Disclaimer: I don't own 'em.

A/N: Okay, my creativity streak has dried up a little, but I still fully intend on finishing this fic. It won't even trail off, since I've written a comprehensive play-by-play of the events that will take place, save for the ending (which I haven't figured out yet). Anway, now that uni is done with until March (woohoo!) I can concentrate on this until I get a job (ick).

Well, I've got a real show for you tonight folks – Rogue's power over the situation is diminishing, Magneto's control over himself is waning, and Xavier is about to do something perhaps a little too hasty.

Love it or shove it.

Inappropriate Conduct

Chapter Five

Of the dark green-dyed leather that stretched over the top of his large oak desk, imprinted by years of his heavy handwriting pressing through paper into it, had a number of creases – veins, they could be called; random patches where the leather seemed to pull oddly to resemble living, human skin with aged wrinkles. He'd been studying one particular vein for a while now. It was a long, deep vein that seemed to fray in two different directions at the end, like the creases people would get at the corners of their eyes after a certain number of years – crow's feet, they were called. His desk had crow's feet, but it was only perhaps ten years old (though styled as an antique) and well-kept besides.

It wasn't particularly fascinating, yet Magneto had been staring at that vein in the leather for some twenty minutes now with an expression akin to restrained horror on his face.

He hadn't been contemplating creases to find himself with that expression – he couldn't contemplate much nowadays, after all, besides that green-eyed girl. The student of his enemy; a young woman who had tried to kill him…who he had tried to kill in return; an angry, passionate girl with a heavy burden marring the magnificence and godly dignity of her mutation.

She invaded his dreams, though he welcomed her presence. She was always at the forefront of his mind in his waking hours, distracting him from his duty and responsibilities. He couldn't make sense of written words in his idle moments – reading would give him no distraction from her. He was beginning to resent his followers, hoping each time when one of them intruded on his privacy that it would be her. Hours would pass and he resented the seemingly sluggish movement of time – he had told her to meet him again only two nights after their last encounter, knowing that he would regret waiting three, but time still seemed to pass ever leisurely to the point that he could only stare furiously at the clock on the wall.

It was pathetic.

He was a proud man and, ordinarily, he was a strong man. He was a powerful mutant, a dangerous enemy and a demanding leader. His Acolytes spoke of him as if he were a savior. Humans would only utter his name quietly, their eyes glazed over with fear. Wayward mutants found a benevolent leader in him. He had gathered masses of support to him by the sheer determination he had to carve out mutantkind's rightful place in the world, as humanity's superiors. He had seen wars; he had fought his enemies and triumphed; he had, when violence was unnecessary, negotiated to win.

He had survived, fought and triumphed.

Now…no.

He was weakened by a pair of expressive, flashing green eyes. His pride crumbled under his need whenever he beheld her sweet face. His power, his prowess as a leader, the fear that he inspired all meant nothing when she smiled at him – even insincerely. The battles he had fought and won paled into insignificance; his defeated enemies may as well have still been standing; his negotiation skills were useless – he had survived, fought and triumphed in every sense but that which was most important to him now.

It was not just disturbing to know that he was trivializing his victories; it was detestable, sickening. It was weak. He hated weakness – he hated being weak. He detested this…this defeat. It was as crushing as any other, and just as degrading.

He was infatuated with the woman…the girl. The enemy.

There wasn't much he could do to stop thinking about her; as every hour rolled by he grew worse, anticipating their next encounter with heightening agitation. No occupation was ever so absorbing that he wouldn't find his mind straying back towards her, towards memories of being with her. No distraction could pull his thoughts away from her. He hardly had a moment to himself, to merely just be without constantly analyzing the little things about her; the glances she gave him, the gleam in her eyes when she called him 'sir', the heaviness in her voice when she'd told him her name.

He was infatuated with her. He acknowledged that much.

It was a weakness…this infatuation. It kept him from coherent thought. It distracted him. It left him disgusted with himself, though he tried – futilely – to blame her. It left him angry – he was supposed to be in control of himself, for God's sakes, and that didn't allow for endless mooning after a girl who was yet still shy of eighteen! This infatuation of his was bordering on insanity; he had no control over himself. If he did he would have simply told her, last night, that they could not continue on. But he hadn't – he had indulged his fascination with her and arranged to liaise with her again…and sooner than usual!

Yet, he allowed himself this infatuation.

