on ‘business’, how comes ah find you sittin’ in Russell Square all by your lonesome?”

            “I wrapped up earlier den expected,” he replied, exhaling smoke a little absently from his mouth. “Decided to take an early mornin’ wander round, y’know, see de sights.”

            “Oh yeah?  What’d you see?”

            “Hm,” He frowned momentarily. “Not much.  I got lost.”

            She chuckled. “Ah hear that.  London’s all curves and nooks and crannies.  Easy to get lost, unless you know your way round.”

            “Sounds like a woman,” he remarked, unable to help himself, and not really regretting that he had said it.

            “Thought you’d be used to it, what with N’awlins an’ all,” she replied smoothly, and he wasn’t sure whether she was talking about the women or the streets.

            “T’ank God for de grid system,” he answered, thinking it was safer to pursue that trail of conversation.

            “Ah dunno,” she smiled. “It’s kinda nice sometimes.  You can start somewhere an’ explore a bit, an’ end up finding yourself somewhere you never thought you’d end up.  Somewhere fun.  Somewhere…exciting.”

            He stared at her, wondering in some consternation whether she was making innuendoes at him or not.  For the first time he found it difficult to read her.

            “Such as…?”

            It was a moment before she answered, during which she gazed at him as innocuously as she could. “Like for instance…The karaoke!” She grinned.

            “You haven’t!” he exclaimed.

            “Ah have!” Her eyes sparkled. “Ah know you won’t believe me, but it’s actually fun.  The woman in the flat next to me, she’s Japanese.  Took me there once, kickin’ an’ screamin’.  But ah liked it.  An’,” she winked at him, “ah can actually sing.”

            “Now dat’s somethin’ I gotta hear,” he commented slyly.

            “Well, why not?” she paused, thinking for a moment. “Hey!  Ah got a great idea!  Since you got lost an’ all, why don’t ah take you round for a tour?  Ah know all the good places t’ see round here.  The British Museum’s just round the corner, y’know.”

            “Museum?” he repeated sarcastically. “Unless dey got somethin’ I can be stealin’, dis t’iefs not never been interested in lookin’ at antiques.”

            “Not even the Greek statues?” she asked in mock surprise.

            “I prefer my women live and walkin’ t’anks very much.”

            “Well this woman is.  Ain’t that enough for yah?” She didn’t give him the chance to answer. “C’mon Remy, it’ll be fun.  You can’t come here an’ not see the sights!”

            “What about school?”

            She waved a hand dismissively. “Sod school.  Ah haven’t seen you in years, Remy!  Y’ think one day of classes matters to me?  Ah wanna know ‘bout everythin’ that’s happened to you since ah saw you last!”

            “Rogue, you are trés, trés touchin’, chere,” he replied comically, placing a hand over his heart. “Who else but you would give dis cajun de time of day?”

            “Call me naive,” she joked, bringing her cup to her lips. “Maybe – just maybe – one day ah’ll learn that you really are the low-life swamp snake ah always knew you were.”

            “Not before I get to hear you croon t’ me, I hope,” he answered, lifting up his own glass and winking.

*

            She took him to so many places that in the end he had no conception of where he actually was in the city.  Museums, bars, cafes, shops, galleries, historical sites; Big Ben, Trafalgar Square, lunch in Hyde Park, Buckingham Palace – she took him to them all; not to mention the karaoke.  She wove in and out of streets like a snake, on and off of subways like a circus monkey, and with all the enthusiasm of one at that.  By the time afternoon had come, he had got the distinct impression that she was showing off and was enjoying things far more than he was himself.  He didn’t say anything though – for one thing he felt it his duty to see the sites; for another, it pleased him to see her in her element.  Most of the time he was far more interested in watching her rather than the city, and after a while it didn’t even occur to him to feel guilty about it.  She was so much more outgoing, so much more bright-eyed, so much more involved in everyone and everything about her.  It was a change he found refreshing as well as oddly disconcerting.  Rogue had never lacked confidence; but she had always lacked certainty in standing on her own two feet in a world that she had never truly felt welcome in.  Now, with her powers under control and finally able to acquaint herself with the outside world, she had blossomed from the fragile bloom of a personality that she had always been into some big, sunny flower.  He wondered, fleetingly, whether he had been worthy of such changes himself.

            It was pushing on evening by the time Rogue had decided to call it a day.  Remy’s exhaustion had not been lost on her, but she had driven him as hard as she had dared, knowing that he would let her get away with it.  Remy had insisted on going back to his hotel room, but she would have none of it, accusing him of attempting to avoid her company even after all this time.  That had not entirely been his intention.  Since they had parted three years before, he had not wanted to impinge on her own private life, assuming that if he stayed overly long in her company she might take offence and think he was taking advantage of her.  They’d spent most of the day so far casually flirting, which under normal circumstances would have been fine, if not for the fact that most of their ‘friendship’ had been spent flirting, fencing, making a go at relationships, only for them usually to explode disastrously in their faces.  The flirting almost always led to one thing; and that was the inherent danger that they would both get embroiled in some chaotic – if passionate – attempt to work things out.  And right now, considering the circumstances, he was pretty sure it was something neither of them needed.  What they wanted though, was a different matter, and as always, tantalisingly ambiguous.

            As it turned out, despite all his misgivings, Remy had found himself taking a bus back to Rogue’s apartment.  It would, he concluded, have been rude for him to leave her after they had only just met and with so little time to spare.  But, he warned himself as well as her, he’d need to get back early that night to pack away his things.  A lie, since he’d always travelled lightly, especially when on ‘business’; and an empty lie at that, because he also knew that she also knew that he travelled light.  By that time though, both of them knew that they were both playing dangerously close to the edge.  But what could one do, when the etiquette of friendship demanded one thing from them and that of romance demanded another?  First and foremost, Remy said to himself, we’re friends, not ex-lovers.  And so he’d decided there was no harm in hanging out together, just as long as they knew when to cut things short.

*

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