. V .

“What the…?  Where the…?  How on earth…?”

            The irate mutterings slowly jarred Remy into consciousness.  Opening his eyes, he only barely remembered where he was.  The cheapest, seediest motel he could find, sleeping restively in a battered, worn armchair.  The groans were coming from the bed, where he’d carefully tucked in a still insensate Carol Danvers the night before.  Now she was awake, sitting up in bed, looking dazed and very confused.  He didn’t blame her.  Leaping to his feet, ignoring the stiffness of his body, he went to the curtains and enthusiastically threw them open.

            “T’ank de heavens you’re up, chere,” he enthused, his voice sounding brighter than he felt. “I thought you’d died on me back dere!  Y’know how difficult it is to go ‘bout N’awlins unseen wit’ a pretty woman on your shoulder?  I had t’ book de grottiest, filt’iest room in town jus’ t’ get a place to sleep, an’ y’know what?  I had t’ pretend I was drunk too!  Carol?  Carol, are you listenin’ to me?  You owe me big-time, girl!”

            He turned, looking at her when she did not answer.  She stared back at him, her expression one of utter incomprehension.

            “Remy LeBeau, why in Gawd’s name are you callin’ me Carol?” she spoke at last. “An’ why am ah in N’awlins?” She looked down at herself, her eyes widening in horror. “Jesus!  What the hell am ah wearin’?”

            He stopped stock still as if he’d suddenly been shot.  To hear her voice again, his Rogue’s voice, was such a shock and a relief that for a moment he couldn’t speak.

            “Rogue?” he breathed.

            “Damn straight,” she glared at him, “Why am ah here?  With you?  In bed?” She attempted to get out of bed, only to flop onto the floor again. “What’s the matter with mah legs!” she cried, panic rising in her voice. “An’ why’s mah head hurtin’ so much!”

            He rushed over to her side, suddenly able to move, helping her back onto the edge of the bed.

            “Rogue, chere…don’ you remember anyt’ing of what happened last night?”

            She eyed him suspiciously. “Should ah?”

            He didn’t know how to explain.  Couldn’t even say a word.  He was just so relieved, so glad to have her there with him again, even for one moment, that words failed him.  Shaking his head he began to laugh hysterically, only to stop and slap a hand to his heart.

            “Dieu, Rogue, you scared dis poor cajun no end!”

            She gazed at him, puzzled, hearing the seriousness in his voice.

            “Remy, what is goin’ on here?” she asked, calmer now.

            He looked up at her, a smile of relief suddenly playing on his face.

            “It’s a long story…”

            To Rogue, it was all just a little confusing.

            The past week or so of her life had been lived out by another, she had no recollection of how or why she had come here, and furthermore, to have things being explained to her by the man she’d have gone out of her way to avoid was more than just a little disconcerting.  Yet as she listened to him, and everything began to sink in, the more she began to accept what had happened.  The last thing she remembered clearly was going to sleep with those premonitions of Remy’s demise going round in her head; the next morning she must have woken up as Carol Danvers.  She wondered whether the X‑Men were looking for her.  Only Joseph, the Beast and the Professor knew of her recent troubles with the all those psyches in her head – and only Joseph knew of the premonitions with Remy.  She hoped he’d put two and two together and would be out looking for her.

            “It’s mah powers,” she groaned, when Remy had finished. “Evah since they got zapped by Phantazia way back last year, all these psyches an’ mem’ries have been whirlin’ round mah head like somethin’ vicious.”

            “An’ Carol’s psyche won out, huh?” he asked.

            “Ah guess,” she sighed. “But the weird thing is, the precog powers ah sucked from Irene still seem t’ be workin’.  That’s why ah’m getting’ all these weird premonitions.  Guess Carol could see them too.”

            “Makes sense,” he nodded. “The girl had a seventh sense.  Stands t’ reason.”

            “Remy,” she suddenly asked, her countenance troubled. “Did ah…do anythin’ strange when ah was Carol?”

            “If you call takin’ a head shot at Sabretooth an’ barely missin’ me in de process strange, den yep,” he replied, a wry smile on his face, carefully avoiding the fact that Carol had – very unambiguously and without much compunction – come onto him.

            “Ah didn’t!” she cried in horror.

