Disclaimers: All Marvel characters belong to... well Marvel.
*******************************************************
It wasn't that hard after a while, Rogue reflected, her hands pressed to the wooden window frame, her nose flattened against the cool glass that fogged up slightly with her breath. It wasn't that hard at all.
She sat back from the window, rocking gently on her heels. There was that meeting with Mystique, with the Brotherhood, the group that she had never felt completely comfortable with, that she needed to attend.
Rogue turned away from the warped image that reflected faintly back at her from the glass. Seeing herself now, seeing herself any day, was almost more than she could bear. Because all she saw, all the vision revealed to her, was a traitor.
She started down the stairs slowly, already knowing the scene that would greet her. The apple green, flower embossed couches, their material soft and silky. The wispy, white gauze curtains that billowed inwards whenever Mystique opened the windows to let in fresh air.
It was all so... normal. So completely normal and here she was, as abnormal as they came. Rogue felt out of place in this cheery, homelike place with the fresh flowers adorning the cherry wood dining room table, with the wreath of pure white daisies that she knew hung from the front door. But this was her new home. The place where she... belonged?
Rogue felt her lip twitch at the thought. The Brotherhood was where she belonged, among thieves, crooks, people with the moral aptitude of a cockroach.
*Fabulous,* she thought, letting her hand trail the rest of the way down the banister. Rogue stared at the glove once she reached the bottom step. No dust. Of course there wouldn't be. On the surface this small house was as clean, as uncorrupted, as they came.
But she had seen entirely too much of Mystique and her brood to believe that. She knew that beneath the snow white demeanor of her foster mother, there was a pit of black tar, hot and bubbling with hidden rage. And these meetings, the ones that Rogue was required to attend as a part of the Brotherhood, were nothing more than a farce. There was no doubt in her mind that the things that Mystique kept odd hours for, that had her hopping from country to country for days at a time, had nothing to do with these brief weekly meetings.
Rogue was greeted at the bottom by a harried looking Mystique. "Where have you been," she demanded, her golden eyes flashing.
Rogue lifted an eyebrow. "Upstairs, ah thought ya'd figure that out." She kept walking past the blue skinned woman to the study where the meetings were held.
"Rogue."
She paused in midstep, looking over one shoulder. Folding her arms over her chest, she lifted an eyebrow at Mystique. "We're goin' t'be late."
"Forget about being late," Mystique snapped, her patience obviously about to shatter. "I got another letter from *Gambit.*" She spat the name out like it was something unsavory. "I thought we talked about this."
"Ah can' make him stop writin'," Rogue said, throwing just the right amount of carelessness into her voice.
"I thought you said that you stopped by there to hand in your resignation to the X-Men. And to tell him to stop bothering you," Mystique said through her teeth.
"Ah did." What Rogue didn't reveal was that she had gone in the middle of the night, when she was fairly sure that everyone would be asleep, and had stood outside the mansion, just staring, watching it with careful, guarded eyes. And when she had seen the faint, red glow of the end of a cigarette through one of the dew damp windows, she had found her eyes irresistibly drawn to the image.
That night, it had taken all of her strength not to run up the front steps of the institute, to throw open the door and rush up to the room that she knew connected to that window.
But Rogue didn't. Not just because of her pride but because, deep down, she truly felt that she had no right to. Her place with the X-Men had become null the day she had walked out.
"Sorry, sugah," she had whispered in the night, her breath fogging up in the air, blowing out like a rush of steam. "But ah ain' comin' back anytime soon. Maybe not ever."
*Definitely not ever,* Rogue thought, turning her back to Mystique again as she started walking. *Not that ah'm lovin' mah life here, but it is a roof over mah head. An' at least...*
A helpless, hopeless kind of smile pulled at her lips, the only kind that graced them these days. *At least ah don' hurt anyone here.*
Rogue walked the rest of the way to the study, slipping her gloves off and draping them over the arm of a brown leather chair before sinking into it, her legs splayed out in front of her.
Attending these meetings gloveless was a special kind of warning to the other members of this group. She didn't trust them, didn't believe that if they had the chance that they wouldn't, quite literally, stab her in the back.
So ritually, every time she entered the study, she slipped off the now black gloves and flashed a brief, chilling smile around the room.
X-Men these people were not. Trained killers, they were. Trained and *good* at what they did. Most of them were mutants, but a few weren't. They were just exceptionally skilled, something that put Rogue on edge even if she would never admit it openly to these assassins.
