TITLE: Stacked Deck
SUMMARY: Rogue. Remy. Vignettes.
RATING: K+
DISCLAIMER: I just enjoy playing in other peoples' sandboxes. While making money off this would be nice, it's not happening. Everything you recognize (and maybe even some things you don't) belongs to Marvel.
AUTHOR'S NOTES: This one goes out to Ish. 'Cause she digs my work.
Lovers are supposed to watch sunsets. At least that's what the novels, the movies, and the Hallmark cards say.
Well, they're not lovers.
They're not.
And they're not speaking to each other today.
The reasons are simple.
He lied. Again. (Though he would describe it as misdirection out of necessity.)
She didn't give him a chance to explain. Again. (Though she would say he didn't deserve to be heard out in the first place.)
"You weren't supposed to find out."
"Well, I did. And I am not happy."
"Really? I couldn't tell."
"Stop making this in to a joke!"
Harsh words were exchanged before the two stormed off in opposite directions, each muttering unkind things about the other. They barricaded themselves in their rooms and complained to their roommates about how hard-headed he/she is, and how if he/she would listen to them/be frigging honest/just trust them for once, maybe this could work. Would work.
Maybe.
Neither of them shows up for dinner. Which surprises no-one.
"This'll all blow over by tomorrow," Kitty predicts sagely, holding her fork rather like a scepter. "Just you wait and see."
Piotr gives a little 'hmmm' while shoving some rice about his plate. He doesn't sound so convinced.
The evening passes.
Night falls away.
The sun begins to rise.
Neither has slept well.
Rogue has been busy cultivating righteous fury, and Remy has been hanging on to justified indignation with a side of poorly feigned apathy.
Kitty and Piotr find each other at breakfast and share their reports over cups of coffee and grapefruit halves. Kitty comes to a conclusion.
"The two of them need to be locked in a closet or something and be forced to talk with each other until they work out this stupid…"
She waves her hand about in an expansive gesture, searching for a word to attach to whatever 'this' is. She comes up blank and sighs. Piotr nods. He gets it.
Unbeknownst to the pair in question, each of them is sitting in their respective windows, watching the same new morning being born.
Same sunrise, different angles.
They say lovers watch sunsets.
So who watches sunrises?