Disclaimer: If they were mine, I wouldn't be here, would I?
All mistakes are, unfortunately, mine.
Rogue sat quietly in the morning haze of late October as the early morning drizzle had given way to a heavy, patchy fog. Its tentacles wrapped delicately around the trees in the massive garden, giving it a sleepy look, as if the grounds were sedated, not yet ready to greet the massive hoards of teenagers who would be soon awakening. Icy wind blowing from the north whispered promises of a harsh winter against her skin, and she wrapped the blanket more securely around herself. "Soon it will be cold enough," she thought, looking at the little droplets of water clinging to the balustrade. Her musings were stopped short as a mug of hot chocolate with marshmallows on top came into her peripheral vision. There was a hand attached to the mug, and following that line of sight she found herself staring into a pair of red-on-black eyes. She accepted the mug gratefully and Remy settled beside her on the iron-wrought bench. The balcony - like the rest of the mansion - was quiet and deserted, the only sound being the dripping of water. If she was surprised at his quietude, she didn't let in on, instead choosing to enjoy it.
"Cherie?" the softly spoken word send shivers down her spine, and she made no attempt to remind him she was not, in fact, his "darling".
"Yeah?" a sip of chocolate.
"Do you ever miss the South?"
Ah, so that's where the unusual quietness and sense of nostalgia came from. The Cajun was homesick.
Rogue pondered that question for a while. She had always thought she would be like her mother. She had her eyes and her mouth and her temper, so why not the rest of her characteristics? A creature designed for the searing heat and high humidity of the Deep South, unable to be happy unless she had a glass of icy cold, impossibly sweet tea in her hand and a sunburn on her back. She had always thought that a back porch swing and a river with muddy banks were essential to her being content, just like Southern food and weather and accents. But here she was, sitting on the balcony of the imposing mansion, where every brick and every stone resonated with history and gleamed with cold light in the winter and golden glint in the summer. She thought about the grapevine that was so useful when sneaking out, the sea of daffodils in the spring and the way crystal chandeliers in the mansion's rooms decomposed afternoon sun, so that the colorful light was dancing around the walls. She thought about Jubilee, Logan and the Professor, her new extended family of choice. Yes, she was sitting here, in the cold of Westchester's late autumn, dressed in a warm hoodie, a pair of leggings and fuzzy socks, with a ruggedly hands-, irritating Cajun, and she realized she felt at home. At home and at peace, like she belonged here, in the cold somewhere in New York. She smiled up at Remy, and in between sips of her chocolate, she gave him his answer.
"Not as much as I thought I would."