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We've Met Before

Chapter Six

Two days later…

'To Rogue' the letter read. The envelope was small and baby blue, a fact that held special significance for her; letters from her absent mother had always been packaged just that way. The printing, however, was not Mystique's; the long and loopy cursive was in Irene's distinct hand.

She took a seat on the couch and felt thankful that she had a moment's privacy. She'd been expecting something like this; Irene often took it upon herself to smooth over any arguments that arose within the family. And usually, her calm, gently delivered advice was enough. But this time…

She was in on it, too.

Irene had lied, had taken advantage of Rogue, and had abused their relationship. That tear in Rogue's trust wasn't going to be easily mended, certainly not by any letter. What could Irene possibly write? 'I'm sorry, dear; I neglected to tell you that you were raised by a terrorist who now wants your power for her quest against humanity. You understand, don't you?'

Because she didn't understand, that was the problem. She couldn't fathom how Irene and Mystique had conspired behind her back, when they were supposed to be her parents, her role models, her childhood heroes. She didn't understand what that made her –how much of their beliefs, their characters, their attitudes on life had seeped into her while she was growing up in their house? Was she destined to follow in their footsteps? Irene would know the answer, but Rogue refused to ask.

After thinking about it considerably, she almost threw the letter away. It would've been so easy to stand up, walk to the trashcan, and release the envelope, never to give it a second thought. But, in a testimony to the power Irene still held over her despite everything, she found she lacked the will. She was compelled to read it.

Pausing, Rogue took a deep breath and then slid her thumb through the fold in the envelope, tearing it open. She extended the paper within and read:

Dear Rogue,

You surprise me. I know you, you've got a temper that closes your ears and covers your eyes to any other side of the story once you're mad. Imagine my shock, then, when I looked at this moment and discovered that you'd actually read what I'd sent. Or maybe you're just growing up, growing way from that introspective young girl I helped raise. I can see what's going to happen to you, you know, what you'll do, but I can't feel your emotions, I can't tell you what and who you're going to be on the inside.

I'm sorry you found out about things the way that you did. It wasn't fair. I hope you will try to remember that there are concerns in this world that demand action –and not always the kind of action that we want to take.

Regardless, we –Mystique and I- would like a chance to atone. I know that you won't accept this offer the first time I make it. But I make, nonetheless. We want you to come home for a while, Rogue. Let us prove ourselves worthy of your memory.

Love, Irene.

Silently, Rogue replaced the letter and slipped it into her back pocket, thinking it'd be a cold day in Hell before she went back to Mississippi.


Meanwhile…

"Can I ask of your progress?" Piotr said to Gambit, while they sparred in the middle of the practice room Magneto had had installed for them. It lacked many of the luxuries that the X-Men's Danger Room was rumored to enjoy, but it suited their purposes well enough. They could fight, and improve their skills, and that was all that Magento cared about. As he spoke, the young, stoic Russian stared down inquiringly through brilliant, reflectively silver eyes that stingily gave away no emotions, but with all the practice Remy had with people, he could read him well, anyway. Like a mother hen, Piotr was pestering, implying with every word that he doubted Remy's intentions regarding Rogue.

But this time, Remy was in no mood to spend the afternoon placating the Russian. Instead of answering, he smiled enigmatically and twirled his staff, all the while maintaining a perfect silence.

After a moment, Piotr sighed. "You do not intent to answer?"

"Why should I? You haven't provided me wit' sufficient incentive," Remy said. His eyes looked beyond Piotr, towards the heavy walls, and he contemplated the amount of energy that would be required to send the bricks raining down on the Russian's head.

"I'm only concerned. You're an intelligent fighter, but the girl may cloud your head. Is she worth Magneto's wrath?"

Remy rolled his eyes. "Mebbe Magneto keeps you on a short leash, mon ami. But I stay only so long as it is profitable fo' me. I wouldn't be here if I t'ought Magento was gonna lose da battle 'tween him and da X-Men. An' I ain't gon' jeopardize my paycheck because o' a pretty face."

"And that's all it comes down to? Money?" Piotr asked, obviously uncertain. Remy thought: the Russian couldn't possibly let his life be decided for something so materialistic. He didn't understand the thinking behind mercenaries, and that was an advantage.

Remy shrugged, playing up the angle of a soldier-for-hire. "What else matters? Love? Friendship? Don't be so naïve." Tired of the game, and even more so of the questions, he quickly charged his staff and shoved it into his sparring partner's embrace. It exploded delightfully, and only a small push was needed to send the larger Acolyte sailing into the wall. Pieces of it crumbled down, leaving Remy with a small amount of satisfaction –he'd calculated correct.