His anger rapidly cooled. Reason had begun collaborating with Passion, turning against Logic for once. His mind argued to look at the situation from the point of a bystander – yes, he was infatuated, and he detested himself for it, but he was happy.

Happy.

Yes, it was simply amazing that in his weakness he had found himself happy. This contentment only served to disgust him further, but it seemed that even his fiery temper couldn't dampen the sheer joy in him that she perpetuated. His anger, his disgust, his wounded pride all seemed to shrink to nothing when he reflected on that. In fact, the only thing that could quell this bliss was his natural inquisitive nature, which then had stepped in and asked that ever-frustrating but necessary question – 'why'?

Why, indeed? He was happy, but with what reason? And – perhaps worse still – the source of his happiness was an enemy; if she knew, he doubted that she would use knowledge against him, but could the same be said if perhaps Xavier and his X-Men were to discover it, somehow managing to coerce her into something to suit their purpose? Or perhaps Mystique, who was forever looking for a way to bring him down and install herself as the dominant terrorist force in humanity's heart, would find out – what then? He had more and many enemies, all of whom would rush to the chance to cripple him, to take advantage of his weakness.

He couldn't provide himself with an answer to any of his questions, though. Frivolity started clamoring louder than Reason, laughing off his worries and asking him why he needed to have a reason to be happy. And what did it matter who she fought for? Together, were they discussing anything that didn't pertain to each other, or their trysts? Had she ever even asked him a question that made him uncomfortable, that had made him entertain the idea that perhaps she sought information for her team? Surely what mattered was that – for the first time in so many years – he was genuinely happy with the state of things in his personal life. So they would inevitably change, and more than likely for the worse…why concern himself now? Why poison the present with worries of the future?

All questioning aside, though…he found that he wanted her to feel the same weakness, and – consequently – the same happiness.

Again, he had to ask himself why.

And, again, he received no answer. His mind, it seemed, was deliberately holding out on him there – he tried to ponder his actions and thoughts further, but only found himself back to the beginning of his predicament. His thoughts swirled around endlessly, venturing no further than they already had before veering off into his memories again, conjuring up images of her face, of her movements, of the feel of her. Always, when his questions would search for an answer, they would only meet the root from which they had each sprung: he was infatuated with her.

Magneto shifted his gaze from the deep vein in the leather on his desk to look up at the clock – another hour had passed in his quiet contemplation, and it was eleven o'clock. By this time the following night, he would be holding her. The idea shot a thrill right through him, building agonizing tension and wild elation in him simultaneously – the combination of emotions was electric…strangely invigorating. He leaned back in his chair, the expression of horror that had marred his features finally relaxing into deep contentment though his heart raced madly.

It was this…these feelings that she gave him that made him happy. This contentment, edged as it was with impatient desire, was the by-product of her effect on him. And although he had the feeling he wouldn't be sleeping at all well tonight – heady with anticipation – it hardly bothered him. Overall…well, when he looked at it that way, it didn't seem as if he had much to concern himself with. Certainly a little lack of concentration and those other minor side-effects were a small price to pay for happiness.

Perhaps, then, this infatuation wasn't all that detestable…

The bruises on her hips were tender – it hurt to stay sitting in one way for too long.

Every half-hour she moved, taking her book with her. She laid down on the rug in front of the TV, next to Jamie as he alternated between watching what was on and reading his comic book. She sat sideways in a loveseat, draping her legs over one armrest and propping up her back on another. She leaned back in the couch, her legs stretched out under the coffee table in front of her. She leaned on the backrest of the loveseat, her forearms resting over the top as she held her book up to her eyes.

She never looked away from the print of her book.

She hadn't turned a page since she'd opened it at her bookmarked place.

But while her restless shifting earned her a handful of annoyed looks and a few exasperated sighs – "jeez, Rogue, just sit down!" – no one had noticed anything else amiss with her.

No one had noticed that she wasn't reading, though she held the book up in front of her face. If someone had peered over her shoulder, asked her what she was reading, she wouldn't have been able to say – she didn't know. While the bruises kept her moving about, that seemed to be all the physical activity she was currently capable of.

No one had asked why her eyes weren't moving over the page, or why they were fixed in a kind of unusually emotionless stare – she wouldn't tell them, if they did ask. But, the fact of the matter remained that as nosy as the X-Men were, they never seemed to ask questions when it would actually make a difference. When gossip was to be heard the entire Institute would know by dinner, but whenever something unusual was afoot…everyone seemed to be twiddling their thumbs and whistling up at the ceiling, either ignoring it or passing it by without notice.

