Chapter 12 – The Light Shining Through the Darkness

Remy's losing control of his powers—again. As he faces the terrifying possibilities of what this might mean for him and his family, he starts spiraling into the ever present darkness which haunts him. Lost in the dark, he seeks the guiding light which draws him home—Rogue.

Note: Like it's parallel chapter, this chapter contains depression, dark thoughts, and negative internal influences.

The large italics sections in the first half of the story are a dream. While he dreams (or when he wakes), Remy's not exactly in his best frame of mind, so his thoughts don't necessarily reflect the truth of the situations. Remy's also feeling a little self-destructive in the face of his nightmares.

5 – Despair

A little over a year later...

With the night, a malignant darkness followed. It was an all consuming shadow, an inky void he could not escape despite all his skill and cunning. Each blink of his eyes grew slower and heavier. The sandman's offerings scraped against his eyelids until he could no longer resist the temptation to keep them closed. As it was beyond his ability to hold the burgeoning night at bay, likewise it was impossible to prevent the lucid terrors from coming for him.

Still, Remy fights against the inevitable. He struggles against the unseen hands dragging him beneath the frigid depths. His efforts are hindered as the winding-cloths bind him tighter and tighter until his hands can no longer claw at the restraints. The cloths constrict around his chest and prevent anything more than shallow, gasping breaths of the stagnant air. Before long, the fight drains out of him and he surrenders to the inexorable fate which waits for him in the abyss.

When at last he comes to a rest, he cannot tell if his eyes are open, or if they are sealed shut. Darker than a moonless night when lost at sea, the blackness builds upon itself, until the shadows become a physical force. They press against his eyelids and seep into his pores. It stains his skin, marking him as a sinner and perpetrator. He is a villain, a marked man.

He knows where he is. The dreams always start here.

Guilty. The unspoken word ripples deafeningly through the darkness and echoes off unseen walls.

Piercing the gloom, eyes stare out at him. Some eyes glow. Others are dim shadows, the lingering shades of his victims. Some are hateful. Others were confused—Why? they cry. All brim with accusations. All judge him, as is their right.

Run, he pleads with the darkness—with the piercing, accusing eyes. But, they stay. They don't move. They had trusted him. Do they not know it is unwise to trust a liar and a thief? It is foolishness. They are all fools. He is a fool to think he will be ever granted peace.

Run. He tries again, futilely screaming his throat raw. But, they do not listen. They stare in silent condemnation.

Feral snarls bounce off the walls and ripple through the calf-deep water in which he stands. A deep thrumming, so visceral it reverberates through the tunnels in almost visible waves, grows closer as the hunters stalk their prey. His head grows light and dizzy. The mercenaries he gathered are more than proficient at their bloody task. To them, this is nothing more than an afternoon amusement and a hefty paycheck. The massacre is over before the screams are finished. It is his fault so many lives cease to exist mid-breath, mid-heartbeat, mid-blink.

Before he can grow accustomed to the unnatural silence, the feral growl turns its focus on him. Gambit knows he will not be spared, that he is the more deserving prey. He holds his breath, trying to buy himself a minute. Like it is each time these nightly hauntings are thrust upon him, the gesture is futile. With a sense of unappreciated irony, his restraints dissolve and leave him free to run, but not escape—never escape. Along the well-trod path, his feet slosh in the water and stick in the miry mud. He slips on the slimy stones as he tries to flee. When he falls, the rocks bruise his shins and cut his hands.

It is already too late. It is always too late. Without ever laying a hand on him, the malignant shadow of his pursuer catches and eviscerates him. Before he ever feels the piercing in his stomach, Gambit knows all too well the excruciating pain which tears him from sternum to belly. The claws which pierce his skin pierce his heart instead. He doubles over as the pain overwhelms him. He clutches at his abdomen with tainted hands. The wounds will become infected and sepsis will set in. He burns with the would-be fever. If only it will take.