A man may have many faces, though his single head allows for only one to show at time; often lost in his easygoing manner and playful taunts was the ruthless streak Remy had gained on the cold-hearted streets of New Orleans. But he let it show through his eyes as he looked down at Piotr. "Don't play inquisitor t' me anymore, Petey," he said. "It doesn't suit y' well."

"I was only concerned." Piotr repeated.

"I don't want yo' concern."

"I know the power affection can hold on a person, Gambit. I've felt it myself."

Remy ignored him, as he turned to leave. He didn't require a lecture, not on this subject he knew only too well. Of course affection could be a weakness –hadn't he proven that when he pushed the entire New Orleans Underworld to the brink of war because of Bella?

But Piotr would not be satisfied, and sooner or later, his constant nagging would alarm Magneto. While Remy felt confident in his ability to handle yet another foe –for what was one more block of stone on an already giant pyramid?- he was not eager to add to the list. Only a fool would be so brash. He'd have to do something to assuage the doubt.


Inappropriate thoughts were a lot like telemarketers and Internet pop-ups of the mind: though never wanted, and always bothersome to the host, they nevertheless sprang out with an annoying, distracting persistence. Notice me, notice me, or you'll never in your life have a moment's peace.

Rogue was in the middle of an important mission –at least, that's what Cyclops had said, though she had her doubts. Regardless, she couldn't afford to be distracted by her own wandering mind. Focus was vital. Essential. Crucial. But once the thought of Remy LeBeau had entered her head, she couldn't chase it away.

It had been four days since their last meeting. Not a long time, by any standards, but long enough for her to wonder. What would the next rendezvous be like? Slightly different than the last, she supposed, partly because their time at Antonio's had proven that their experiment could work, they could act like friends, and now they'd both had time to internalize that; and, partly because she'd had an asinine moment when she'd assumed her own card skills could trump his, prompting her to raise the wager and so, Remy would get to dress her up like a doll. Even now she couldn't imagine what had driven her to say clothes. Clothes! Her crucial, protective barrier from a world of too much skin. But it was too late to back out now.

Behind her, someone stirred. Then, a voice came, "Rogue, I don't want to seem Cyke-like, but you're looking pretty spacey. I mean we are trying to scope out an evil villain's hideout, aren't we? Inside that building only a short walk away, all of the Acolytes could be plotting world domination for their boss." Kitty Pryde giggled. "Or baking cookies. Either way, we got to be alert."

"Right." Rogue said, with an air of disbelief. She pushed her friend back, lightly. "Ah am alert, Shadowcat. Don't worry."

"Whatever you say," Kitty murmured, falling back to her own position.

Alone again, Rogue sighed and tried to refocus in on important things. Like where she was. The abandoned building the X-men were surveying was located in the farthest, most secluded corner of Bayville. Somebody's watch had beeped a while ago, making it a little past midnight. Her eyes wandered up to the night sky, where they found mild amazement: looking up at the sky was like staring down at a pool of oil, it was easy to get lost in it's black depths and slight shine. There was no moon to interfere, not twinkle of stars. In fact, the only light available to the team came from a few streetlights that wound around the building, and they were but a sickly, dying halo that seemed to fear the encroaching darkness.

Again, an inappropriate thought: Scott had outdone himself with the Danger Room simulation. The idea that the Acolytes would be located in some dark, inaccessible corner was unlikely, and struck her as rather cliché, but the picture he'd painted was strikingly realistic and beautiful to see. He was becoming an artist in his own right. She wondered if Professor Xavier and Dr. Franklin, both of whom were watching from a distance, thought the same way.

As if in response, Xavier's voice flooded her mind. Rogue, I'd like to see you.

Right now? In the middle o' th' mission? She thought.

Yes. I'll explain to Scott later.

Oh. With a sigh, she glanced back, towards Kitty Pryde, and beyond her, Nightcrawler. How am Ah supposed ta get free without disturbin' th' mission?

I'll take care of it. Rogue waited for something to happen. But neither of them moved. She was going to ask the professor what to expect, when it dawned on her just how much they hadn't moved. Not a muscle. Not a blink. Oh, she said again, understanding. Standing up, she crept quickly past her frozen teammates until the Danger Room doors closed behind her.

Xavier was waiting on the other side. "They're confused, but Scott will take it as part of the mission," He explained, leading her down the hallway. "Meanwhile, I have a job for you."

"What kind o' job?"

"The easy kind," he said, smiling. "I'd like you to tail a certain Acolyte." He handed her a folder, which she promptly opened. A familiar face stared back at her –Remy LeBeau's.

"What's goin' on?"