Right now…something incredibly unusual was afoot. So, naturally, no one realized.

Rogue re-read the passage in her book again, trying to draw herself out of her thoughts. 'I care for myself. The more solitary, the more friendless, the more unsustained I am, the more I will respect myself.' The words were easy enough to read, but whereas she could vaguely recall having memorized the line for some reason or other, she couldn't for the life of her think what it was referring to, what it meant or why it was significant to her. She blinked, finding her eyes were oddly dry.

She could still tell that everyone in the Rec Room was fixated on the idiot box – no one had noticed her blank expression, her unmoving eyes. No one usually noticed her, anyway.

No one would notice.

Tensed muscles in her shoulders and back relaxed slightly. She leaned deeper into the headrest of the loveseat, finally getting comfortable though she was still standing. But her head still swam with thoughts, with questions.

She'd come back home at two in the morning to find things commonplace – Logan was in the kitchen, staring down the narrow opening of a beer bottle with a haunted look in his eyes; a handful of the New Recruits had sequestered themselves in this very Rec Room with a number of movies, but had long since watched them all and were packing up to go to bed; Hank was emerging from the lower levels in the general direction of his room, still in his lab coat and rubbing his eyes; everyone else was fast asleep. Hank hadn't seen her; Logan hadn't seen her; the Recruits hadn't seen her. Everyone was too preoccupied to notice her.

Still…

There was an unmistakable feel of change in the air. It was tangible – it hung over her head, ominous and unavoidable. She couldn't find what had changed, though. She'd studied the face of each X-Man that had been present for breakfast and found nothing – she hadn't seen Xavier or Logan at the table, though that wasn't unusual, and Storm was hidden behind the newspaper, but what else was new? She hadn't found anything different in the faces of the people she considered her family.

After breakfast she'd taken to wandering the halls of the Institute blindly and wraithlike, gliding from room to room without a purpose and not seeming to take anything in despite her staring eyes. The fact of the matter was that she had actually scrutinized nearly every room in the mansion – from the guest rooms to the laundry to the communications room in the lower levels – with the hope of finding something.

Nothing was different – not a book out of place in the library; not a chair askew in the Professor's study; not a faint singe-mark missing from the Danger Room. Everything from the pots and pans in the kitchen to the old newspapers in the garage…it was all exactly how it had always been.

So the change was with her, then, as it often seemed to be.

Now, in the Rec Room and surrounded by blissfully oblivious teammates, Rogue stared through her book and looked into herself. Meditating, finding the inner-child, soul-searching, or whatever. There was a song – didn't it play on the opening credits of Ally McBeal? – that featured those words. Searching my soul, the woman sang, over and over. Those lyrics were repeated over and over in the song, and the song was repeated over and over for the duration of the series. It didn't seem to get either the characters of the series of the songstress anywhere, as far as any actual philosophical and meaningful discoveries were concerned.

Rogue's eyes flickered for a moment, briefly showing rising anger and suppressed amusement before returning to their usual blank state. Wasn't this nice? Avoiding the issue with useless trivia, rather than meeting her inner demons, was almost a specialty of hers.

She blinked again, steeling herself in a way.

What about her had changed…?

Nothing on the outside was all that different than it had ever been – aside from her faraway stares that no one noticed, the bruises no one could see, and the slightly paranoid look she sometimes gave her teammates that no one ever noted. She was physically the same person that she had been for some time now, but something was still changed. Well, then…what was the cause of those faraway stares, those bruises, those paranoid looks? That was something easy enough to discern…

The cause lay with her liaisons with Magneto: the self-proclaimed Master of Magnetism.

However, as easily as the answer came, no further discoveries could be made on it. She had determined the cause, but what made it a personally altering force? How were these encounters changing how she felt, manipulating and toying with what made her Rogue?

The answer to those questions would be, she knew, far removed from her initial worries – she found that her concern over Magneto's gentler caresses had paled into insignificance alongside this new revelation. The two things were entirely unrelated in her head. A few sweet touches couldn't change a person, it was impossible – she still had her wits about her enough to know that. No matter the degree of tenderness he showed her – seemingly not of his own will sometimes – the cause for her change couldn't be blamed in that.