He bleeds. His hands are stained red. The rusty red of dried blood contrasts against the brilliant scarlet of fresh blood. So much blood. Blood he can never cleanse. No matter how many times he washes his hands, he can always see the shadow. The stain marking his soul in indelible ink.

Papa. The small voices of his children call to him in the sing-song fashion of children. Scrambling for cover, Gambit tries to hide his hands in the depths of his duster's pockets, only to have his hands slip through. Holes pierce the pockets, revealing his secrets. He does't want them to see the evidence of his crimes. They will never look at him the same way again. His children's eyes leer at him from the shadows. They accuse him with the litany of his sins. The ones of which he hopes they will never learn.

Remy. Voices as well known to him as his own echo in the darkness. They are the voices of family, of friends. Those he swears to protect and fails. Gambit.

Mutant.

Traitor.

Murderer.

Clasping his hands over his ears, he tries to silence the cacophony. It does not work. Instead, the accusations pierce between marrow and bone. Tears stream down his face and pain throbs in his gut. He cannot take it anymore he must run. He must hide. Leave it behind. It's his fault. All his fault.

Henri is dead because of him.

Etienne died because he couldn't protect him.

He killed Julian. He had no choice.

Genevieve died because he made a choice. And it wasn't her. He wasn't clever enough, or fast enough to save them both.

She wasn't the only one he failed by his decisions. How many others had he sacrificed because he chose his own preservation over theirs? He lost count long ago...

Je suis vraiment désolé. Forgive me, s'il vous plaît, he cries in a futile, unheeded plea. He cannot find purchase on the slippery stones and falls. The quagmire pulls at him, burying him in quicksand like mire.

A woman approaches where he lies. She is dressed in a long, dark—blacker than pitch, darker than his lost soul—robe. The hem of the robe trails through the muck, though the filth does not stain her. A deep hood hides her face in shadows. Kneeling at his side, she takes his half-gloved hands in her unnaturally bare ones. The hood shifts and reveals a glimpse of snowy white hair. The white is out of place among this carnage. He knows her and he quavers in her presence. Though, he does not know if it is with dread or gratitude he anticipates her touch.

She is Legacy.

Her naked hand hovers over his exposed face. As the moment prolongs, he prays she will absolve him of his guilt and set him free. Before the brush of her cool, dry skin against his heated cheek, she withdraws her hand. Turning away from him in contempt, he watches as her bright green eyes turn cold and hard as uncut emeralds. The temperature begins to drop, becoming as cold and unforgiving as her eyes. Her cloak swirls around her and she blends into the darkness until she is only a slightly darker shadow.

He alone is not worthy of preservation. His memory is best forgotten. Lost. Washed away with the putrid wastewater which laps at his prone form. With a bitter self-loathing, he drowns in the nothingness.

The shadow that once was Legacy fades away. Magenta armour replaces the sable cloak. As the only colour in this monochromatic world, the contrast makes her uniform seem to glow. She stands a ways off, a glittering figure in the distance. In the vast nothingness which surrounds them, it is impossible to tell how far or near she is. Her eyes narrow as she waits for him to speak. Will he admit his culpability? Or, will he make excuses for his misdeeds? While she watches with unyielding jade eyes, the rushing water freezes turning everything to ice and snow. He is too numb to even shiver. The only warmth in this blanched wasteland comes from the rivulets of translucent crimson streaming from the ghost of old wounds which mar his body. A running tally of each battle lost, each confidence betrayed.

Rogue, he pleads. He does not know what he hopes for. Does he want her forgiveness? Or, does he want her condemnation? All he knows is that the verdict of her judgement holds more weight than the rest combined.

In a blink of his eyes, she stands beside him. With a touch as cold as the ice surrounding them, she traces the lines and planes of his naked torso. Her talon-like nails piece the upper layer of his epidermis, scoring his skin in a detached surgical fashion. He shies from away from her invasive touch as much as he shrinks from her detached, calculating expression.

