Syntax [sin-taks]

noun

1. Linguistics.
a.) the study of the rules for the formation of grammatical sentences in a language.
b.) the study of the patterns of formation of sentences and phrases from words.
c.) the rules or patterns so studied:
English syntax.
d.) a presentation of these:
a syntax of English.
e.) an instance of these:
the syntax of a sentence.

2. Logic.
a.) that branch of modern logic that studies the various kinds of signs that occur in a system and the possible arrangements of those signs, complete abstraction being made of the meaning of the signs.
b.) the outcome of such a study when directed upon a specified language.

Rogue had grown used to the heightened state of awareness that correlated with her abilities, so much so that when she'd come across one of those unconventional, accidental confrontations, gloveless and vulnerable, Remy's voice would reach her consciousness in a crescendo of unadulterated sex-appeal. Sometimes she'd hear his laughter ringing pleasantly through her ears. Sometimes she'd recognize the scent of cognac in the air, the same scent that emanated from his body like a second skin. Then his presence would fade, a warped mirage, a fictitious thing that couldn't stay. She'd bear the brunt of his cadence afterwards as if it had become an ingrained part of her own psyche and it was then that she'd recollect the way his hand had slipped, an accident, a mishap, a cursed memory from that evening they had spent in the Danger Room because that's all they'd ever be, a transient moment in time.

She sent an apologetic look towards the woman she had accidentally brushed against in the subway, watching the way she swayed uneasily on her feet, an obvious indicator of the vertigo she had put her through moments before. It wasn't as if she had purposely touched the woman—she couldn't help it, not when she'd been rudely jostled by a suspicious-looking man wearing a fedora—so she avoided the the looks people were soliciting amongst one another, dark-suited businessmen to run-down, blue collar workers, a briefcase in one hand and a coffee in the other. It was a blatant kind of torture, putting the killing thing right between your teeth, but it gave her a sense of ambiguity that she hadn't experienced in a long while.

That ambiguity, of course, had been crushed the moment she'd been jostled, for Remy's persona had found its way where she had often attempted to deter it. He was persistent, she'd give him that, but it became a problem when she'd find herself in public places, accidentally touching, absorbing, knowing people more than God had given her the right to. Remy would take her unawares because that's what he did best, slipping across her flesh as if he had become something you could wear. She'd notice small changes at first, the way her hands would fidget, toying with the hem of her jacket or how she'd suddenly yearn for a cigarette something fierce. Then she'd catch her reflection somewhere, the opaque window of some scratched up box car and realize that her eyes had become a familiar shade of red instead of green. It hadn't gotten that bad yet but she sorely wished it didn't have to.

So she settled for that awkward in-between stage, steeling herself for the fiery glares that would land on her face because that's where her abilities would become more obvious than they already were. Those blue-collar workers and grandiose men would notice Remy's characteristic smirk dancing across her mouth and his dark, strange eyes and all hell would break loose. They'd scream nonsense ranging from 'mutant' to 'devil' and she'd have to ignore their ardent accusations as if the idea of being different didn't hurt. But it wouldn't get that bad—she refused to put up with that kind of chaos—so she prepared herself for another flighty departure.

The subway pulled into another station, the walls a grungy colour reminiscent of boiled eggs, and Rogue, shoving her hands deeper into the depths of her jacket, moved closer to an exit as the conductor voiced another bland repertoire regarding the train's location. She found herself quashed between a throng of people as a pair of rusty, steel doors opened, releasing an apartheid of race, social class, and normalcy onto the awaiting platform. It wasn't hard to push through that mass—she'd pushed through a lot worse in the last couple years—but she found it rather troublesome knowing what awaited around the bend of a particularly dim corridor. She could already make out Remy's distinct shadow in the distance, slouching against an old, over-advertised poster the way Logan had prophesied over a pay phone back in the Bronx. It was unlike Logan to let the man he had dubbed 'Gumbo' retrieve her from one of Xavier's missions, but she assumed that the man in question had been far too adamant to let an opportunity like that pass.

Rogue drew her hood over her head and scowled, knowing far too well what Remy would do if he saw that she had lost control, an obvious indicator of some strange, hidden attachment his psyche seemed to have for her. It was annoying and she hated it, hated the effect he seemed to have on her because it wasn't fair and it wasn't right. She didn't deserve the wayward grin stretched across his mouth or the telling glint in his eyes. It was a look reserved for a woman he could touch, a woman who was beautiful, accessible, caring even, and she sure as hell didn't possess a quality remotely associated with that fictional creature because that creature, in the end, didn't exist. But he somehow saw those characteristics in her and continued to smile, continued to stare, falling into step beside her as if that spot had been reserved for his feet alone.

"Gotta admit, Rogue," he said mid-step, pulling a cigarette from his coat, "I didn't think you'd be so unwelcomin'."

"Ah thought Logan was suppose t' pick me up."

"Dat ain't nice, chère. I'm your knight in shinin' armour, non?"