"He's been seen at the Karot club for the past three nights. The owners know Logan, and they've conveyed their concern to him. They believe Gambit may be scoping the club, preparing for a theft. Last night, Logan served as a security guard, but he had to leave town for the day. And it doesn't matter much, because according to his and the owner's report, Remy LeBeau always leaves at a certain time with a companion he meets there."

"Th' same one?" She asked.

"Yes." Xavier handed her a new folder. "This is the female he meets."

She opened it and glanced at the lady. "Who is she?"

"We don't know. But you'll be taking a camera with you, and hopefully we can identify her soon."

"What do ya think they're meetin' for?" Rogue wondered.

"Again, I don't know." He smiled. "Hopefully, it'll be nothing more than a budding romance."

Rogue didn't smile back.


Four Hours Later…

Remy LeBeau led his female companion to the side of a car. Rogue thought: probably her car, but then she didn't know for sure. She'd never seen Remy LeBeau drive before. It troubled her, that she didn't know such a simple detail about him. Lifting up her camera, she snapped a picture of the two.

The girl was pretty, but nothing excessive. She wasn't going to turn many heads, or stop traffic. Curly brown hair framed her face, and she was dressed in black slacks and a matching sweater that would've hugged her curves if she hadn't been so thin. Rogue paused, mid-thought, and shook her head. She was already letting Remy cloud her judgement of people?

Reaching into the car, Curly Brown pulled out a box and handed it to Remy, looking quite pleased. Rogue snapped more pictures as the box traded hands. Remy, for his part, flashed a charming grin and planted a kiss on the girl's forehead. Curly blushed and turned away. Rogue frowned.

There were more words said, and Rogue took as many pictures as her camera would allow, wondering if someone could piece together the pictures like a flip book, and read the pair's lips. Curly, meanwhile, pulled herself into the car –so it was her's- and drove off. Rogue slid the camera into her pocket and moved closer to Remy.

Or tried to.

One minute she was nearing Remy LeBeau, and the next she was standing alone on an empty street. How, or when he'd disappeared was something of a mystery to her. He wasn't that fast, and she wasn't that inept. But that didn't change the fact that he was missing from her sight.

"Well, well, well," a voice said behind her. "I think yo' da best lookin' tail I've ever worn."

She shut her eyes. "Remy." Maybe he was that fast, after all.

"Roguey," he laughed, coming up beside her, still holding the box. "I can't say I'm not glad t' see you. Didn't expect da X-Men would be so careful as t' send someone, but so long as they are, 'least it was you here. Saves m' a trip an' da trouble o' t'inkin' up another way t' get yo' attention. I t'ink I need da break. Last time's was a lil' lame, non?"

She put a hand on her hip, and glanced at him skeptically. "Ah catch ya meetin' with someone strange girl an' ya think Ah'm gonna believe you were on yoah way ta see me? Ah'm not that gullible!"

"Why Roguey, y' almost sound jealous." Remy teased. "Don't tell me I've already wormed m' way into yo' heart."

"That won't be a problem, since it ain't true. What's goin' on with the girl, you, an' the box?"

He looked at the object in his hands before answering. "Have you ever noticed dat it's harder t' convince people o' da truth than it is t' sell 'em a lie? I could've said I'm on Acolyte business, an' if y' stuck t' our agreement, you'd have t' make due wit' what y' caught wit' yo' camera, non? No mo' questions, no mo' suspicious stares. But I really did plan on makin' m' way towards yo' side o' town, Chere. Dat girl y' saw was a friend who was helpin' me find some clothes an' make reservations fo' us."

"Ya couldn't find yo' own clothes?" She said, still not quite believing him.

"Not like dis." With a smile, he removed the top of the box and tilted it down so she could get a good look at the contents. And then… she wanted to smack herself, for sitting neatly, perfectly folded, was a pinstripe suit and a fedora. Beneath those, she could also see ladies gloved and the bottom of a fringy dress.

"They're clothes," she muttered like an idiot.

"I know. Special ordered. Da place we're headin' to has a dress code."

"Oh."

He put an arm around her and shook his head. "C'mon, Chere. I'll drive us there on m' bike. I'll even have y' home at a nice, tardy hour."


"So you walk through walls and offer relationship advice," Carol Danvers said to Kitty Pryde, as they made their way outside. The X-men's training session had ended, so the brunette had agreed to help improve Carol's fighting control.

"I do it all," Kitty said with a smile.

"There's this guy back at my old school who totally dug me," Carol sighed, "And I liked him back. But I've never believed in long distance relationships. Now that he's written me, should I write him back?"

"Yeah," Kitty said, touching Carol's arm so they both could phase through the front door. "But make it sure it's clear that you just want to be friends right now." They stepped outside.