Guilt had also fallen through under the weight of this troubling new thought; very few of her quiet moments were spent reflecting on the possible ramifications of this relationship on her teammates now. She certainly still felt definite twinges of regret when she observed the smiling face of Kitty, the crazy antics of Kurt or the solemn dignity of Storm, but the guilt was hardly so troubling as was the idea that she was changing and with no reason why. And there, in that fact, was more weight added upon the heaviness of her initial problem.

Yes…there was no reason to change, yet she was undeniably changing.

She found no answers as to why she was changing – there were only more questions. Rogue could only discern what wasn't changing her; things that were of little consequence anymore. Worse still, she couldn't even determine what about her was changing.

Aloud, she heaved a restless sigh – sitting on the loveseat that she leaned over, Jubilee her face turned up to Rogue for a moment and gave her a quizzical look. Rogue kept her face blank; the other girl resumed her observation of the TV.

She focused her eyes and began to study her book again, trying to find the passage she'd left off at.

…To no avail.

Almost suddenly, as she marked her page with a bookmark and snapped the leather-bound thing shut, it struck her – her book fell to the ground, slipping from her suddenly rigid hands. She knew exactly what had happened, what had changed… It was the very thing that had drawn her into this relationship in the first place; it was the very thing she had craved like nothing else; it was the very thing she was worried he was taking from her…

Her power – her control – over the situation. It was no longer there; it was no longer the security blanket of her thoughts, shrouding her guilt.

But…it wasn't all that much of a problem.

She blinked, trying to think why it didn't matter – why had it taken so long for her to realize? What had made her stop craving that power she so desperately clung to initially? It had been such a problem to her, just two nights ago, when she realized that he had been sapping at her power – what had changed? Why didn't it matter? What had happened to her?

"Rogue?"

She jumped as if she'd been shot and whirled around to face the owner of that inquisitive voice, wincing as her bruises protested at the movement. Jean, looking confused, compassionate and concerned – an expression that seemed to be exclusive to telepaths – was staring at her from one of the armchairs. Rogue's eyes darted about the room; everyone else was watching her too, all with varying degrees of surprise, fright, worry and nonchalance in their expressions. Rogue quickly bent down, scooped up her book and straightened up again.

"Uh…nothin's wrong. Just remembered somethin' Ah was meant ta do," she lied. She cast a quick look at Jean before she could conceal the apprehension in her eyes: an admittedly stupid move – Jean's expression boiled down to a curious one; her eyes flickered slightly. Rogue clamped down on her thoughts, quickly. "Somethin' personal," she added, casting a hardening glance at the young telepathic woman.

Jean winced, immediately ashamed. "Sorry…it's a force of habit."

Rogue took a deep breath, but was surprised to find she wasn't angry…only scared. "S'alright," she said quickly. She spasmodically clutched her book to her chest and hurried out of the room. She had to leave there…now. She needed air; she needed to get away from their belatedly inquisitive eyes.

A whispered chorus of "wow, I though she'd bite your head off, Jean" and "is she okay?" followed her out of the Rec Room, but Rogue was hardly paying attention now. Her pace quickened; she began running through the foyer, through the front doors and out into the night on the stone steps. She collapsed over the railing of the stairs, her breath coming out in shuddering and heaving gasps – she sounded ill. She tried to calm herself down, but couldn't. Her eyes began to prickle harshly – her vision was taken over by a series of black and white pinpricks…

"Oh, Gawd," she whispered. She took in a great gulp of air and forced her heartbeat down, warding off disaster with practiced masterfulness. "Panic attack," she wheezed, diagnosing her condition as she still hung over the stone balustrade – her bruises complained with a dull ache at her position, but she didn't take any notice of them. Her heartbeat slowed, gradually, and she resumed breathing normally again.

So…everything had changed. Everything. Her entire reason for assenting to this relationship had more or less disintegrated and she didn't care. There was no real, valid reason for her to consent to this any further, other than the fact that she had all but told Magneto that he would be the one terminate their arrangement…

…And that, although she felt somewhat worse to admit it, she wanted to continue on even now.

She stuffed her balled-up gloved hand in her mouth and bit down hard to distract herself – it was no use, though. Something had happened, something had changed. She had her answers now, even if she didn't have the control she so desperately craved anymore. And, even more dissatisfying, those answers didn't seem to comply with the question. There was still something…more. Something else that had to be discovered; something else to be revealed. Something that she had absolutely no say in, no control over…something entirely out of her hands. Something that, she felt, was all to do with him.