Rogue ignored his brusque statement, marching through a busted-looking turnstile. "What am Ah going t' do with you?"

"I got a list somewhere, chérie," he said with mock enthusiasm, ignoring the way she huffed irritably in the dimness, blowing smoke through his mouth. "Should be smilin' considerin' how often I'm here t' rescue you."

"You're here cause' Logan couldn't find a replacement," she said, stopping in front of a vending machine, "you ain't my prince charmin'."

"Said nothin' of the sort, chère."

"Ah know that already. Ah want t' know why you're so damn persistent, Remy."

"Do you have a problem wit' dat?"

She wanted to say yes because she did have a problem with his behaviour on some rational, inequitable level. Most women would fawn over the attentions of a good-for-nothing bad boy, but she wasn't most women and couldn't reciprocate those feelings. At the same time however, Remy's borrowed psyche began to flare beneath the hood of her jacket, stretching across the tips of her fingers—she wanted to taste the cigarette trapped between his lips and touch the deck of cards nestled in his pocket—but the coherent part of her mind screamed out in protest, her irises fighting against a downpour of red and black. Rogue clenched her fists and barked out a strangled 'yes', trying to appear nonchalant, callous even, but he seemed to know better, planting a hand somewhere between her head and shoulder.

"You okay?" he asked, trying to peer beneath her hood, "you don't look so good."

"Ah'm fine, cajun."

An audible clucking noise slipped through his lips as he took another drag of his cigarette. "Dat's awfully presumptuous of you."

"Ah said Ah'm fine," she persisted, trying to move away, but he caught a glimpse of her face and the tell-tale look stretched across it.

"What have you gone an' done now, Rogue?"

"Ah had an accident on the subway. Bumped into a woman."

"Why're your eyes red an' black den, chère? Dat ain't normal, n'est-ce pas?"

"Get off," she hissed, pushing him away with the sleeve of her jacket, watching his hand slide down the vending machine's facade. "Ah don't wanna talk bout' it."

"It's been proven dat people live longer when dey got someone t' speak to, chère."

"Ah don't want t' speak t' you."

"Dat's too bad," he said, snuffing his cigarette beneath his foot, "I'm a good listener."

"An' Ah'm the pope. Come on, Gambit. Ah just wanna get home," she muttered, pushing past him to walk further down the corridor, ascending a flight of stairs.

Rogue didn't consider that she needed to purchase another pair of gloves in the first place however, for her gloveless state was becoming unbearable. She wasn't used to the texture of her sweater for instance—it was too scratchy, almost as if someone had purchased it at an unkempt, mouldy shop somewhere unpleasant—and had become irritated by how cold her fingers were. She had grown used to the warmth her hands had been swathed in before her sudden expedition and the absence of that coziness had become more apparent with Remy so nearby. He was leering beside her, glancing at the small, pathetic-looking pockets she had nestled her fingers into as if he could do something about it, but his hands were just as bare as her own, long and sinuous, retaining the sun-bleached tan that was indicative of his upbringing. She fancied that he had played piano in some dark corner of his past, somewhere between his blurred, intoxicated memories of playing poker and bedding women, but he would never admit to that even though she knew what he was capable of.

Of course he decided to play hero right then, withdrawing a pair of rainbow-coloured gloves from the depths of his trench coat as if he had been waiting for the right moment to eradicate her woes. She couldn't help but wonder how he had known how uneasy she was beginning to feel, how cold her hands were, how utterly vulnerable she felt without that simple barrier of fabric to ward the world from her toxic touch. He was outright laughing by the time they had made it outside, her face contorted into something akin to a frown and she wished right then that he would stop acting so obliviously naive.

"Ah'd thank you for your generosity, but your beginnin' t' drive me insane," she stated, tearing the gloves from his outstretched hands.

"You're too cruel, chère."

"Ah'm hardly what you'd call cruel. Ah'm bein' honest."

"Den you're honesty's kinda' brutal. I t'ought you'd appreciate t' gesture. Kitty was set on it, dat's for sure," he said, making sure that the rotating door they were currently passing through didn't clip their heels.

"Ah'd hope so."

"What's dat supposed t' mean?"

"Ah'd laugh if Ah saw you tryin' t' buy rainbow-coloured gloves."

"I am full of surprises, chère. Just you wait an' see," he said, looking down at her as they traversed the sidewalk.

A bittersweet smile played around the edges of her mouth as he tried to peek beneath her hood, a coy, uncontrollable impulse that derived from inexperience, her lack of expertise when it came to understanding Remy's flirtatiousness. It wasn't something she took pride in—she'd rather watch him romance another oblivious, naive woman, someone so completely tasteless that she'd laugh more than cry about his altered affections. Of course he wouldn't dare indulge those perverse fantasies, his senseless notions of sex and pleasure in her presence, but he wasn't afraid of tip-toeing that barrier when she so obviously knew he wanted to. It was enough to make her angry, furious, and irritated, so she picked up her pace, glaring at each women who had the pleasure of meeting her gaze across the street, hips swaying, hair blowing in the breeze, and hands as bare as the tree that scratched up and down her window at the institute. Rogue shoved Remy's gloves into her pocket and wished sorely that she'd never left that morning. She'd rather wallow in pity without Remy around, moving through the same unwavering throng of people that emerged from the subway minutes ago, normal people, stupid people, ugly people, beautiful people, people that could brush against one another without pondering the consequences of such a simple action.