"Ah look like a flapper." Rogue said, staring down at the dress that she'd donned. It, thankfully, still covered her mostly all over, but still… she looked like a flapper.

Remy, for his part, was also in costume by this time. They'd driven to a part of New York that seemed questionable to Rogue, and she couldn't imagine seeing the kind of exclusive bar Remy had described located in such a dumpy area. But Remy was adamant about getting the address right. So, they'd both changed in the bathroom of a gas station. He was playing the part of a mobster, equal parts Al Capone, Frank Sinatra, and some silver screen movie star. His costume fitted him well, and he did look rather dashing, and debonair, in the suit. Especially with the fedora on.

"It's a speakeasy," Remy explained. "Y' gotta fit in wit' da theme. Y' are a flapper t'night. A really sexy one, by da way."

"Shut up," she said, glaring at him.

"You da bees knees."

"Whatever."

"Da berries, Chere."

"Ah get yoah point."

"Da doll wit' da best get-a-way sticks dis side o' New York."

"Remy." She sighed. "Enough."

He nodded, looking like she'd burst his bubble. But then he added, "What's say you an' me blow dis Popsicle stand an' find ourselves a struggle-buggy we were could have a real adventure?" He ducked when she swung her hand out to slap him upside the head. She ended up hitting his hat instead, and damn it all if he didn't look better with it tilted down over part of his face.

"Can we find th' place now?" Rogue asked.

"It'll be easy. It's right across da street." He pointed to a set of buildings nearby; Rogue thought he'd lost it. There was nothing there but stores and houses that looked like they should've been condemned when Kennedy was elected president.

"Remy… you sure 'bout this?"

He squeezed her hand and started pulling her in the direction he'd indicated. "O' course."

Her feet resisted. "Ah dunno."

"Look, we're already here, right? So we might as well look at it. An' if we get inside an' y' still aren't completely enchanted wit' da place, we'll leave."

"Well… okay."

When they made it across the road, Remy headed for what seemed like the worst place of all; it was a small wonder that the building was even able to keep its shape. There was a wooden door on one side, and that's where Remy approached. He knocked on the door once, and then turned back to give Rogue a reassuring one last smile. "Trust me, Chere, you'll love dis place."

"Sure," she responded, a bit sarcastically, but her curiosity was piqued when the small square on the door was pulled away, revealing an opening. There was a man on the other side; she could see his cracked, crooked lips and wispy, white whiskers.

"What does Mama like on her sandwich?" He asked in a low voice.

Before Rogue could comment on the absurdity and strangeness of the question, Remy leaned in and answered, "Turkey an' Pickles." There was a pause, and the whole door was pulled open, revealing a suited man with a mouth Rogue had already become too acquainted with.

"Come in." The man commanded. They followed inside the building, which proved to be just as rundown and seedy-looking as Rogue had expected. The walls, or what was left of them, were yellowed and streaked with dirt, and the wooden floor creaked and moaned with each of their steps, as if suggesting it would rather collapse into a pile of broken planks than support the weight of one more person.

"Isn't dis great?" Remy told her, as they kept moving towards the wall farthest from the door.

"It's… the berries," She sighed, watching the suited man, who had reached the wall before them, and began readjusting the few picture-less frames that were hanging from it. All of a sudden, the walls began to moan, like the floor, only louder, and for a brief second, Rogue thought the entire building was going to fall down around her; but, only the one wall moved, exposing a passageway. The man gestured to it.

"Enjoy your time here at Sandrine's." He said, smiling for the first time. Remy tipped his fedora, before taking Rogue's arm and leading her through the passageway.

The other side was a whole other world.


Remy thought: MasterCard was right –some things were priceless, like a baby's cry, a child's laughter, the sight of a sunrise over snowy mountains… and the look of astonishment that painted Rogue's face as they stepped into the elusive Sandrine's. Her jaw dropped as she soaked in the her surroundings; the bar, with its long black countertop and ruby stools, the tables scattered sporadically across the floor, and band playing a slow, but catchy tune.

He smiled. A friend had invited him to Sandrine's once, and the atmosphere had seduced him, too. It was such an unusual place…

"Ah can't believe it." Rogue exclaimed, at last finding her voice.

"C'mon, Chere, let's sit at da counter." He helped her to a seat, and then slid easily onto the next stool, signaling the bartender for a few drinks. "I was gon' take you t' a regular restaurant," he explained as their waited, "but once you suggested we up da bet an' extend it t' clothes, I knew Sandrine's was da place fo' us."

"Do ya come here often?" She wondered. He shook his head. In truth, reservations were needed to enjoy the wonders of the bar, and most people would have better luck catching a shark with a water bottle than getting in. Even for him, with a network of friends and acquaintances that stretched out across the world, it had been a challenge to gain entrance on such a short notice.

