. II .
The boathouse was dark, cold, musty. Perhaps, Remy thought, he had been the last one to come here, the last one ever to be contained in its modest comfort. With her.
He gazed down on the bed, linens unchanged from the moment they had been there last. He thought that perhaps, if he dared to lie upon it and bury himself against the soft, old mattress, he might still be able to smell the scent of her on those sheets where they had spent their first night together. He tried to recall it. Tried to recall how it had felt, in every minute detail, every sensation, every tender word that had been spoken. Here, in that semi-darkness, and the grey dankness of the room, it flooded back into sharp clarity with an ease that left him breathless. Here good, precious moments never to be relived had occurred. Moments he could cherish in this time of pain – only they served to pour more salt upon his gaping wounds. Another thing he had lost. That was all this was.
“Remy?”
She had come up on him unawares, and he swivelled to see her, standing there uncertainly in the doorway.
“Rogue.”
She had changed, though only minutely. Her hair had been left to grow longer in their time apart, the once heavily styled hair now hanging loose and long over her shoulders. Her stance was more open, more confident somehow. The inherent fear and shame and sadness had gone out of her eyes. Her hands were gloveless. He felt it again. That cord of warmth somewhere in his heart, surging through the crack that now marred it. He only had to look at her, and something once missing started to work itself back into him. Would it be a weakness, to accept it? Would it be folly?
“It holds a lotta mem’ries, doesn’t it?” she began, stepping inside the room, looking around, eyes bright with nostalgia. “Sometimes ah come here – when ah’m feelin’ lonely.”
“Do you?” he asked mildly. It was the only way to mask his sudden disgust
“Uh-huh. Sometimes ah spend the night here, jus’ lie on the bed an’ think…Jus’ ‘cos ah need t’ be alone.” She suddenly coloured, and he knew what she meant. Alone, but not from him, or her memories of him. Alone only from the world outside, when the memories would creep up on her, and hunt her to edges of remorse. He said nothing. How could be admit he had suffered the same thing?
“Ah’m sorry,” she began again, looking up at him once more. “About Sinister. About…everythin’. If…there’s anythin’ ah can do…”
“No,” he stopped her firmly, almost harshly. She halted, gulping. Suddenly she was closer, and had lifted an ungloved hand to rest on his arm.
“Ah…ah got control of mah powers, Remy. An’ afterwards ah tried t’ contact you, t’ find you. But no one knew where you were. Ah thought…” Her voice wavered, just a little. “…That ah’d never see you again.”
He felt it; and it was himself, melting. Why did he still care for her so? What did it matter to him whether she had control over her powers or not? He didn’t want her anymore. Didn’t he?
“I’m…happy for you,” he said at last, stiffly. She looked up at him, her eyes suddenly glistening.
“Remy,” she began quietly. “Remy, ah need t’ tell you. Because ah’m feelin’ so awful inside about it, an’ now that you’re here…Now ah don’t have an excuse to hide it anymore.” She bit her lip before continuing. “Ah still have feelin’s for you, Remy. Ah just…ah just need t’ know whether you still have feelin’s for me too.”
Of course he did. He just didn’t know what those feelings were anymore.
“Rogue…” He said her name, and with it something relented and retreated; but something else fought back – the anger, the bitterness, the terror she had left him to endure. “Yes,” he breathed. “Yes. I do still have feelin’s for you.”
She leaned into him then, into his chest, shuddering, sobbing with relief. But he could not hold her, could not bring himself to draw her to him. Instead confusion took him, confusion and self-reproach. Why admit his feelings to her, when she had treated him cruelly? Why give into what he perceived was the weakness of his heart? Why could he not turn her away, show her the pain she had given him? He did not know why.
All he knew was that he could not bring himself to hold her.
When her tears had lessened she pulled away, looking at him and seeing the turmoil in his eyes.