Mystique followed her inside, going to the front of the room, a frown pulling at her lips. She was obviously not happy with Rogue's behavior.
Rogue sighed and settled back into the plush chair, giving her foster mother a green, wide eyed look, one that clearly wanted to know why she was upset when she herself couldn't have *possibly* had anything to do with it.
*****************************************************
"Remy would you please come out of the room?" Jean Grey asked, her red eyebrows lifted in worry. "You can't carry on like this, it isn't healthy."
"Neither are those packs of cigarettes that we know you've been sneakin' everyday, bub," Logan added, rapping at the door with a heavy hand, his voice low and gravely.
"Der ain' nothin' ya could possibly have outside dat door dat would make me come out," Gambit replied from inside his room, pulling another cigarette out of its crinkly, cellophane package and lighting it up before taking a long drag of it, letting the smoke curlicue to the ceiling.
"That isn't true," Jean replied under her breath just as Wolverine started speaking again, his voice angry.
"I smell that," Logan snapped, hitting the door with a heavy fist. "Don't make me rip this poor excuse for a lock out of the door." His black eyes were narrowed, his shiny claws glinting menacingly in the florescent hallway lights.
"You're not helping matters," Jean hissed, her gaze still on the door -- and what was beyond it. Secretly though, she was surprised that Logan hadn't resorted to ripping the door off its hinges yet. Surprised, but pleasantly so.
But even with that new revelation, Jean knew, deep down, that nothing, short of Rogue standing outside the door, demanding that he come out, would get Remy to leave the sanctuary that his room provided.
"We'll still be waiting," she called through to the Cajun, her eyebrows drawn together worriedly. "Whenever you're ready."
Jean tilted her head to Logan, gesturing for him to follow her away from the door and down the hall.
********************************************************
"Dey jus' don' get it," Remy muttered, still staring out the window, flicking the ash from his cigarette every so often so that he wouldn't burn himself. His red on black eyes flickered downwards to the windowsill where a white envelope lay, the black ink that scrawled across it spiky and slanted. His own.
The letters he sent Rogue, at the address that he knew she resided at, were never granted a reply. Instead, he could only imagine what happened to the neatly folded, white paper that he covered with pleas and propositions.
Gambit had seen her once, only once, since the day at Mystique's quaint house in the middle of suburbia. And that had been in the middle of the night when she couldn't have known he was watching.
Rogue had been standing out on the front lawn of the institute, a thick black cape pulled up over her head, only a few wisps of white hair escaping to blow in the slight wind. Remy had had to blink twice, not entirely convinced that this form, this angelic apparition, wasn't just a figment of his imagination.
But when the figure looked up, obviously drawn by the red glow his cigarette made through the thin curtains, and he had known, without a doubt, that it was, indeed, Rogue standing outside.
It must have been the eyes that convinced him. The large, round, green jewels that glimmered even in the dreary early hours after midnight had come and gone, when the dew, settled on the grass and leaves, sparkled like liquid diamonds but that, somehow, wasn't a match for those eyes.
Remy had watched, smoking his cigarette, the tip flaring up with every breath he took in. He could have gone outside, swept her up in his arms and refused to let go. He could have *somehow* convinced her to stay.
Only he couldn't.
Something, something deep down, tugged at him, telling him to stay put, ordering him to let Rogue make her own decision. She had obviously not wanted to come back, he knew that, especially after that day at Mystique's house when she had deliberately turned her back on him before walking up to her room and shutting the door behind her.
Respecting that decision had been the hardest thing he had ever had to do. The hardest but most necessary. But, even if he was going to let her go and join the Brotherhood while all of his senses screamed that Rogue was making the biggest mistake of her life, he wasn't going to do it without making her think about what she had left behind.
"Dat be why I send da letters," he muttered, reaching down to pick up the clean, white envelope, the edges so perfectly kept that they hadn't been bent or tattered at all. He could only hope that, eventually, she'd realize.
*Realize what?* his mind threw back, mocking and filled with self-loathing. *Realize just how good she have it here? Why? Because you here?*
The thought was so preposterous that Gambit, who hadn't laughed or smiled since the day she had left, felt his lips helplessly tugging up at the sides.
Remy dropped the envelope to the bed, letting the paper flutter gently before landing on the red comforter, then turned his eyes away, back towards the window. He ground his used cigarette into the ashtray that had kept a constant vigil at the window before lighting up another, leaning against the wooden frame and going back to his careful watching.