"Is Sandrine a real person?" Rogue asked.

"She is." Remy smiled. "She comes out sometimes t' bartend. She's nice, but fierce. Dat woman'll chop off y' hand if she catches y' stealin'."

"Why do Ah get th' feelin' you learned that th' hard way?" He laughed, but she was right. He'd pocketed a few dollars from his fellow customers once, and the woman had caught a hold of him and yanked him over the counter, demanding he return what he'd taken. He hadn't lost a limb, exactly, but the encounter had left him with bruises on his arm and his ego. Remy recounted this Rogue, who found it amusing. "She sounds like mah kinda woman," Rogue said.

"You an' her would probably get along."

Their drinks arrived, and Rogue took hers, but studied it carefully. "What is this, anyway? Ah can't drink nothin' that'll stay on m' breath, 'else everyone will get suspicious,"

"It's a Special. Don't worry. Typically, they only sell gin an' stuff here –it is a speakeasy- but dis is just a flavored soda. You'll be fine."

"Excuse me, Missssss."

They turned around to see a man, dressed as a Flaming Youth despite his obvious older age. "Ithinkthat'smydrink." He slurred, pointing somewhere between Rogue and Remy's glasses.

"Honey, leave 'em alone." A lady, who looked to be the same age as the man, grabbed his shoulder, "They're having fun. They don't want some old ossified man barging in on them."

He frowned. "Are you suggesting I'm spiffilina… spifffley…spiff…spoff... drunk?"

"Yeah, now come on." She smiled weakly at the teenagers. "Sorry. He's had a few too many drinks. The way he guzzles here, you'd think Prohibition was still in effect. Hon, get away from the kids!" The woman pulled at his collar, until the man stumbled backwards, and she was able to guide him towards their table.

When they'd left, Rogue turned to Remy, a wide smile across her face. "Ain't that sweet," she said, and he couldn't tell if she was being sarcastic again, or sentimental. "Are you gonna make yoah wife wrestle you away from kids when yoah old an' drunk?"

"I won't be gettin' old," Remy confided. "I plan on bein' twenty somet'in' fo' da rest o' m' life."

"Ain't that a lofty goal?"

He nodded. "But what's da alternative? Getting' old an' dying. It's better t' have extremely high expectations than none at all."

She took a slow drink and seemed to digest his words. "Ah'd like ta learn ta speak ev'ry language in th' world. It'd be so nice ta travel all around an' never be hindered by somethin' like proper wordin' or pronunciation."

He rose up his glass. "I'll drink t' dat."

She joined him, declaring, "To th' unlikely."

"An' t' us," he added.

As they glasses clinked, she gave him a smile, asking, "Is there a difference?"


The scenery was beautiful, all glossy green leaves, rosy red apples, and unnaturally soft grass. The sun beamed down, but it was warm, like Heaven smiling. Jean Grey leaned back into the grass, feeling very much at peace. "This is wonderful, Scott. I can't believe you designed this for me. And to think, people laugh when I say you're one of the most romantic guys I know."

"They laugh?" Scott said, feeling mildly offended.

"Hysterically."

Scott had been reclined on the grass beside Jean, but now he propped himself up on an elbow and frowned. "I can be romantic."

"I know."

"I buy flowers." He reminded her, "And candy."

"You're preaching to the choir," Jean sighed, wishing suddenly that she hadn't brought up the subject. "And besides, who cares what anyone else thinks?"

"Not me." Scott said. Then he added, "But I can be romantic."

"Scott, I know. Don't worry about it, okay?"

"I won't." He answered. He let his eyes wander to the sky, where they encountered clouds –the snowy white kind, that looked like pieces of cotton candy, or lumps of frosting suspended in the air. Jean felt his mind beginning to relax again, and she closed her eyes… until Scott sat up, abruptly. "This isn't the only programmed I made for you," he informed her, "and if you want romantic, the other one is definitely the way to go. It's much better than this one and almost finished. I just wanted to add a few… romantic touches."

Jean groaned. Sometimes, the things that made Scott a great leader were the same things that made her want to bash his head in like a it was a pumpkin in front of a house that didn't pass out Halloween candy.

He frowned. "You're projecting into my mind again."

"I know. Show me the simulation."

"If you'd rather wait, we can do this some other time."

"Scott, you and I both know that you're trying to convince yourself that you can be a good boyfriend. You're not so open and society-driven as to care what everyone else says. The only way you're going to do that is to show me the other simulation, which you know is well programmed, so that I can gush and we can get on with our date. Which, by the way, is rapidly declining in romanticness."

"I don't think romanticness is a word."

"Scott."