"Somethin' seriously fucked up," she cursed quietly, feebly attempting to heave herself up from the cold banister before conceding to dangle there like a rag doll.

The first move was made.

Establishing contact had been simple enough – phone numbers and addresses were relatively easy to find in the mind; they were hardly guarded secrets.

Arranging to meet had been relatively easy – a simple warning, albeit melodramatic, had warned of the awareness of third parties to this…indiscretion.

A place had quickly been designated; the promise was to meet within the hour. Without another word, both parties hung up their end of the line and began their journey to this sudden midnight destination. All despite the fact that the affronted party would usually fly into a blind rage at having being contacted by this accuser, especially under the weight of such indictments.

As midnight came and went, Xavier began to feel uneasy.

Meeting at midnight…it was such a cliché. Meeting at midnight in a dimly lit park was all the more worse. This scenario was the opening fodder for a John Sandford novel – trite, overdone and contemptible. Perhaps that was why Eric was yet to appear? Perhaps he had figured such a setting beneath him – he often made a point of avoiding clichéd, pedestrian situations and places. Xavier regretted not having thought of that before.

But surely his old friend wouldn't miss this appointment?

Integrity, pride and self-preservation could surely all be quelled by the Master of Magnetism when necessary, and when would it be more necessary than now, when those very three things were threatened by him…the man whom Magneto had grown to hate most. He hadn't given his name, over the phone, but he hadn't had to. He'd been recognized instantaneously.

"Good evening, Eric," he'd said, before his old friend was even given an opportunity to draw a breath. "Are you well?"

There had been a stony silence on the other end of the phone line for a long moment. "Charles," had been the icy return. "To what do I owe this surprise?"

"You aren't going to demand to know how I came across this telephone number?"

"I was just going to suppose you called every number registered until you found the right one," Magneto had returned dryly and without humor. "I'm not a fool, Xavier, no matter what you think to the contrary; why would I ask any telepath – particularly one who has made a pastime of interfering with my life – how they come into personal information of any…?"

"Why, indeed," Xavier had agreed, cutting him off. He liked to hear his shortcomings and transgressions of morality as much as any other man, after all. "And, since you've accurately supposed I have seen inside your mind, you can more than likely determine the nature and purpose of this call."

He received a long silence for that observation. After perhaps two minutes of silence, Magneto had sighed heavily. "What do you want, Charles?" he had asked wearily.

Thus, Xavier had explained just what he wanted – a chance to talk, face to face. Never had his old friend been so reluctant to agree! How the Master of Magnetism had been reduced, giving half-formed answers – stalling to think of a way out of such a meeting – before eventually conceding with a heavy tone of defeat. It was truly amazing; all the times and trials Xavier had gone through to – as the saying went – bring the man down a peg…all it had taken, in the end, was the attentions of his most wayward and potentially dangerous student.

Xavier drummed his fingers against the arm of his wheelchair, turning his thoughts away from his nemesis and to the aforementioned student – Rogue. It was easy to see, from a psychological standpoint, why she had embarked on such a venture. There were a number of reasons pushing her to do so. Her restrictive power, being one, but there was also the tendency of young women who had been raised without father figures to seek out older men in a compensatory gesture. However, surface impressions very rarely showed the whole picture, clearly – Xavier didn't doubt that Rogue, ever an enigma, had very different motives to what he supposed. The fact that he could safely assume he had no clue as to what those motives were was both a blessing and a curse.

As for Magneto? Well…one could only ever guess what he thought.

Still, the man was yet to arrive. More than likely, it was a combination of pride and a dread of the inevitable that had kept Magneto absent from their arranged meeting place so far. But Xavier hadn't much more of a wait ahead of him.

The streetlamp on the corner of the footpath flickered momentarily; Xavier – used to such signals – made to look at his watch again and found that both needles were hovering about the four – pointing towards the magnetic north. He tried to suppress a smile as yet still his adversary hid from him. "Sneak tactics are rather futile, Eric," he called out into the gloomy darkness. "You always forget the effect you have on wristwatches."

The watch righted itself immediately. Xavier couldn't help but laugh, even as Magneto descended from the shrouding darkness of the trees with a purely irate expression on his face – somewhat hidden by his helmet – and his arms crossed over his front rather like a petulant child. "If you wish me to remain here while you deliver your next self-righteous tirade, I suggest you reserve your humor for later," he rebuked bitterly. Xavier couldn't, as usual, see much of his old friend's face for his helmet, but what could be seen clearly demonstrated his anger. This was hardly a moment to be humorous.