When he tries to pull away, she captures his hand in an unbreakable grip. Her nails pierce his wrists. Slowly, deliberately, she kisses his fingertips one at a time, drawing out the ordeal until the energy under his skin buzzes to life in a maddening, unquenchable fire. When she finishes, her lips come away stained with his blood.

No, Gambit's mental screams never leave his lips. He is too horrified and exhausted to find the strength for words. Her touch is all wrong. It isn't Rogue, it can't be Rogue. But, he doubts. This is what he deserves, not her compassion, not her forgiveness.

She releases his hand, but he cannot escape her surgical ministrations. The snow melts, leaving him manacled to a cold, metal lab table. The room is spotless to the point of sterile. He catches only a glimpse of the aseptic room before the light above the table focuses on him. The bright spot momentarily blinds him. Mumbling as he fights his chains, he pleads, Don't touch me.

Remy, look at me. Look at us. See your failures. The not-Rogue speaks. Her voice drones far and distant. Flat and monotone. Her passion dries and flakes like old blood.

Refusing to face her, he turns his head towards the opposite wall. Surgical tools that look more like torture implements hang on the wall and cover a nearby table. Swallowing hard, he fights in a futile gesture against his captivity as her hand grabs his chin. She digs into his skin, and forces him to face her. He knows what he will find when he opens his eyes. His stomach rebels as nausea churns in a tempestuous swell.

She cackles, enjoying his helpless state. His eyes are forced open and he sees Rogue's likeness transform in a flash of blue skin and red hair. Mystique. She is there for only a second before turning into Sabertooth. Into Julian. Into Apocalypse. Into Magneto. All the while, the cruel laughter continues. Each new face adds a voice to the ugly chorus. A dissonant roar fills his ears. He wants it to stop. He wants to atone. He will bleed if that is the price. He will drain himself dry if that is what it takes to make things right.

And still the laughter does not stop. Between each transition there is a flicker of blue before the figure finally settles into Sinister. Nails become a scalpel. The monster who calls himself a scientist wields it with instinctual ease, like it is an extension of his body. Malevolent red eyes pierce through Gambit to where his soul ought to be. On this table, he is no longer a person. He is nothing more than an experiment—a lab rat—meant to be tossed away when he is no longer of use. Whenever that day may come. Gambit prays the end will come soon.

"Swamp rat," she calls to him the moment before the blade touches his scalp.

Instead of the knife, a cool hand reaches out and caresses his fevered brow. Even if this dream is not a familiar visitation, he knows whose hand it is. This time, she is the genuine article and not a pretender. He will always know her touch. It is branded on his soul and in his heart. In his waking hours, this hand brings him comfort. But, here, in these haunted places, he does not deserve her. He pushes her away. She doesn't deserve to be chained to him. He will only draw her down with him.

She does not take the hint. She will not leave. When he turns to her, he knows why she will not go. He bows his head and waits.

This time, she is back in green and yellow. Her uniform. It marks her as a hero. She is here to do what heroes do. To take down the villain by any means necessary. Pain mars her face. Though it is her duty, she does not want to do this. She does not want to be the one to end him. Despite everything she still loves him. He loves her. Thus, he knows what he must do. He will take this burden from her.

He brings a charge to life, a haunting fuchsia aura around his hands. The glow illuminates the pallid features of her face and hands, dyeing them a pale crimson. In her eyes, he reads the record of his sins as she revisits the memories which drive her insane.

One last time, he holds her hands, begging for forgiveness and release. One she will grant him, the other she will not. And he does not know which request receives which response. When she pulls her hands away, they too are stained, dripping with blood rusty and dark. Old blood on top of new.

The power under his skin intensifies as it burns him from the inside out. Pain, sharp and bright, lances through every nerve ending, every vein. He screams, filling his ears with the sound of his own voice, but no matter how loud he screams or how long his cries, he still hears the voice of his victims. The voice of his teammates and friends. Blaming him. Accusing him with justifiable enmity. He is guilty.

"Remy."