With a resigned sigh, Scott accessed the controls and the world around them faded and vanished, like a dream meeting the dawn. Jean sat up and waited while Scott issued the commands. That's when the clown appeared.

At first, it was just two red, giant shoes attached to baggy pants. Then came the matching, polka-dotted torso, followed by long arms and a stubby neck, and finally came the appearance of a head, face painted white, hair red and curly. It grinned, almost cruelly, at the pair.

"Scott, we need to have a talk about this," she said, though even as the words left her mouth she sensed his confusion; he hadn't put it there. She thought maybe it was a prank, one of the other students messing with their too-strict leader…but then the clown spoke.

"You think you're smart, but you're not! I know you're secretest secret. So na na nah na na."


That they danced well together was really no kind of shock to Remy. After all, he'd learned the art years before and even in walking she had the quiet grace that always adapted well to the dance floor. Rogue, likewise, seemed unimpressed by their abilities, perhaps because she recalled their smooth steps in Jacksonville and expected no less; and so, it was the rest of Sandrine's crowd –drinkers, musicians, and fellow dancers- who carried the burden of being delighted and slightly amazed at the young couple moving so well together.

At first, Remy had worried at the attention, especially the way the crowd had formed a loose semi-circle around them, for he knew Rogue had an aversion to large groups of people, and with good reason; he didn't want her feeling anxious or on edge. But, surprisingly, his dancing partner was neither. He liked to think it was because she'd completely lost herself in his arms, and was so swept up in him that she could think of nothing else, but that was probably a stretch of the truth longer than the highway. Still, the thought was a smile-inducing one.

Seeing him, Rogue observed, "Ya look happy."

"Why shouldn't I? I'm dancin' wit' da prettiest girl around. I'm only feet away from a practically unlimited supply o' bourbon, an' I get t' wear a fedora," he said, tapping the brim of his hat. "Dis is my heaven."

"All ya could ever wish for?"

He took a long, appreciative glance at her, leering a bit. "Well, almost."

"Ugh," she said, "The male mind is a disgustin' place. Every now an' then, ya think you've found a clean spot worth examinin', but it always turns out you were wrong."

"Da ladies always say dat," he noted, "but they crave our attention an' affection anyway. Why do y' t'ink dat is, Chere? Could it be because despite their lovely surface an' charmin' sense o' decorum, they secretly have disgustin' minds, too? Maybe even mo' so n' ours, 'cause they've repressed themselves so long."

"No." Rogue answered, while the song ended and the band took a moment to regroup. The crowd around them dispersed a little, returning to the counter to replenish their drinks, granting the teenagers some degree of privacy. Rogue watched them go and then turned back to Remy. "An' Ah don't crave a thing from you, Sugah."

"Sugah," Remy repeated, mimicking her accent. "Where'd that come from?"

"Ah don't even know. Although, back in Caldecott, m' teacher used ta say that all the time. Drove me nuts. Sugah, put down that pen an' go out ta recess already. Seats are for sittin', Sugah, not for standin'. C'mon, Sugah pull out yoah homework so's Ah don't have ta fail ya. Ah think she's the whole reason Ah developed a mistrust o' authority."

"Mebbe yo' subconscious is tryin' t' drive me crazy, too. But didn't y' know? I already am." He leaned in towards her. "Crazy 'bout you."

"That's th' corniest thing Ah ever heard."

He laughed in open acknowledgement. Somewhere along the line, he developed a hobby for collecting awful pick up lines. Using them with girls was like juggling single-handedly; they were a handicap, to be sure, but if he could deliver them in just the right way, it would make him seem all the more amazing. And, he hadn't failed yet.

Finally, the band began again. This time, they adopted a slower tune, and Remy used that as an excuse to pull Rogue closer to him.

"Remy," Rogue said softly. "Say somethin' serious."

"What?"

"You're always kiddin'. But Ah know you've got a somber side; Ah've seen it before. Ah'd like ta see it again. Say somethin' serious."

"Like what?"

"Ah don't know." She sighed. "Anythin'."

"Okay." He answered, frowning. Serious? Why would she ask that? Unless, he thought to himself, what she really wanted was for him to be sincere. Sighing, he wondered if maybe, he could ask her the question that had been nagging him for several days. Would she know the answer? Deciding to take the chance, he asked, "Roguey, how are we gonna know if dis experiment worked? At what point do we shake hands an' call it a day, o' embrace an' call it love?"

It was her turn to sound surprised. "What?" She said, looking up sharply.

"Let's be perfectly honest, non? We didn't set dis up t' see if we could be just friends. We wanted t' see if we would fall in love again, right? An' if it'd last us."

"Yeah."