"Self-righteous?" he repeated quizzically, with all humor fading from his expression. "I couldn't suppose to be self-righteous."

Magneto's expression cleared slightly. "Ah, yes…I had forgotten. Nearly a decade ago now, wasn't it?"

"Indeed," Xavier assented. "Time has made a hypocrite of you, it seems. You, more than anyone, loudly declared that the age difference between Emma Frost and myself to be inappropriate. And now…" He paused, fixing the other man with a cool, level stare. "Now not only do you take the liberty of performing a similar transgression, but with a greater age difference between you and the young woman in question."

A/N: More on the confrontation to come – for now, it's REVIEW TIME! And happy holidays to all!

Nettlez: Well, if anyone was going to figure it out with very few clues, it would have to be Xavier, I thought. I mean, seriously – no one at the Institute's even realized that something's up with Rogue, and if Magneto's cronies are any the wiser they know better than to say anything. Anyway, thanks for the review and, well…hope you enjoyed the update!

Elle Mooreside: Better than before? You're brilliant for my ego, I have to tell you. Sporadic and ill-timed updates are an unfortunate throwback of my current jumpy schedule, though – sorry. I really try to keep a smooth updating deadline for myself, but it just doesn't happen. Bleh. On another note, I'm glad you liked the 'good God' bit – I couldn't help but grin my head off writing that. It's always such fun to make even non-practicing religious characters say something blasphemous. Whee! Anyway, I hope you enjoyed this latest installment (which was probably posted absurdly late, knowing me – I wrote this review-reply the on the day I received the review) and thank you for the feedback.

RogueBHS: Cookie-cutter like…that's a good euphemism. And a very accurate one. Which is, unfortunately, one of the many factors that keep me from writing another Romy – they just get kind of predictable. With this…hell, even I don't know how it's going to end, and there are a number of possible outcomes. Anyhoo, good suggestion with the final choice of Rogue's, though now I have yet another alternate ending to consider for the final chapter. Hoo boy… The confrontation, by the way, was one of my favorite pieces to write (it's almost ready for deliverance!). You've already seen above that Xavier has been through a similar experience…well, the elaboration was all the more fun. Hope you enjoyed this update and thank you for the review!

IvyZoe: I know exactly what you mean about all that Xavier being indifferent to Rogue – I mean…no! This man is not just a grandstanding philosopher with a pipe-dream! He's a responsible guardian and an accomplished academic! Unfortunately, everyone at the Institute has their own problems and consequently (as long as I'm writing the script) would be somewhat self-absorbed, to a degree. Thus, only Xavier is any the wiser. And, yes, Gambit's reaction is going to be an interesting one, but I hadn't thought before of adding in a Wolverine confrontation scene…but maybe I will…hmm. Anyway, thank you for the feedback and…ta da! Here is the update!

ishandahalf: …You know, I burst out laughing when I read that 'absolutely spiffing' bit…and I didn't stop laughing for a long time. Quite British, indeed. Yes, Xavier was admittedly a bit slipshod about the whole thing, but – as he says to Magneto in the next chapter – "I won't harass you about corrupting my student…she is a corruption of her own. What concerns me is that, currently, she corrupts you." I feel the need to tell you, though, that Remy isn't going to figure out independently that his petite amour committed her indiscretion with his admittedly tyrannical former boss – but when he finally puts two and two together…whee! Oh, it's going to be fun writing that part. Thank you for the review (and the gold stars) and I hope you enjoyed this heapin' helpin' of update!

Christina: Glad you're enjoying it. I hope this chapter was satisfying too!

willowaus: Woohoo! Another 'shipper! There are actually a number of people saying they enjoy this pairing, but there are so few fics out there to accommodate for us. It's truly a crime. Well, I for one hope to remedy the situation. Hope you enjoyed the update!

thriller: Yes, the little analogy Xavier made there was a reference to the whole Helen of Troy dealie – I never saw the movie, personally, as I understood it involved tie-dyed mu-mus, but that's a whole different branch of thought. Thank you for the compliment on my writing technique – it came at a most opportune moment, because I've been lately starting to worry about how it was starting to sound. Anyway, thank you for the feedback and I hope you enjoyed the latest installment!