“Ah’m sorry,” she apologised. “Ah shouldn’t have. You have a reason t’ be angry. Ah ain’t goin’ t’ try t’ force t’ do anythin’, Remy. Ah just want for you t’ forgive me for what ah did t’ you – someday.” She took a few steps backward, reflected a moment. “Jus’ so that y’know…if y’ ever need someone, ah’m here for you. Please don’t leave us, Remy. None o’ us want you to leave. An’ ah don’t want you t’ leave either.”
She turned, leaving like a ghost in night, leaving him to stand and stare after her.
And suddenly he knew.
Despite the rage, despite the bitterness, despite everything – he still wanted her.
*
Three days later, and he was still there. Not for any particular reason, but rather because a certain amount of apathy had come over him. Monday morning, and he woke up to find Fontanelle standing in the corner of his room, a cigarette clenched between two bony fingers.
“Mon Dieu, Gloria, what de hell are you doin’ in here?” he croaked, shocked into wakefulness.
“Waiting to have a chat, brother dearest.” She stood up from her position leaning against the wall, elegantly blowing a cloud of smoke from between her scarlet lips.
“Chat?” He climbed out of bed, pulling aside the curtains and squinting in the frosty sunlight pouring in from the window. “Isn’t it a bit early?”
“Let’s just say I’m worried about you, Rems,” the older woman replied, stepping aside to let him get to his sparsely-filled drawers.
“Worried?” Remy grunted, pulling on some pants and a sweater. “’Bout what exactly? Or should I even ask?”
“Worried about you and Rogue,” she answered nonchalantly.
He stood up straight and stared levelly at her.
“Me an’ Rogue?”
Fontanelle smiled wryly, stubbed out the cigarette in a nearby ashtray.
“I’ve been dreamscraping you, Remy. Call it a necessary precaution, brought on by the recent disturbing events. You’ve been going through a troubling time recently. And shall we say that your dreams have been rather – er – violent of late?”
Remy felt the colour rise to his cheeks, an embarrassment compounded by the fact that he couldn’t even remember the last time he’d ever blushed. That his sister had been sifting through his dreams was more than just humiliating, all the more because he had a reason to be ashamed. Only the night before last he vaguely remembered dreaming of Rogue. Of loving her, in a way he had done in long, lonely months. Of holding her, only to become infused with the overwhelming need to crush her as he did so. To feel his hurt struggle through her limbs. To hear her cries of longing and terror. To love and to destroy…
He had not finished the dream. He had woken himself up, ended the sickening horror of these new emotions that now flowed through him like poison. Never would he have contemplated acting out such horrifying deeds in his waking life.
“You shouldn’ have done dat, Glor,” he warned in a low voice.
“Don’t be stupid, Remy. What are you going to do – deny that your feelings are real, perhaps even in some way justified? Wallow in self- pity and guilt? Take my advice, little bro. That’s how these sorts of vengeful acts slip from the dream world and into the real one. And your dreams are starting to show a very worrying and recurring pattern. They will only increase with time – if you allow your wounds to fester.”
“Your concern is trés touchin’, Glor,” he said sarcastically, glowering.
“Grow up, Remy,” she replied, lighting up another cigarette. “Accept your feelings for what they are, don’t hide them. You love Rogue. You want to end up losing her, or worse?”
He would have denied everything, but there was little point. She already knew the truth. He loved Rogue. Still did, even after everything and all this time. It had only gone cold, frozen by his feelings of betrayal and hurt. He could restore it, if he so wanted. He just didn’t know if he did.
“Den what do you suggest?” he asked, relenting.
“Spend some time together with the girl,” she shrugged. “Work things through with her. The longer you spend apart, the more your anger will consume you. Talk to her about it. Be with her.”
“Glor, d’ you how hard dat’ll be for me?” he frowned. “She sent me packin’ an’ now I got to spend time wit’ her? Alone? How d’you t’ink dat’s gonna make me look? Desperate? She deserves to be alone.”