The sweet voice calls him by name as she breaks through the darkness, through the chaos. In the distance, a small, warm flicker of wavering flame blooms. The light offers no more illumination than a solitary candle, but to him it is a lighthouse beacon. He knows, if he chooses to follow, this small light will show the passage out. It offers a way to hope...to reconciliation...to her.

"Remy, sugah, come back to me."

He fights the irresistible pull of her. He doesn't deserve her compassion. Her understanding. He deserves the chaos. The pain.

A pervasive, malevolent voice from the back of his mind suggests he release the stranglehold he has on the charge. Would it really be so bad to let it go? To give into the light and the burn and allow it to consume him instead of the dark. All it would take is one one sharp, blinding moment of pain. Then, he would feel no more... He would no longer be a burden. A danger. Around him the air crackles as the charge at his fingertips increases at an exponential rate.

His wrists burn. The fire spreads, but not in the uncontrolled effusion of his powers gone awry. There is no release. Another force redirect the flow of power. He lashes out at the air only to find his arms and legs tangled in a web of linens. His chest constricts and he is unable to take a full breath. Even with his consciousness still half lost in this never ending nightmare, the overwhelming fuchsia light sears through his eyelids and across his vision until he shies away from the intensity of the glow. The world closes in around him, growing smaller and smaller until it contains only him.

"Don' you dare, swamp rat. Don' you dare." Though her voice was clouded with emotion, it held firm, strengthened by her conviction. She gave him a command he didn't dare disobey. "Ah love ya. Ah need ya. We need ya."

It is too late. The energy infuses every cell of his body until they are saturated. He can contain no more energy. If he does not send the charge into something else, he will explode. Literally. He shakes and quivers and pulls at the energy. Trying to tame it. Control it. Reign it in. Anything. Something. Though he fears, there is nothing he can do.

The pressure behind his eyelids has nothing to do with the building powers. Moisture gathers in the corners of his eyes for a moment before spilling out of his control. The tears burn like fire as they leave watery trails down his cheeks.

"Remy, sugah, Ah gotchya." Rogue's ever-constant presence finally broke through his wild panic and despair. "Ah'm here. Ya ain't alone. C'mon, wake up. Please."

The familiar pull of her powers tugged at his wrists and the effusion of energy around his fingers lessened. Cracking open his eyes, Rogue's face filled his vision. Her eyes reflected his red on black stare, meeting his with unwavering confidence. Around her hands glowed a lurid halo of fuchsia energy which matched his own. She held his hands up and away from anything that might burn if he released the kinetic charge into the bedding or their clothes. They both know the gesture was only a matter of habit and no real protection if he slipped. Not anymore. Not since he started charging living matter—again.

"All right swamp rat, ya need to breathe." She breathed deeply until he couldn't help but follow her example. The charge was precariously balanced between them. Her steadying presence was the only thing keeping the explosion from tumbling over the edge. "Good, now we need to dispel this energy."

With her help, the build of energy relaxed and diminished into nothing more than a pale pink afterglow. Her eyes still burned with the intense contrast of his. She clenched her jaw in the way she always did when processing his psyche, refusing to allow the weight which crushed him to crush her as well. The small, plaintive whimper escaping her throat was all the evidence he needed to know she had relived his night terrors right along with him. When she clasped his hands in hers, a slight wince at the corner of her eyes was the only sign that the raw, red burns across her fingertips and palms still hurt.

Remy lowered his gaze, tucking his chin to his chest. He didn't deserve her. Instinctively he curled into himself. He wished he could simply disappear.

Though the charge was dispelled, for some reason, she still held his hands. She should be repulsed by him—by his lack of control, and the danger he presented to her and their children—yet, she wasn't. Her breathing was ragged as she fought through the same darkness which had disturbed his sleep. The evidence of his treachery so fresh in her mind should make him repugnant to her.

Not wanting to taint her soul anymore than he already had, he pulled away from her hold. With neither recriminating word nor pitying eyes, she released his hands. She eased beside him on the bed, giving him space if he wanted it, while remaining close at hand if he changed him mind and needed to hold her.