"Where you goin'?" he asked, watching the gloves fall from her pocket, "what's wrong?"

She stopped in the middle of the street, pointing her finger at him like some kind of tyrant, "Ah want to know why you're so damn persistent."

"We've already had dat conversation, chère."

"Ah don't care," she cried, too angry to feel even remotely calm, "Ah'd rather become one of those blurred, booze-induced memories of a woman you've slept with then what Ah am now."

"Now dat ain't nice," he muttered, his gaze alight with something akin to fury.

"Quit tryin' to seduce me," she pleaded as her hood flew back in the breeze, revealing the look on her face she had been trying so hard to hide, "go an' romance some other woman, some pretty, demure thing that's too drunk to even think."

"An' what if I don't want to?"

Now Rouge wasn't the type of woman to relent in circumstances as lucrative as the one she currently found herself in and had decided to ignore his ardent plea, dragging her subconsciousness into some nearby corner in an attempt to set her feelings strait. It wasn't in her nature to bend, to embrace every question that passed through a stranger's lips as if it were something you could buy in a store, something you could slip over your skin like a sweater to see if it fit right—she'd rather break, collapsing into a pile of glass because she figured it would be better that way, easier to look into Remy's eyes without wondering why his heart had suddenly appeared in the palm of his hand, hers for the taking.

"Then tell me how it feels," she said, staring at the gloves she had dropped on the ground, crushed under the feet of random, normal people, "tell me what it's like t' be able to touch someone, anyone without bein' afraid."

The anger that had been so apparent in his eyes softened suddenly, as if he could finally understand what had been bothering her so much. "It don't feel like those gloves you wear, or the inside of your sweater. It's warm though, an' it can get kinda' nasty if it's too hot or cold," he said, staring into Rogue's altered eyes, "I won't lie t' you, it's nice, but it ain't what it's cracked up t' be."

"What's that supposed t' mean?" she asked, still upset, still completely sore from his unabashed sincerity.

"Touchin' someone is like tryin' catch the same raindrop twice. It's a beautiful t'ing, chère, but it doesn't last."

"Ah don't understand."

"You're not supposed t' understand," he said, his mouth curling up at the edges, "it's a metaphor."

She wanted to hit him for being so callous, so brusque, so completely normal that she nearly acquiesced, allowing his warm, pleasant cadence to brush against her skin as smoothly as the gloves she'd usually wear. It wasn't what she wanted, not now at least, but in a bar somewhere, in a circumstance far more questionable then what she had grown used to, she assumed that his tone of voice would render the most impervious woman useless. That was enough to make her heart freeze, so she tightened her jaw and clenched her teeth, glaring at the same businessmen she had feared on the subway, eyes wide, their mouths poised open in an unmistakable expression of shock, balancing a briefcase case and a cappuccino to go as they made their way down 89 East 42nd Street.

Remy noticed how she had hardened her resolve and sighed, "You're soft in the head but hard in the heart, chère."

"Ah'd better be. You keep me on my toes," she said, reaching for her hood, but he stopped her, his hand resting on her forearm.

"I want t' be able t' look into your eyes, if you don't mind."

"Why?"

"Cause' I don't like talking t' your jacket, chère," he said, looking intently at her face the first time that afternoon.

Just this once Rogue relented, but even then she figured he'd take pleasure in that simple action. It would always end this way between them—she'd shove Remy's psyche into the same dark hole she'd usually resort to, removing every component of his personality from the surface of her skin as if he were a dirty shirt hanging out to dry on a clothesline. Sometimes she'd hear his voice desperately chanting her name in an attempt to stay. Sometimes she'd purposely envision the scent of freshly cut grass, ozone, petrichor, scents that indicated sobriety because she knew he'd hate that and then on cue his presence would fade. They'd start the same playful banter that they were used to after that, a flirtatious, easygoing in-between that wasn't intrusive or uncomfortable and for awhile Rogue would forget how he had made her feel.

And so they continued to walk, making their way down the street, and Rogue, gloveless and vulnerable, didn't even bother to retrieve the gloves Remy had so kindly proffered to her. She crushed them beneath her heels like everybody else.

Touch [tuhch]

noun

30. the act or state of touching; state or fact of being touched.

31. that sense by which anything material is perceived by means of physical contact.

32. the quality of something touched that imparts a sensation:
an object with a slimy touch.

33. a coming into or being in contact.

34. mental or moral perception, sensitivity, or understanding:
He has a marvelous touch in dealing with people.

35. ability, skill, or dexterity; knack:
to lose one's touch.