Fic Title: A Memory in White
Author:A Denial
Rating: PG-13
Pairing: Remy, Rogue
Not affiliated with: Marvel, Warner Bros

And ah yeah, thedisclaimer:

I don't own Marvel, or the X-Men, or what is perhaps the most written about couple on the internet, so don't bother suing me. If you instead decide to sue Stan Lee (for whatever reason, maybe the way Remy was almost totally cut off from XME), and get the syndication for Rogue and Remy from him, please share them with us, okay?

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This is intended to be a short fic about Remy and Rogue. I wrote the first chapter right after reading D.H. Lawrence, so the fic's bound to be a bit, er, off the beaten path.

Other than that, I just want to write here that the first chapter's meant to be read in a slow way; rushing through it will probably not get as good an effect, it'll probably end up sounding lame then.

Okay?

Then read on, enjoy, and please review.

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It's funny how life can be compared to the most trivial ofthings, she thought, like a cup of latte.

Well, it has the fine bitter powder that gives flavor; it has little rocky peaks of sweetness, of happiness, that get mixed in, stirred into the warm murky brown depths that lie beneath the cream, the white pureness that covers the dark beneath.

Actually, to be fair, she thought, stirring her own cup, life was nothing like a cup of latte. What was staring her in the face was a swirling white-brown cup of frothy latte, which was nothing like life, which was nothing like coffee, which was. . .

She shook her head, trying to dislodge the cobwebs there, trying to shake off the grey haze of sleep that had threatened more than once, to gently drop her nodding head into her cup.

Of course, analogies were not the best way of waking up, she mused, as she pushed away the cup and stumbled to her room, eyes periodically opening and closing, and her yawns echoing in the quiet chilly stillness of the passageway. If he didn't come soon, she would go to sleep, uncaring, oblivious to his calls. If he came after that, well, there would be hell for him to pay, wouldn't there?

In her room, everything faded away to a pale mockery of reality except her bed, resplendent and siren-like, seeming to invite her, mockingly, though knowing she was supposed to stay awake, yet promising her comfort, warm comfort in the cold weather, and sanctuary against the belief that he might not come.

Moving darkly, slowly, in the gloom, she ignored the bed, sleepy eyes under tousled hair squinting softly in the near dark. In the pale shadows of her room, she could make out her dresser, like a rock in the middle of a dream, and she sailed towards it slowly, dream like and deliberate in her motion.

On the dresser, the clock showed, in phosphorous coated green authority, that it was five in the morning, the time kept by him for the meeting. She sank upon the chair kept in front of the dresser, her mind teeming with curses that scattered like ants in her mind, and, like ants, came crawling to the tip of her tongue, forcing her to speak them to be rid of them. Another few minutes, and she would drift off to sleep, clandestine meetings be damned. In the meanwhile, however, there was nothing for her to do, nothing that would lessen the cloying, choking grip of sleep that had practically turned her into a sleepwalker, nothing that would stop her from. . .

Her eyes lighted on her make-up kit, left unprotected on her dresser, lying there small and unassuming, innocent, surely worth more than a distraction from sleep.

But there was nothing else in that pale dark room, touched by glimmerings from the soft, shy sun, that she could use, nothing really, that could be used by her without her taking the effort to rise from her chair, nothing she could think of that would attract her strongly enough to prevent her from embracing the soft draining touch of her bed, that now glowed softly, torch-like, in the pale touches of the sun, calling her, knowing that she was moth-like in that moment, wishing to burn her into moth smoke.

She shivered then, cold suddenly, away from the warm grabbing softness of her bed, and shaking off her languor, began to apply her make-up, the same way she had done so often that her hands moved of their own accord, softly, sensitively brushing her skin, soft and sensitive in the cold pale dawn.

White on her pale skin, perhaps to hide her face and mask her insecurities, perhaps to contrast between her good side and her black, darker side, which she signified by using black lipstick, looking carefully, piercingly at her heart shaped face in the round mirror.

Round like a target, she thought, applying the purple eye shadow. Purple for royalty, she supposed, maybe a deep seated need to prove to people that she was someone, something special. . . or maybe the half witted ramblings of a girl who definitely needed to catch up on her sleep. It was well past the time for the meeting. He was not coming.

She had risen up from her chair, was about to assent to the dark silent call of her bed, when the soft muted knockings of a few expertly thrown pebbles on her window broke the spell she was under, and deftly wove another one around her.

Softly, disbelievingly, she walked to the window, opened it slowly, dream-like, and peered out below. In the light mist of dawn, wind ruffled hair blowing gently to the side he stood, like a strange unexpected specter, wraithlike in the rapidly dissolving gloom, trench coat slowly wafting with the cool breeze. His cheeks were ruddy from the cold, and his eyes a muted red, crinkled from his smile. The whole scene seemed frozen for her, looking out from her second story window, and when he spoke, she could see the mist rise slowly from his breath, disappearing lazily away.

"Cherie,"

was all that he said, and she knew in a moment of sharp, sudden insight, that she was his. Forever.

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Love it? Hate it? Think it tastes like chicken?

Review, and if you don't like the tone, or the over-description I admit I used on purpose, please tell me. Do tell do tell do tell . . . Okay?