*******************************************************
It wasn't that hard after a while, Rogue reflected, her hands pressed to the wooden window frame, her nose flattened against the cool glass that fogged up slightly with her breath. It wasn't that hard at all.
She sat back from the window, rocking gently on her heels. There was that meeting with Mystique, with the Brotherhood, the group that she had never felt completely comfortable with, that she needed to attend.
Rogue turned away from the warped image that reflected faintly back at her from the glass. Seeing herself now, seeing herself any day, was almost more than she could bear. Because all she saw, all the vision revealed to her, was a traitor.
She started down the stairs slowly, already knowing the scene that would greet her. The apple green, flower embossed couches, their material soft and silky. The wispy, white gauze curtains that billowed inwards whenever Mystique opened the windows to let in fresh air.
It was all so... normal. So completely normal and here she was, as abnormal as they came. Rogue felt out of place in this cheery, homelike place with the fresh flowers adorning the cherry wood dining room table, with the wreath of pure white daisies that she knew hung from the front door. But this was her new home. The place where she... belonged?
Rogue felt her lip twitch at the thought. The Brotherhood was where she belonged, among thieves, crooks, people with the moral aptitude of a cockroach.
*Fabulous,* she thought, letting her hand trail the rest of the way down the banister. Rogue stared at the glove once she reached the bottom step. No dust. Of course there wouldn't be. On the surface this small house was as clean, as uncorrupted, as they came.
But she had seen entirely too much of Mystique and her brood to believe that. She knew that beneath the snow white demeanor of her foster mother, there was a pit of black tar, hot and bubbling with hidden rage. And these meetings, the ones that Rogue was required to attend as a part of the Brotherhood, were nothing more than a farce. There was no doubt in her mind that the things that Mystique kept odd hours for, that had her hopping from country to country for days at a time, had nothing to do with these brief weekly meetings.
Rogue was greeted at the bottom by a harried looking Mystique. "Where have you been," she demanded, her golden eyes flashing.
Rogue lifted an eyebrow. "Upstairs, ah thought ya'd figure that out." She kept walking past the blue skinned woman to the study where the meetings were held.
"Rogue."
She paused in midstep, looking over one shoulder. Folding her arms over her chest, she lifted an eyebrow at Mystique. "We're goin' t'be late."
"Forget about being late," Mystique snapped, her patience obviously about to shatter. "I got another letter from *Gambit.*" She spat the name out like it was something unsavory. "I thought we talked about this."
"Ah can' make him stop writin'," Rogue said, throwing just the right amount of carelessness into her voice.
"I thought you said that you stopped by there to hand in your resignation to the X-Men. And to tell him to stop bothering you," Mystique said through her teeth.
"Ah did." What Rogue didn't reveal was that she had gone in the middle of the night, when she was fairly sure that everyone would be asleep, and had stood outside the mansion, just staring, watching it with careful, guarded eyes. And when she had seen the faint, red glow of the end of a cigarette through one of the dew damp windows, she had found her eyes irresistibly drawn to the image.
That night, it had taken all of her strength not to run up the front steps of the institute, to throw open the door and rush up to the room that she knew connected to that window.
But Rogue didn't. Not just because of her pride but because, deep down, she truly felt that she had no right to. Her place with the X-Men had become null the day she had walked out.
"Sorry, sugah," she had whispered in the night, her breath fogging up in the air, blowing out like a rush of steam. "But ah ain' comin' back anytime soon. Maybe not ever."
*Definitely not ever,* Rogue thought, turning her back to Mystique again as she started walking. *Not that ah'm lovin' mah life here, but it is a roof over mah head. An' at least...*
A helpless, hopeless kind of smile pulled at her lips, the only kind that graced them these days. *At least ah don' hurt anyone here.*
Rogue walked the rest of the way to the study, slipping her gloves off and draping them over the arm of a brown leather chair before sinking into it, her legs splayed out in front of her.
Attending these meetings gloveless was a special kind of warning to the other members of this group. She didn't trust them, didn't believe that if they had the chance that they wouldn't, quite literally, stab her in the back.
So ritually, every time she entered the study, she slipped off the now black gloves and flashed a brief, chilling smile around the room.
X-Men these people were not. Trained killers, they were. Trained and *good* at what they did. Most of them were mutants, but a few weren't. They were just exceptionally skilled, something that put Rogue on edge even if she would never admit it openly to these assassins.