Fontanelle sighed theatrically.
“This is the kind of thinking that’s going to eat you up, Rems,” she told him archly. “She did this, she did that…Na na na na na, yadda yadda yadda. If you let it get any worse, you and her – you’re going to be beyond anyone’s help.” She went to the door opened it, pausing only to turn back to him thoughtfully. “Talk to her, Remy. The revenge you want won’t only destroy her. It’ll destroy you as well. For God’s sake just talk to her. If not for her, then for yourself.”
*
The question was not whether she deserved to be alone. In actuality, half the dilemma lay within the idea that it was he who deserved to be alone.
That was what Remy thought as he and Rogue sat next to one another, in the dark, on a lonely green patch of grass, looking out into the night sky only because they could think of nothing to say to one another. Remy – for whatever reason he now could not fathom – had decided to take Fontanelle’s advice and spend some time with Rogue. There had been the usual question of where to go and what to do. The niceties of dinner had hardly seemed appropriate. Neither had a comfortable, leisurely stroll around the park. In the end Rogue had flown them over a beauty spot just outside Salem Center – a hill, looking out over the town, surrounded by undulating green land, trees and shrubbery. A place where he knew, from the pensive look on her face now, that she often came to think, to calm herself, to hide away from the madness that had so often plagued her life. But to him, it was simply cold. He hated it. He hated long stretches of snow almost as much as he hated long stretches of silence. He hated himself for being unable to break either.
“Thanks,” she suddenly spoke, breaking the quiet for him and interrupting his train of thought. “Y’know…For takin’ me out.”
It was practically the first words either of them had spoken since they had got here. The awkwardness lay palpable between them. She did not even look at him as she spoke.
“S’okay,” he said at last.
She shifted uneasily – perhaps she had expected he would have said more. There was nothing he could say to dispel the cold numbness. Not for the first time he wondered why he had come here.
“Ah guess…we should talk about things,” she continued quietly, twining a lock of her chestnut hair round a forefinger.
“Yeah,” he answered. He wanted to say more. He just couldn’t.
“Then…Ah’m sorry, Remy. For the way ah ended things b’tween us. Ah just didn't know how ah could handle the both of us while at the same time havin’ t’ deal with mah powers. After everythin’…Ah was afraid of hurtin’ you.”
“Rogue,” he interrupted her quickly, “We’ve been through this before…”
“No,” she said urgently, turning to face him. “Ah ain’t finished yet. Ah was so afraid, Remy. Afraid that, after how close we got an’ everythin’, you’d never be content with lovin’ me but not bein’ able t’ touch me. Ah was scared that you’d end up resentin’ the fact that ah couldn’t give you what you wanted anymore. That you’d leave me…Maybe for someone else.”
He gritted his teeth at her words, a jumble of emotions churning up wildly within him. Why, he thought? Why does she tell me this after everything, after all these months? He didn't want to hear it. Didn’t want to hear the excuses now, so long after the damage had been done. Touch had only been one part of their relationship, sex only one facet. He would have loved her whether he could have touched her or not. He would have given her no less. And yet, in her insecurity she had been the one to turn him away. It was more than just ironic. It was more than just cruel.
“Didn’t you trust me?” he asked quietly.
“Ah did!” she cried, and there was a note of despair in her voice as she looked into her outspread hands. “Ah did, Remy. Ah just…ah just couldn’t trust mahself. Ah was a fool. Ah tried not t’ hurt you, but that’s exactly what ah ended up doin’.” She looked up at him, bleached out eyes glimmering in the moonlight. “I wantcha to forgive me, Remy. At least to try. Please – can you try?”
He wanted to ask her why he should try, for what possible reason. For old times sake? Because she still loved him? Because there was still a sliver of warmth remaining in his heart? But he swallowed his pride. He did not know why.
“I can try,” he replied, at last. She gazed up at him, measuring the sincerity of his statement. Then her face softened, tinged with something he had once known as hope.
