. III .
New Orleans. Remy’s home, the place where he had been brought up, the place where so much of his life had shaped and moulded. A place where he and Rogue had also shared many moments. It had seemed appropriate that they should return here. For a while, it almost felt as though Remy had been purged of his demons. To have Rogue beside him was something nostalgic, something good, something comforting. For the first few days, everything had been great. They had talked about nothing. They had had fun instead. Just as friends, hanging out, going wild, staying up late and watching movies, pigging out at fast food joints. He had almost forgotten his inner resentment. He had almost thought that the ice between them had been broken, that they could stay like this forever and need nothing more to ever come of them.
Then on the fourth day, everything collapsed in on itself, like a teetering house of cards. It had only been a small thing, minute even – perhaps another person would not have thought anything of it. He did not know why it had bothered him so much. They had been sitting up late at night, in one of Remy’s finer apartments. Some old sci-fi flick had been on, the ridiculous kind of B-movie that he’d loved as a kid but always liked to laugh at now. They’d been sitting on the couch in front of the TV in their pajamas, drinking cans of cold beer from the fridge and eating chips. For some reason, as Rogue had been laying her beer can on the floor, the bag of chips had fallen out of her lap and all over the carpet. Immediately the two of them had dove in to retrieve the chips, moaning and bewailing their misfortune. And then, in some odd twist of fate, they’d reached out for the same chip and their hands had touched.
It had been the strangest thing. An innocent mistake and yet a dangerous error. For a moment her fingers lingered against his, before she drew it away and quickly began busying herself with the other pieces, suddenly silent. For what seemed like a long while he sat there, feeling the indelible imprint her touch had left soak into his skin, rekindling the flame that he had allowed to die out. And then all the feelings he’d been able to ignore came back. The rage, the guilt, the denial, the passion, the love. And suddenly he was on fire again, and he did not know whether he could sit there anymore with her and watch TV, or drink beer, or eat chips. But he carried on picking up the bits anyway, and this time he was as silent as she was.
They watched the rest of the movie, neither of them paying any attention to it anymore, both knowing that something inexplicable had happened. Remy did not even know that Rogue had realised what she had done – but certainly, she had sensed it.
As for Remy, the downward spiral had opened up to him again, and he had only just begun to descend into its murky depths.
Later he thought, it was amazing what a touch from her could do.
Always so unique, always so precious, a touch from Rogue had been something for him to cherish. Before he had savoured every one he could get from her; it had only infused him all the more with love of her. But now, that love had entwined itself with bitterness, and to dredge up one was to dredge up the other. The fine balance of both intense emotions was something that Remy could not maintain. It was ironic and brutal, that one innocent, unassuming touch from her could unleash a force so rampant, so powerful. The raging waltz between love and hate.
*
For Rogue, things had been less than easy the past week or so. Remy had changed. She could understand that. In his time away from the X-Men, infiltrating the base of Sinister, terrible things had happened to him, and the worst thing about it was that she felt responsible for everything that had happened. If only she hadn’t turned him away, then he would never have found out the truth of his origin. And even if he had, she would have been there for him, to support him, to listen to him, to help him. Now he was angry with her. She had felt it. She knew it to be inevitable. Just not like this. He didn't even want to have words with her. He was just somehow so cold. So distant.
Rogue was the kind of person to give back as good as she got. Normally, if he was going to give her the silent treatment, she would have gone along with it until either one of them gave in. This time it was not so simple. She was feeling guilty. And moreover, the moment she had walked into the War Room and had seen him standing there, all the old feelings had come back to her. She loved him as much as she ever had. And when he had looked at her, she had seen – despite all the grief and anguish inside him – that somewhere beneath it all he still loved her too. She had simply made a terrible mistake. To lose him again would have been an even greater one. She could not afford to let him slip through her grasp again, not now. That was why she was with him now, in New Orleans, away from the mansion, working on their relationship.
Except it felt like there wasn’t any working going on at all.
It had been fine the first few days. Not exactly what she had wanted, but at least they were getting on for a change. At least he was talking to her normally, laughing with her, enjoying himself with her. But then suddenly, something had changed again, and he was back to giving her the silent treatment. She wasn’t exactly sure what it was she was supposed to have done. But every time she looked into his brooding face, it made her reluctant to ask him. Could it be that he was really so angry with her, that he didn't even want to talk about it? How were they ever supposed to work things out, if they didn’t do so?
Then one morning about a week after they’d arrived, he’d woken up all smiles and optimism as though nothing had happened. It was not a little confusing, but Rogue had been glad of his more upbeat mood. She had been beginning to think it would had been better if the two of them had decided to just turn tail and run back home.
“Up already?” she greeted him, unable to hide her surprise. Remy had been sleeping on a couch in what he called the ‘study’, but was actually what she liked to refer to as a ‘den of iniquity’. It was filled to the brim with all sorts of Thieves Guild paraphernalia, as well as copious amounts of booze, dirty magazines and DVDs of the same ilk. Remy had sworn to her that he was not up to anything ominous in the room, even though he had spent most mornings sleeping in there until the late afternoon. She trusted him enough to believe him. But his hibernating bothered her.
“I’m feelin’ like de early bird dis mornin’,” he answered breezily, checking the coffee machine before pouring himself a cup. “An’ we all know what dey say ‘about de early bird, non? He catches de worm.”
“An’ what exactly might be the worm you’re catchin’?” she asked, looking up over the magazine she had been reading.
“Hmm,” he mused, sitting down at the table across from her and smiling wryly. “Perhaps dis beautiful winter mornin’ sun. Perhaps sittin’ across de table from a beautiful woman. Or perhaps takin’ her out to go skatin’ in de middle of town.”
She gaped at him for a moment. Whatever he had done last night seemed to have provoked a miracle transformation. He was almost back to his own self again. But it wasn’t that that was particularly bothering her.
“Skatin’? Oh no, cajun, ah’m not fallin’ for that one again.”
“Why not?” he pretended to look hurt.
“What? Are you blind? Ah can’t skate!” She set down the magazine and glared at him. “Don’t you remember that time we went skatin’ in New York that Christmas? You an’ the others said it would be fun. You even said it would be romantic. Ah didn’t know seein’ me fallin’ on mah butt every two minutes was somethin’ you considered ‘romantic’.”
“Au contraire,” he replied, lifting the cup to his lips, “It did give me an excuse to help rub dat cute li’l derrière of yours when you said it hurt so much.”
If there had been anything on hand to throw she most certainly would have done so at that moment.
“If that’s your way of persuadin’ me, then you have a long way t’go, mistah!” she seethed.
“Ah now, don’t tell me you didn’ enjoy it,” he grinned.
“Maybe ah did, back then,” she pouted. “But if you want an excuse to paw me now, ah’d rather think of somethin’ a lot less painful.”
“Who said anyt’ing ‘bout pawin’?” he sighed. “Actually, I was just tryin’ to be friendly. Best t’ing t’ do in winter is t’ skate. An’ it can be romantic. So why don’ you let me teach you, chere? Dat way, we can have years of skatin’ ahead of us. An’ no fallin’.” He smiled winningly.
“Ah’m not sure ah wanna learn to skate,” she protested.
“Aw, chere, don’ be such a spoilsport. I am offerin’ you my considerable services here. An’ if you don’ like it, well den, I don’ bother you again. Fair?”
She sighed.
“Okay, okay! It’s fair, ah guess. There ain’t nothin’ else t’ do round here anyway. But if ah don’t like it, then we go where ah wanna go. Deal?”
“Deal.” He grinned.