            “You sure did.  An’ scored a bullseye too,” he grinned, getting up and nudging her back in under the bedcovers. “Dat Carol’s some markswoman.”

            “Remy, ah don’t want tah sleep…” she protested.

            “Save it, chere.  You’re exhausted , an’ your body’s rebellin’.  Not t’ mention, your mind must be spinnin’ right now.  Get some rest.  I’ll hold fort here.”

            She gave in, but only because she really was tired.

            “Remy…” she began, leaning back into the pillows.

            “Yeah?” His eyes were tender as he looked into hers.

            “Thanks.  For takin’ care of me.”

            “No problem, chere.”

            The last thing she saw before she fell into sleep was his smile.

            She woke again later, in the night, sweating, crying, unable to remember why.  In a trice his face was there before hers, concern shimmering in his dark red eyes.

            “Chere?  Chere, what is it?”

            She fell into dry sobs, dropping her head into her palms, her body shuddering.

            “It’s that same dream…Her mem’ries…Irene’s…” She began to weep again, and he put his arms around her, pulling her close.

            “I’m sorry, Rogue,” he murmured.

            She said nothing, unable to speak for the violence of her tears, burying her face in his shoulder, wanting the comfort of his embrace, an embrace whose comfort she had known for far too short a time in all its gentle warmth.  Softly he held her until her tears stopped, but even then she did not move, recalling, unbidden, their lost closeness, their love.  There, in the darkness, in her sorrow, it was easy to forget that they had ever been apart.  For a long while she simply rested there until, silently, she slid back into sleep.

            Another morning she woke up – she did not know which.  Sunshine filled the grotty room – Remy was perched in his armchair, reading a newspaper, scratching the stubble on his chin absently.  She shifted, moaning, her head still aching.  At the sound he looked up over the paper towards her.

            “Rogue?”

            “How long’ve ah been sleepin’?” she croaked.

            “Couple o’ days,” he answered, setting aside the paper. “How you feelin’?”

            “Like ah got smashed on the head with a brick,” she answered, sitting up and groaning.

            “That’d happen, when you’ve been havin’ a war in your head for de past few weeks or so,” he returned dryly, getting up, to cross the room and sit on the bed beside her. Clinically but gently, he raised a hand to her forehead. “Feels like you still got a temp’rature.”

            “Ah’m fine,” she insisted.

            “Of course y’are, chere,” he reached out for a glass of water by the bedside, handed it to her along with two aspirins. “Now take dese.”

            She did so, because her head really was hurting that bad and she didn’t have the strength to argue.  When she’d gulped down the whole glass she felt a whole lot better – more alive and refreshed than she’d felt in days.

            “Ah needed that,” she remarked, as he put the glass away.

            “I can tell,” he smirked. “Guess we should phone de mansion, huh?  Dey prob’ly be lookin’ for you.”

            “You didn’t contact them already?”

            He looked away, got up.

            “Dis cajun don’ wanna be found.  Best you phone dem, chere.  Leave me outta dis.”

            “But ah need t’ take you back there,” she protested, groaning at the sudden shot of pain that streaked through her head.

            “Softly, chere,” he warned her, before continuing. “So you say.  But what if I tell you I don’ want no part o’ Destiny’s predictions?”

            “Remy, you’re in danger if you stay out here.  Sinister…he’s after you.  An’ ah just have this feelin’ that you should stay near t’ the Professor, y’know.” She sighed heavily. “It’s your life, Remy.  But ah came here for a reason.  An’ judging by what you’ve told me, ah was justified in comin’.”

            “An’ I t’ank you for dat, Rogue,” he answered softly. “But I can take care of myself.  Dere be nothin’ t’ tie me t’ de X-Men anymore.  But you got friends, you got de business wit’ de Diaries, an’ you have Joe.  Best you get back down dere, right away.”

            She bit her lip, suddenly flushing.

            “Remy…me an’ Joe…We ain’t together anymore.”

            He turned, stared at her, said nothing.  With that one sentence, everything seemed to change.

            “Ah…ah couldn’t handle it anymore,” she continued, feeling she owed an explanation. “Ah was goin’ outta mah mind.  Joe tried t’ help, but ah was only confusin’ him, hurtin’ him.  It was too much for the both of us.  Ah figured it was best we end things.  He was upset, but…well, he agreed.”

            “I’m sorry,” he replied at last.