He inhaled deeply through his nose, and exhaled slowly through his mouth. The internal voices whispered a litany of his sins, his mistakes, his crimes. He could not flee from the memories of the past hurts he afflicted on so many. The pains he was presently causing his wife only added to his tally. The potential threats he posed by his very existence hung over him like the sword of Damocles.

Though he knew he should flee for his family's safety, he could not leave his heart, his angel of mercy. Tentatively, he reached for her and leaned against her shoulder. She didn't pull away or run for the hills, instead she wrapped an arm around him and held him close. He sniffed, "Roguey?"

"Right here Remy. Ah ain't goin' anywhere." She cupped his cheek with her hand and brushed the gentlest of kisses across his lips. Her powers caught at his psyche and pulled, but didn't latch on. From the set of her jaw, he knew she was holding her powers back. While the crimson fire in Rogue's eyes had dimmed, they were not yet back to their vibrant green. "You and me, swamp rat, we're in this for the long haul."

A trepidatious smile played at his lips, but didn't settle. He scrunched his eyes tightly shut and shied away from her tender ministrations. The bedroom door was open, letting in the warm, amber glow of the hallway lights. Even the dim light was much too bright. It was all too much.

"Les enfants? Dey okay? Did I wake dem?" Though the words scratched at his raw throat, he needed to know he hadn't hurt them with his loss of control.

"They're just fine swamp rat." Rogue placed the video baby monitor in his hands.

He opened his eyes a sliver and shifted between cameras, checking on his sleeping children. The slightly grainy greyscale feed showed his infant son sleeping in his cot. Not waking, le bébé stirred in his sleep and found comfort with his thumb. Shifting the camera view, Remy observed his toddler daughter. She clutched her Bamf stuffie to her chest, a halo of wispy curls framed her face. The auburn of her hair was lost in the black and white image, but the shock of white practically glowed. The rush of his heart slowed as he observed his youngest children in peaceful slumber.

"Sugah, will you be okay for a moment if Ah go get a few things?" Though she spoke of leaving, she didn't move from his side. Her hip still pressed against his sheet covered thigh, her scorched fingers pressed against the sharp prickle of his scruff.

Slowly, deliberately, he nodded. She should go. He wasn't safe. She had every right to leave. To gather the kids and take them away before he hurt them too.

She got up slowly and pressed a kiss to his temple. Her fingers traced down his cheek, along his neck, and across his shoulder, not breaking contact until the last moment. "Ah'll be right back. Won't be two shakes of a lamb's tail. Promise."

Pulling his knees up to his chest, Remy pressed his clammy forehead to his knees. His perspiration damp t-shirt clung to his chest and restricted his movements. He was a coward; he could not leave her. She deserved better than him. Before his thoughts could run deeper into the quagmire threatening to consume him whole, Rogue returned, just as she promised.

"Here ya go. Put this on." She handed him his duster. It wasn't the one her wore on a daily basis. Instead, it was one of his oldest, long retired dusters. Half of the pockets contained holes and one of the elbows had a tear the size of a silver dollar. He didn't know where or how Rogue had found it, but there was no doubt it was one of his. The jacket had appeared in the foyer closet not long after Rogue had moved in and every time they cleaned out the closet, she insisted on keeping the ratty thing around the house.

Mechanically, Remy slipped on the duster at his wife's command. The leather was soft and supple from long wear. He hunched his shoulders and tucked his fingers into the sleeves. The jacket wrapped around him like a comforting blanket. Ingrained deep in the leather, it still carried the scent of the cigarettes he used to smoke. He had no desire to start smoking again— he had too much to live for despite the voices which told him otherwise — but the scent was familiar and oddly comforting.

She slipped on a pair of fuzzy slippers and an oversized sweater. The wide neck slipped off one shoulder revealing bare skin. Throwing her heavy terry cloth robe over her pajamas and sweater, she cinched the waist tight and slipped the baby monitor into one of the deep pockets. She held out her hand. "C'mon."