“Thank you,” she breathed.
And then she took his hand. Took his hand of her own volition, in a grip that he would never have guessed had once flinched from contact with another. There was nothing forced, no coercion in that touch. Only tenderness, and a true affection. Her fingers were long, smooth, warm. Each tip formed a unique pattern on his skin, embedded upon his nerves in a design he would later find hard to forget. Fragile, delicate, as breakable as glass. And then he suddenly it sank in. He could touch her. He could touch her for the rest of both their lives.
“Ah love you,” she said softly into the darkness. “An’ when you left, ah felt a terrible guilt inside. Sage said she would be able to help me to gain control of mah powers. Ah tried everyday to make it work out, an’ every step ah made forward was for you. Just so ah could give you what you wanted, without bein’ ‘fraid anymore. But just when ah thought ah could get you back, you’d disappeared. An’ then everythin’ with Sinister happened, and now…Ah feel responsible. That somehow, ah brought all this upon you.”
“Crazy talk, chere,” he answered, shaking his head. “Sinister would’ve caught up wit’ me anyways.”
“Ah know,” she replied, still gripping his hand. “But it still felt bad, t’ hear everythin’ that happened to you. Ah want t’ be there for you, Remy. T’ help you through things. Will you let me?”
“If you want to, chere.”
“Ah do want to.”
She leaned her head against his shoulder, and he sensed her uncertainty; in her hand he felt the trembling warmth of her touch. He knew she wanted to put her arms around him, to be cradled in his embrace, for both of them to forget. But the ambiguity of his statements had made her unsure of herself, reluctant. Half of him wanted to give her what she so desired, because somehow he did still love her; only to do so hurt so damn much. The other half cringed from it. Nevertheless the feel of her hand had been a concession. A willingness to make amends, to show him that she would try to make things up to him.
It was also a tantalizing proposal.
He could touch her.
Right now he could turn to her. There would be no foreplay, no tender show of affection, no soft words and no gentle caresses, not even the sweet intimacy of kisses. None of that was needed. He could simply sate the ache of his cold desires upon her without the necessity for love, for closeness or attachment. It would be easy. It would quell the pang of betrayal that still smarted in his soul.
Yet he fought it, that sudden urge, that sudden impulse that twisted itself like a raging fire through the nerves under his skin and his body. Reaching out he held her chin between his fingers, turning her face to look into his, willing himself not to objectify her, trying to connect her to some lost light within his heart. He searched her features, desperate, scared that he might find nothing there with which to anchor that fleeting hope that still resided somewhere deep inside him. Only her green eyes gazed back into his, vibrant, loving. A remembrance welled up from some deep, black hole, of having looked into those eyes and knowing what it was like to feel the softness of love. He held his breath, holding, holding. Dieu, why was she so beautiful, why did she make him want to love her and to hurt her…?
“Rogue…” he began, only to falter off, not knowing what to say. But she saw the words in his eyes. She knew he could not kiss her. Suddenly her face was etched in sorrow.
“Ah’ve hurt you, haven’t ah?” she spoke in a whisper.
“Yes,” he answered. It was that simple.
“Then let’s leave the mansion,” she replied, her face pleading. “Let’s leave them, for a while. Go away, together, just the two of us. See if we can heal the wounds. Ah want t’ make things right again, Remy. Ah want t’ hear you say you love me again…”
Shut up!, he thought, and an abrupt sense of frustration and loss came over him. He couldn't bear it. Couldn’t bear to look into those eyes, couldn’t bear to feel her love, couldn’t bear to hear her out. It all hurt too much. What he had so tentatively held onto had slipped, died with her words. Quickly he drew her to him, putting his arms about her, stifling the words, making them stop. He breathed in hard, knowing he could own her, the tremulous body that lay in his embrace.
