. Epilogue.
(Saturday, 1:43 p.m.)
“You’re leaving?”
Storm was leaning in the doorway, a rather hard look on her face. Remy looked back over his shoulder at her, his face twisted into a bitter grimace. Nevertheless he hid the expression, turning away as he picked up a fresh pack of cards and slid them into his pocket.
“T’ought you were Rogue,” he muttered dismally. He had thought that she would come and say goodbye to him, however awkwardly it turned out to be – though truthfully he didn’t know why he was feeling so peculiar about it. Something felt important and undone. He’d woken up that morning feeling groggy and out of sorts, with the vague recollection of having dreamt of her, but with no real memory of what it was he had dreamt. For some reason, the whole thing troubled him.
“Rogue’s having her treatment with Sage,” Storm replied, her tone cutting. “I thought you would know that.”
“How de fuck should I know?” he shrugged irritably. “I ain’t even spoken to de girl since yesterday mornin’.”
“You should at least say goodbye to her.” Ororo’s eyes were cold, but her mouth seemed to convey to him her underlying sadness. He gazed at her lips for several moments, considering.
“Better I didn’t, Stormy,” he answered at last, quietly. “If she finds out I’m goin’ she’ll just get upset an’ make a big scene. You know she don’t want me to leave.”
“She’s not the only one,” Ororo replied, the hardness in her voice suddenly breaking.
“I ain’t gonna argue wit’ you, ‘Ro,” he answered softly. “Time comes when you gotta move on. I’ll be back soon enough. Rogue probably knows dat too.”
“What goes around, comes around, right?” The smile on her lips was wry.
“Right,” he grinned in reply.
“Why, Remy?” she asked quietly. “Why are you doing this?”
“Simple, ‘Ro,” he answered, shouldering his bag and crossing the room to stand before her. “Whatever Rogue’s so scared of, it ain’t gonna be sorted if we sit round here doin’ nothin’. An’ you know it’s not like me to leave everyt’in’ as is. I’m gonna tackled Sinister head on. You know dat’s my way, chere. I’ll go crazy otherwise.”
“That, and you’d rather be as far away from Rogue as you can be right now,” Storm put in dryly, her glance knowing.
“Heh. I shoulda known I’d never be able to let anyt’ing slip past you, chere.” His eyes softened. “You know, Stormy, every time I get to one of dese ‘leave-de-mansion’ points, I always t’ink how much I’m gonna miss you…”
“And I you, Gambit.” She smiled. It didn’t matter how much she did it, her mouth kept on giving her away. Gently he stooped forwards and kissed all her sorrow away.
“Tell me something, ‘Ro,” he began after they had pulled apart. “Is Rogue crazy for breakin’ it off b’tween us?”
Storm’s blue eyes were as tender as cornflowers, but her tone was delicate, resigned.
“She loves you,” she answered softly. “She just doesn’t want to hurt you, Remy.”
“I know,” he sighed. “Wit’ her it’s all or nothin’. Wit’ me, I count my blessings an’ run. She’s de best t’ing I got, ‘Ro. She should’ve known dat deep down, touch don't mean a t’ing b’tween me an’ her.”
“She’s a fool if she doesn’t know that,” Storm murmured, tugging the lapels of his coat back into place affectionately. He smiled, bending to kiss her again before sighing and turning to the doorway.
“Is there anything I should tell her?” she asked, once he had gone out into the corridor.
He turned.
“Tell her…” Of all the things he could say, with each second one died on his lips before he could speak. Five seconds wasted, and he still didn’t know what to say. “Tell her…I won’t be long.”
He looked back and smiled that same old smile; the next moment he was gone.
(1:57 p.m.)
Rogue stood by the window, wondering why she had lied about being with Sage, and all the while knowing the reason why. Knowing because she was standing by the window, with her ungloved hand on the pane, watching him leave because she knew he was going to leave and she knew where he was going.
Because Destiny was inside her, screaming at her not to go down there and stop him.
“He shouldn’t go there,” she whispered to herself. “Ah shouldn’t let him go.”
“You can’t help it,” she answered to herself. “It’s the way things have to be, and you know it.”
She shuddered, the sobs convulsing through her. Five fingers on the windowpane slid downward to rest at her side.
Later, he would turn back once, only to see the imprint of her hand etched onto the glass like a frosted five-petal flower.
*
touch (tuch) n. 1. The act or instance of
touching. 2. The physiological sense by which external objects or forces are
perceived through contact with the body.
3. The state of being in
contact with a person or people, or a specified or unspecified reality:
‘getting out of touch’.
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