He hesitated for a moment, uncertain if he should go. Why wouldn't she let him be? Didn't she know she'd be better off without him? Despite the inky darkness tainting his thoughts, her presence tugged at his heart. Her words replayed on repeat in his brain—"Ah love ya. Ah need ya. We need ya." "Remy, sugah, Ah gotchya. Ah'm here. Ya ain't alone." "Ah ain't goin' anywhere. You and me, swamp rat, we're in this for the long haul." "Promise."

The simple honesty of her words broke through the oppressive fog in his brain. He clung to the truth of those statements though he struggled to believe them. He knew her promises were more reliable and held more veracity than the sinuous whispers telling him the opposite.

Taking her hand, he allowed himself to be led from the room. "Where we goin'?"

"To the roof, of course. Where else would we go swamp rat?" Her eyes sparkled. A muddy brown had replaced the red and her sclera had gone from midnight black to a smoky grey. "Ah ain't goin anywhere. Ah'm done runnin'. No matter what happens, it's you and me against the world if need be."

Interlacing his fingers between hers, Remy squeezed her hand. "Merci, mon coeur."

On the roof, they lounged in a comfortable silence. The autumnal air was crisp and the wind brought with it a chill which caused them to hold each other closer. Wrapped in his wife's arms, Remy found refuge from the not only from the elements, but from the pressing darkness attempting to swallow him whole. Distant stars valiantly shown through the wispy layers of dark clouds and hazy light pollution. Though dim and achingly far away, the stars refused to give way to the obstacles which tried to obscure their light.

Rogue rested her head against his shoulder. Her hands moved in perpetual motion, stroking his hair and running her fingers over his chest. Each intimate, soothing caress spoke of their years together, the love they shared, the trials they faced, the storms they weathered, and with each obstacle their bond grew stronger. She had chosen to cast her lot in with him and she would not leave him. Remy rested his cheek against the top of her head and breathed in the heady scent of honey and magnolias. The scent of home.

"Roguey." There was a quiver in his low, rich murmur. He swallowed hard, forcing back the dread threatening to overwhelm him. Instead, his hands shook. The fear—. No, it was more than simple fear. It was an unnamed panic, a deep seated dread, and a myriad of other emotions he could not name but recognized each by their familiar, haunting presence like he knew his name or the presence of his powers. All those looming emotions were a venomous viper, coiled in the pit of his stomach and waiting to strike when he was least expecting it. It was only due to their years together and his complete faith in her, that Remy could make this admission, "'m scared."

Her hands stilled in their ministrations as she captured his quavering hands in her much steadier ones. Lifting his hands to her lips, she reverently pressed a kiss to each scarred fingertip. A small shock leapt between his fingers and her lips with every kiss. She didn't flinch, instead her verdant green eyes never left his smouldering red eyes. "Ah know sugah. It's okay. We'll get through this together."

"You're too good t' me, chère." Remy squeeze her hands.

Without warning, the ever-present fire burning in his veins surged in an attempt to escape. He fought to pull the charge back into him as he attempted to reign it in and lock it down. By all that was good in his life, he would not lose control. Not with his wife in his arms, with his children sleeping nearby. Fear continued to ratchet up as the dire consequences his lack of control would cause tormented his thoughts.

He could scarcely think. He couldn't breathe. He couldn't lose control. He wouldn't lose. He would rather...

Rogue inhaled sharply as the temperature of his skin skyrocketed from warm to beyond feverish hot. A near-blinding blue-white flare sparked between their hands.

"You've got this swamp rat. Relax. Breathe." Rogue wrapped her hands around his and led by example. Her breathing steady and strong.

He leaned into her and allowed her confidence to drown out the voices which told him he couldn't. Squeezing his eyes shut, Remy wrestled with the charge until he re-absorbed the majority of it. When he opened his eyes, the only sign of his slip was the pink aura surrounding his trembling fingers. It was too much, he couldn't contain it all.