Mystique followed her inside, going to the front of the room, a frown pulling at her lips. She was obviously not happy with Rogue's behavior.
Rogue sighed and settled back into the plush chair, giving her foster mother a green, wide eyed look, one that clearly wanted to know why she was upset when she herself couldn't have *possibly* had anything to do with it.
*****************************************************
"Remy would you please come out of the room?" Jean Grey asked, her red eyebrows lifted in worry. "You can't carry on like this, it isn't healthy."
"Neither are those packs of cigarettes that we know you've been sneakin' everyday, bub," Logan added, rapping at the door with a heavy hand, his voice low and gravely.
"Der ain' nothin' ya could possibly have outside dat door dat would make me come out," Gambit replied from inside his room, pulling another cigarette out of its crinkly, cellophane package and lighting it up before taking a long drag of it, letting the smoke curlicue to the ceiling.
"That isn't true," Jean replied under her breath just as Wolverine started speaking again, his voice angry.
"I smell that," Logan snapped, hitting the door with a heavy fist. "Don't make me rip this poor excuse for a lock out of the door." His black eyes were narrowed, his shiny claws glinting menacingly in the florescent hallway lights.
"You're not helping matters," Jean hissed, her gaze still on the door -- and what was beyond it. Secretly though, she was surprised that Logan hadn't resorted to ripping the door off its hinges yet. Surprised, but pleasantly so.
But even with that new revelation, Jean knew, deep down, that nothing, short of Rogue standing outside the door, demanding that he come out, would get Remy to leave the sanctuary that his room provided.
"We'll still be waiting," she called through to the Cajun, her eyebrows drawn together worriedly. "Whenever you're ready."
Jean tilted her head to Logan, gesturing for him to follow her away from the door and down the hall.
********************************************************
"Dey jus' don' get it," Remy muttered, still staring out the window, flicking the ash from his cigarette every so often so that he wouldn't burn himself. His red on black eyes flickered downwards to the windowsill where a white envelope lay, the black ink that scrawled across it spiky and slanted. His own.
The letters he sent Rogue, at the address that he knew she resided at, were never granted a reply. Instead, he could only imagine what happened to the neatly folded, white paper that he covered with pleas and propositions.
Gambit had seen her once, only once, since the day at Mystique's quaint house in the middle of suburbia. And that had been in the middle of the night when she couldn't have known he was watching.
Rogue had been standing out on the front lawn of the institute, a thick black cape pulled up over her head, only a few wisps of white hair escaping to blow in the slight wind. Remy had had to blink twice, not entirely convinced that this form, this angelic apparition, wasn't just a figment of his imagination.
But when the figure looked up, obviously drawn by the red glow his cigarette made through the thin curtains, and he had known, without a doubt, that it was, indeed, Rogue standing outside.
It must have been the eyes that convinced him. The large, round, green jewels that glimmered even in the dreary early hours after midnight had come and gone, when the dew, settled on the grass and leaves, sparkled like liquid diamonds but that, somehow, wasn't a match for those eyes.
Remy had watched, smoking his cigarette, the tip flaring up with every breath he took in. He could have gone outside, swept her up in his arms and refused to let go. He could have *somehow* convinced her to stay.
Only he couldn't.
Something, something deep down, tugged at him, telling him to stay put, ordering him to let Rogue make her own decision. She had obviously not wanted to come back, he knew that, especially after that day at Mystique's house when she had deliberately turned her back on him before walking up to her room and shutting the door behind her.
Respecting that decision had been the hardest thing he had ever had to do. The hardest but most necessary. But, even if he was going to let her go and join the Brotherhood while all of his senses screamed that Rogue was making the biggest mistake of her life, he wasn't going to do it without making her think about what she had left behind.
"Dat be why I send da letters," he muttered, reaching down to pick up the clean, white envelope, the edges so perfectly kept that they hadn't been bent or tattered at all. He could only hope that, eventually, she'd realize.
*Realize what?* his mind threw back, mocking and filled with self-loathing. *Realize just how good she have it here? Why? Because you here?*
The thought was so preposterous that Gambit, who hadn't laughed or smiled since the day she had left, felt his lips helplessly tugging up at the sides.
Remy dropped the envelope to the bed, letting the paper flutter gently before landing on the red comforter, then turned his eyes away, back towards the window. He ground his used cigarette into the ashtray that had kept a constant vigil at the window before lighting up another, leaning against the wooden frame and going back to his careful watching.