"So, how are we gonna know when it's either gonna work o' not? O' do we just keep meetin' in secret for da rest o' our lives, never findin' th' answer."

He expected her to pull away. But instead, she buried her face in his shirt and groaned. "You're askin' me?" She mumbled, and the words tickled his chest.

"Oui."

"What kind o' question is that?"

"A logical one, Chere."

She lifted her head, and her eyes were almost grey in the light. "Ah've been wonderin', too," she confessed, "An' the best answer Ah can come up with is…"

"Yes?"

"Well," she sighed. "You remember Jacksonville?"

"Vividly."

"Ah was really taken with you then, Remy. When we kissed, Ah was floatin'. Flyin'. Ah felt like everythin' in me was full."

"I know what y' mean." He said.

"Ever since we started this, it's been fun. Ah feel good. Great, even. You're funny, charmin', good-lookin', and almost too creative. But, ta be perfectly honest, Ah haven't felt that same rush. Ah doubt you have, too."

"Well, I haven't kissed you, Chere."

"Ah know," she sighed again. "But that's the point. We don't know how long it's gonna take for me ta gain control o' my powers. So if it really is love, we're gonna have ta rediscover that feelin', but we gotta do it without touch."

He smiled, trying to ease the tension. "Don't worry 'bout it. In no time, we'll be so deep in love, we'll be drownin' in it."

"Ah'm sure," she said, rolling her eyes.

"It's true."

"Ah'll bet."

"I've never been wrong, River Rat, but if you'd like ta make it a wager, I won't stop y'."

"Remy, Ah'm standin' in front o' you, wearin' a flapper's dress an' shoes that went outta style eighty years ago. You really think Ah'm up for another bet?"

He grinned, mischieviously. "Ten bucks an' a bottle o' bourbon says we'll be two crazy kids in love by dis time next month."

"Make it twenty, an' Ah'll say that it ain't happenin' 'til September."


Later…

Moonlight rained down on her as she stood outside the mansion's front door and hunted through her jacket's pockets for the key. Exhaustion was weighing down her eyelids, and no small measure of confusion was filling all the space inside her head; the meeting with Remy had been fun. When she'd been with him, she'd smiled like an idiot too much of the time. But the minute she'd been on her own, all the troubles had come crashing back, like a river that refused to be contained.

He was asking her questions about where and when they'd realize it was love? He asked her what they were supposed to do about everyone else? Like she had any answers. She'd given him the best response she had in her: that they'd just know, because everything they felt inside that day in Jacksonville would come rising to the surface of their being, proving that the day hadn't been a fluke. But what did she know?

Nothing, someone said. And she agreed.

She finally found her key, and sighing, pushed it into the lock, thinking of her bed and how nice it would be if she could collapse into it's warm folds, letting sleep carry her far from Bayville and Remy and all of her uncertainties. But as she opened the door, she got the faint, uneasy feeling that something was wrong. It took her a moment to pinpoint the problem, but it came to her soon enough: there was no sound. She lived in a mansion full of people, loud people, and there was always music, or laughter, or high-pitched chatter, or video games played at too high a volume. Yet, as she stepped inside the mansion, an ominous wall of silence greeted her.

"Hello?" She called out, hoping that there was a perfectly normal, fine reason for the change, and that someone would peek there head around the a corner and explain the situation.

She was answered, but not by any body. Instead, Xavier's voice came into her head. Rogue, he said, You're home.

"Where is everyone?"

He paused in a way that was never good, like he was taking the time to say the words to himself, ensuring that they came out in just the right and appropriate way. Finally, he said, We're down in the infirmary.

"Everybody? Why?"

Again, the professor hesitated, before saying, I'm sending Kurt to bring you here…its Kitty, Rogue. I'm afraid she isn't well.

Not well. Rogue sucked in her breath, considering the last time she'd heard him say that. She'd been laying on the flat bed in the infirmary herself, barely conscious, with Dr. McCoy, the professor, and Logan standing around her. She's not well, Xavier had said to Logan. It was the professor's favorite euphemism. Forgetting herself, she sank down on the couch, and it was there that Kurt found her when he bamped into the room.

He didn't speak right away, but there was clear worry in his yellow, shinning eyes. "Let's go," he said, holding out his arm for her to grasp.

"What happened Kurt? What happened to Kitty?"

"She's in a coma. She sustained heavy injury after a training session with Carol went bad."

"With Carol?" Rogue said. "How?"

"You know how people are always saying, 'I don't know my own strength?'"

"Yeah."

"Vell, it turns out Carol really doesn't. She accidentally pushed Kitty into ze wall… really, really hard. Mr. McCoy says it isn't zat bad, but he doesn't know when she's gonna wake up. Everyone else is confined to their rooms for ze night, except me and Carol. Ve're staying with Kitty."