She released her hold on his hands and gave him several playing cards she pulled from the deck in her pocket. "Release the rest of the charge into these."

Siphoning off the excess charge, Remy released the cards into the night in an explosion of light and ash. Without the immediate need to focus on his out-of-control powers, Remy could breathe a little easier. This was only a stop gap until he could regain control of the full spectrum of his abilities. Without a conscious thought, his now charge free hand moved to the back of his head and traced the deep scarring hidden under his hair. Even if no one else could see it, he knew it was there.

"Sugah, do ya want me to call Beast? Ah'm sure he wouldn' mind us comin' in tonight instead of tomorrow." Rogue caught his hand and pulled it away from the surgical scar. She would not allow him to become lost in the depths of his darkness.

Remy shook his head. Though the rational part of his brain knew that going to Hank for help was nothing like going to Sinister, he was still terrified to be voluntarily checking himself into another lab for testing. He knew he should have gone for help earlier, but as long as he thought he could manage the slips, he had resisted. And even now, as everything spiraled out of control, he still fought against necessity of placing himself under a doctor's care. Even if that doctor was a friend. Though his sleep was no stranger to bad dreams, he knew that it was tomorrow's appointment with Beast which had sparked tonight's nightmares.

"All right. How can Ah help?" She returned to ministering the reassuring caresses. He craved her touch and knowing the journey she had endured to make such caresses possible made them all the sweeter.

"Just stay with me." He caught a lock of her hair and twirled a loose curl around his fingers. It slipped over his hands like cool silk.

"Of course, swamp rat. Ah already said Ah ain't goin' anywhere without ya." When he didn't appear convinced by her declaration, Rogue brushed his auburn fringe away from his forehead and met his eyes. Locked in the intensity of her gaze, he couldn't look away. "Ah'll stay by your side the entire time you're in the lab. You won't ever be alone. No one is gonna hurt ya or take advantage of ya this time. Ah promise."

"Chère..." Remy readjusted his hold on his wife until she laid half on top of him.

She snuggled closer to him. "Hmm?"

"How can you take dis in stride? It would be easier to..." He didn't want to finish his thought, but he needed to know. "Easier t' leave me t' my own devices. Safer too. I wouldn' blame you..."

"Shh." Rogue pressed a kiss to his lips, silencing his protests. "Remy, Ah promised ya Ah would stay by your side for better or for worse. Ah ain't about to break that promise. Besides, for most of our relationship, Ah was the one without control. How can Ah be anything but patient with ya, Cajun? Ah know you can find control again."

"How do you know, mon coeur? How can you be certain?" He couldn't see a way out of this, how could she?

"Easy, Cajun." She smiled at him with a confidence he found contagious. Cupping his cheek with her bare hand, Rogue leaned in until they were only inches apart. "'Cause ya always believed in me. Ya never doubted Ah would get my powers under control and so will you."

"I love you," was all he could say before pulling her in and kissing her. He didn't have words to express everything he wanted to say.

"Ah love ya too, swamp rat." Rogue moved so her knees straddled his hips and she leaned over so their gazes met eye to eye. Her breath was warm on his lips. Cinnamon and cream curls spilled over her shoulders and created a curtain of hair around their faces and secluding them from the rest of the world. "And Ah will stick by your side to the very end. Got it."

"Oui." Rogue was his home. She was his guiding light. When the darkness fell and he could not see his way, she was there, shining brightly and leading him to safety. He trusted her. When his doubts flourished, he knew he could always find the truth with her.

"Good." She grinned and kissed him again with all the passion and love she possessed.

Remy responded in kind, deepening the kiss. What else could he do? She was the love of his life. The other half of his soul. They would get through this valley together like had every other time they faced a challenge. She would stay by his side and, in the end, they would come through stronger.

Besides, it was impossible to contradict her. She was right. When he was in her arms, he found hope. And, this indeed was good.