            “There’s no need to pretend,” she told him.

            “I’m not,” he said stiffly, turning away again. “You cared for de guy.  You musta been hurt. So I’m sorry.”

            She paused, thinking she’d somehow offended him.

            “Remy, ah didn’t mean…”

            “S’okay, chere,” he interrupted quickly, looking back at her once more; this time, his expression was lighter. “Dese t’ings, dey happen, right?  Let’s not argue.” He began rummaging through a carryall he’d dumped in a nearby corner. “But first, let’s get you outta dose clothes an’ inta somethin’ more comfortable.  Here.” He threw her a pair of his pants and a shirt. “De shower’s free if y’need one.  I’ll just go get us some eats, ‘kay?  Make yourself at home.  If y’can in dis place.”

            He winked, sliding out of the door before she could open her mouth.  Rogue stared after him before slowly picking up the clothes he’d given her.  The way he’d changed the subject so quickly, masked his feelings, avoided everything – it troubled her.  And it told her more than he knew.  She shouldn’t have told him so soon.  Not about her and Joseph.  Not with their history.  She frowned to herself, annoyed at her stupidity.  Why was she so bothered about telling him anyway?

            She didn’t want to think about it.  Getting out of bed, finding her legs in working order again, she decided it would be best to go for that shower.

If was difficult to get rid of Carol Danvers’ characteristics.  All the woman’s traits and foibles seemed to have embedded themselves in Rogue’s psyche, and at first she had no strength with which to fight them.  She complained when Remy brought her beignets instead of bagels, insisted she was allergic to nuts, had a penchant for leaving everything in a mess, ordered copious amounts of beer, and would watch hours and hours of soccer on TV.  All un-Rogue-like mannerisms, things that drove Remy crazy and Rogue almost off the edge and into insanity.  When she wasn’t consumed with Carol’s everyday life she would wail and weep and grumble and whine until the both of them were sick and exhausted.  Remy was as patient as he could be with her, and she tested him to his limits, sending him out on impossible errands and generally acting like a spoiled brat.  And then she fell into a sulk, refusing to get out of bed, refusing to even have the curtains opened.  For the next couple of days she lay there, silent and out of sorts.

To Remy, it was a trying time, but he tried to be patient with her, understanding her ordeal, her frustration.  Gradually Carol’s quirks lessened, but often, in the middle of one of her long stretches of silence, Rogue would suddenly sit up and start spouting out nonsense about the future – about the ‘Seven’, about the Timestream, about apocalyptic endings.  Anyone else would have thought she was psychotic.  To Remy, it was all painfully clear.  Destiny’s power had become Rogue’s dominant one, and Rogue’s enforced seclusion was her way of dealing with the unfamiliar, terrifying ability.

He put up with it because he still cared for her.  He never had stopped doing so, really.  He would sit in the quiet room and keep an eye on her, reading magazines, watching the TV on mute, sometimes just sitting there and watching her sleeping face, hunched up in the armchair, fingers steepled in front of his face, red eyes glowing.  The more he looked at her the less simple things seemed to become.  The less she spoke the more he loved her.  In a single half-hour he would sit and count the number of breaths she took, because there was nothing else he would rather do.  And then he would get up and pace, and try to hold back the emotions that had re-materialized from their ghostly state at the back of his mind and his heart.  It was easy to slip into a reverie, to relive the moments they had shared, their one single night of perfect togetherness, when their love – though hardly less complicated – had been a thing of artless wonder.  Where had they gone wrong?  Why had they been unable to hold onto what they had professed to one another?  Why had she left him, and why had he walked away and accepted it?

Questions he could not answer.  Possibilities he could not bear to fathom.  His heart was still consumed by her.  If she gave him but one touch he would hold onto her, bury himself in her, one moment would make up for and seem like endless ages, there would be no more reason to ever let go.

“Remy…”

Her voice answered his hopes, called out to him, thin, vulnerable, so full of helpless desire.  He turned, breathless.

“Oui, mon coeur?”

She did not answer.  He skirted the bed, knelt beside her, looked into her face, seeing it still shrouded in sleep.  He held in a breath, calming himself, smiling in sudden regret.  He touched her cheek, smoothing away her hair – one touch and his resolve was set.

“I’m here, chere,” he whispered softly. “I’m here.  I always will be.”

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