Wine.
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He can find a way to get her drunk on springtime, wintertime, anytime: smiling his sly, broad, charming smile and twirling a finger at her like magic, like liquor, like a horrible beautiful song. Red eyes, crimson just like her long hair swaying around her shoulders, and she remembers Rogue saying his eyes are like blood.
She sees the brilliant core of a fire and is not surprised.
It is his voice, though, pouring in smooth Cajun lyric from that cruel, sweet smile of his; the peculiar, unique accent from the Louisiana bayou that screams of danger, look out, don't close your eyes to the fire. And so she keeps her eyes open, sees that deep red glow of the fire, sees his soul through the eerie trappings without probing his mind for it. A lonely, harsh soul: he has reasons, yes, but she knows he chooses his own particular hell. He is amoral, a pickpocket, a liar and trickster and a man who no longer gives a damn about damnation.
He has the pleasure of choosing hell instead of being cast to it.
"What you're doing is wrong," she snapped once, some months after Rogue had returned in one piece, safe as far as they could tell. Wrong, and she meant evil, or irresponsible, and irresponsible had become evil in her eyes; they were mutants and she had placed all her trust in Scott who could prepare for anything, who could be responsible.
But he found ways to tease her to his wildness, to take crazy chances and follow his smile; to heaven or hell or anywhere in between, and she thinks only part of is that insatiable charm of his.
He makes her light.
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