"Why th' confinement?"

"He wanted to put a cap on zis day. It's been a bad day," Kurt sighed. "Kitty's accident was ze worst, but also, there vas ze hologram Jean and Scott found earlier zis afternoon: it suggested zat our Mr. Clark secret may not be as secret as ve thought."

Rogue opened her mouth to speak, but shut it. Instead, she accepted Kurt's offered arm. "Let's go see Kitty."


General notes:

1) A bit of history. If you have little knowledge of American history, I may owe you an explanation. So, here's Eileen's Guide to Prohibition in America (or, Why The Gov't Will Never Try To Take Away Our Right To Get Drunk Again). In 1920, the 18th amendment to the US Constitution prohibited alcohol in the United States –you couldn't buy, it, sell it, bathe in it, etc. So started the period of time known as 'Prohibition'. It was a failure, naturally. Alcohol sales went way up. Speakeasies were born –secret bars where you had to 'speak easy' to get in. Often, excessive measures were taken to keep the police away; bribes were extremely common, as were little gadgets and secret buttons that hid the gin and wiped the table in the same swift motion. Press a button, and poof! All the whiskey was gone, replaced with little gallons of healthy and perfectly legal milk. The amendment was eventually repealed, and speakeasies lost their customers.

I used the Internet for 1920's slang. Blame it if I used the words incorrectly.

2) Sorry it took a month, but hey…at least it wasn't a year!

Individual Responses:

Rogue4787: Yay! you won. And you suggested a jazzy bar. I took your idea and ran with it. Perhaps a bit too far, but I couldn't resist the chance to give Remy a fedora. I'm glad you came back and decided to keep reviewing! Thank you!

Ishandahalf: You're very full of guesses, aren't you? I'd like to confirm or refute them, but… I won't. There was no cool message from Remy this time, but he (and frankly, me) needs a break. Either that, or I was feeling lazy. Yet another question you won't have the answer to! HA HA HA! (I need sleep). The mini-golf thing sounds interesting, and I'm considering it in a later chapter, so we'll see. J Thanks for the review (and the gold stars, I've got a collection on my wall and it's so pretty to look at!) Oh, and do you know how long it's been since I've heard the phrase 'quick like a bunny on crack'? Too long!

Pomegranate Queen: Well, you rock, 'cause you reviewed! Thanks!

Goddess Evie: I don't usually listen to country music either, but over the summer I got way bored, and I started watching CMT for a chance to see the fake Johnny Depp, and the next thing you know, I'm singing along. J Plus, Jimmy Buffet always did sound good. I mean, doesn't everyone love Margaritaville? I know I do. I'm glad Kitty wasn't two-dimensional. Especially since I've put her in a coma now. Oh, and of course, I'll give you a Remy clone when I'm finished. You're such an awesome review, how could I not?

Silky Black: How do you know something super bad will happen to Carol? I'm trying (oh, so hard) to play nice with her. Then again, you never know if my resolve'll wear off and I'll 'accidentally' kill her. But people in comic books never stay dead long anyway, right? Thanks for the review!

Plague-darkholme: I like you're name. It sounds like a fanfiction waiting to be written J Thanks for the review (and please don't kill me!).

EmeraldKkatsEye: I knew people would cheat, but I was just trying to get my reviewers back. I'm that sad, pathetic person who hands out presents so people'll be my friend. Was Remy serious? Well… he's a survivor, let's just say that. Thanks for the review!

Totally Obsessed, Michelleperson: Thanks a bunch for the review! Come again, please?

Your worshipfulness: It'd never work out. Trust me. I'm forever devoted to two-dimensional comic book characters like Remy LeBeau and Darien Shields. Anywho, thanks for the review (hey, that rhymes)! Come again, review again!

Spunkypippy: Thank you!

Sailor Vamp: A graveyard? That sounds… intriguing. And, possibly, a little demented. Which, of course, makes me love the suggestion all the more. Thanks for reviewing!

xpoisonedxangelx: You people and your ideas! I'm determined to surprise you! Thanks for the review!

Gaea3: I missed you! Thanks for reviewing! And I know what it's like to be without the Internet, and I know that it really stinks. So, here's hoping you won't have any more problems! Hope you liked this chapter!

BTW, does anyone know why I can't leave my email? Every time I try, it disappears in the posting. V. odd. Stay tuned for next time. We'll find out whom the new villain is, how Kit's is doing, and have more Romy fun! Review! Please?

Last minute plug: I'm updating An American Trilogy in like, two days… so, last chance to read it before you fall two chapters behind!

Coconuts, Comments, Questions? I'm… well, you know where.