“Yes,” he agreed. “Yes, we leave de mansion. Be together, an’ forget ‘bout everythin’ that’s happened.” He rocked her slowly, begging her silently not to speak, not to destroy him again. “Don’t worry, chere. Everythin’s gonna be all right. Dis time, we make t’ings right.”
Why had he yielded to her? Why had he come here, to sit in the snow, to talk to her, to torture himself with her presence?
One answer, and now it was all very clear to him.
To have his revenge.
*
Gloria Dayne was in a cynical mood.
Brooding over a brother who had always been – before she had actually discovered he was her brother – more of a partner in crime. Brooding over a brother who was currently going through a lot of problems. First, he had discovered that his father was a lunatic megalomaniac, who had always been an enemy to both him and his friends. Second, he had also found that he was a so-called ‘failed experiment’ of said lunatic father. Third, he had also had to go through the painful process of meeting his ex-lover Rogue again, a woman who he still held a lot of bitterness towards. Right now, it was the third and final problem that was bothering Fontanelle. Remy had been unable to deal directly with the first two issues in his life. Why fight against something as immutable as genes? Why bother with a father who was so insane it was no use even reasoning with him? The only thing Remy had any ounce of control over was his relationship with Rogue. Rogue, who still loved him. Rouge, who still wanted to be with him. Rogue, who was blithely unaware that all the hate Remy’s other problems had generated, were now being channeled into the sense of betrayal she had stoked up in him. A volatile mixture, Fontanelle thought grimly. Made worse by the fact that her brother still loved Rogue himself, and was still helplessly drawn to her. Drawn to her in both love and hate.
And now the two of them had gone off on their own, to God knew where, on some fanciful quest to sort out their relationship. Everyone had bought it, except for Gloria herself, who now knew her brother more than most. Even as he had been packing his luggage into the car he and Rogue had rented for their ‘road trip’, Gloria had expressed her doubts to him one last time.
“Remy, this isn’t a good idea,” she warned him, as he loaded his bags into the trunk.
“Glor, I’m doin’ what you told me t’ do,” he answered patiently. “Me an’ Rogue, we’re gonna spend some quality time t’gether. Work t’ings out. I thought you of all people would be pleased.”
“Remy, I know what you're thinking,” she persisted, changing tack and deciding to be direct.
He stopped, slapped the trunk lid down, glowered at her.
“D’you t’ink for once – just for once – dat you could stay outta my dreams?”
“Not until you give up this foolish idea of getting back at her,” she leveled at him. “It won’t do either of you any good.”
“Y’ forget, Fonty, dat I happen to love Rogue.”
“I know. You love her, and she hurt you. It’s natural to want some payback. That’s what you’re supposed to working through together.”
“How d’you know we’re not?” he replied, going round to the other side of the car and opening the door to the driver’s seat.
“Because you haven’t even told her yet,” she replied irately, following him.
“Not yet,” He stopped, glaring at her over the top of the door.
“Don't play stupid with me, LeBeau,” she narrowed her eyes at him. “D’you know what you’re doing? Pouring all your hate for Sinister into the conflict you had with Rogue. That’s why the particular form of payback you have in mind is rather violent.”
“It ain’t gonna happen, Glor!” he shot back at her vehemently. “What d’you t’ink I am, some sort of rampaging beast like Wolverine? Gimme a break! I can handle dis!”
“And what if you can’t, Remy?” she returned calmly. “You’ll lose her for good then. You know that.”
“If I lose her, den I lose her,” he retorted sullenly. “But I ain’t, because I love her!”
“Sometimes love isn’t enough,” she answered quietly. “And it’s always easiest to hurt the people we love most. Think about it, Remy. Tell her about the hurt and the pain. She knows it’s there. Just don't hide it from her. Promise?”
“All right already!” he replied, getting into the driver’s seat as he saw Rogue hurrying down the driveway. “I promise!”
Two minutes later, and they had left.
Why was it that Fontanelle hadn’t felt any less reassured that Remy would take her advice?
*