I knew she was the chosen one, the time stood frozen,
Holding us, hunting us for a lonely moment.

Wolverine woke early that morning, as he did most mornings. As soon as his eyes fluttered open, he knew there would be no retreating back into the warm abyss of nothingness until the night that followed. His morning routines took next to no time; he'd had years to practice and arrange the schedule to near perfection, after all. The shower took longest of all morning practices as Logan allowed the burning waterfall slide over his being. The steam rose in billows and curls, exiting from the top of the shower door. The droplets, envious of the steam, remained trapped and doomed to be carried down the drain, determined to survive they clung to Logan. As the water made its feeble attempts to hug the Canadian, they left trails of red, irritated flesh that almost immediately faded to a pale moonlit sort of look. The scorching of the shower would heal almost instantly, but the thunderous pain that transcended the look of the wound stung moments after its mark had disappeared.

It wasn't often Logan had showers of such heat, usually her preferred the cool mock of his Canadian homeland, the north of the country reflected in the chill that would cascade over his skin. It was only ever in an act of repentance would Logan allow the steaming droplets to scald his ever healing skin. To what he was repenting, people could only assume. There could lay the guilt of the people he had killed in his army days, the ones slaughtered by their own adamantium creation, the several people assassinated by his hand whilst he had worked for Magneto, or the near murder of his "friend", Scott Summers.

All of those answers would be dead wrong.

The current atonement he was reaching was a forgiveness from someone that was not a ghost of his past: Rogue.

Ever since she'd fled the couch last night he'd been doing everything to blow off steam, Danger Room session, prowling around the yard testing security defenses, then crawling back to bed at the wee hours of the moment to resume with the scalding shower the morning after. It wasn't even the rejection that had the man worked up, rejection was something he could handle with the limited grace of his being, It was the fact when he tried to make amends, the only inhabitant of Xavier's who Wolverine gave a damn if they ignored him, had done exactly that. He'd stood a good twenty minutes in front of her door; head hung low not wanting her silence.

As Logan once preached to Storm, the only thing worse than being in pain is being ignored

Giving a heavy sigh, the Canadian stepped from the shower, reaching blindly for the nearest towel with one hand as his other hand reached to turn off the cascade of torrid water. His hand retracted from the drying waterfall, the red of the small burns already receding into his skin. His chocolate eyes linger a moment on his forearm and hand watching the red fade back into a fleshy, light tan. Sighing as the last of the hue evaporated with the water, Logan turned away: He needed a beer.

It didn't take long for the Canadian to pull on a pair of well worn jeans, the age showed through the knees and the color. On top of that it was just a simple white t-shirt that was loose and easy to move in; over his feet he dressed in old cowboy boots that were just as faded as the jeans. His eyes looked forlornly towards the dresser that caged the cowboy hat which he'd picked up from one of the Albertan Stampedes, but left it where it laid, heading with no enthusiasm to the kitchen.

Reaching the door to the kitchen, Logan stopped to find a familiar southerner scooped up in an island chair, crouched over the table. The aged bangs fell in front of her gaze and circled around the base of he coffee cup. The steam from the cup no longer rose into the woman's face and she sat, curled on the small chair, staring at the lukewarm liquid. The atmosphere seemed brittle to Logan, the wrong thing could snap the entire moment into a thousand pieces. "Hey, kid."

"I'm no ki', Logan." Rogue replied sullenly, up until that moment she had been 'enjoying' her morning alone. She was up earlier than usual, racked with worry, hoping that Remy would awake that day. Ever since he blacked out the night before the Southern Belle had been weighing the options through her mind that she had put him in a coma just like Cody and the others.

"I know, but…"

"Bu', what?"

Rogue's borrowed gaze slipped venomously over to the Canadian, not out of abhorrence for the man himself, just she was not in the finest of moods this morning and was running on a mere two hours of sleep. As her words were tugged from her lips from the annoyance, the woman barely took notice that Remy's voice still layered hers. Her own accent all but obliterated until his accent and crimson gaze decided to relinquish their hold on her psyche.

Any emotion that had crawled to the man's service resorted to retreating back beneath a mask that Weapon X had skillfully created for their prized assassin. He gave a roll of his eyes and shoulders, trying to give the impression he didn't give a shit about her malice. Voice relatively cold and dismissing Logan spoke again, "See you've got a head full of Cajun frog. Was he stupid enough to try something?"

Rogue snorted and glared viciously, "No' like i's beyon' 'is righ'. I am 'is girlfrien'."

Laughing, Logan nodded his head sardonically, "Right, right, must've slipped my mind."

"Y'r an ass, mon dieu."

Raising a near insulted eyebrow, Wolverine retaliated in a near playful manner, dropping his guard for a small moment. "Who're you calling 'old', kid?"

"Sta'emen' o' trut'."

Rogue stopped a moment to let a sly grin cross her face, she'd gotten him there. As her crimson eyes fluttered over the man's well defined jaw she let her smile fall from her face. Unfurling her feet from the curl of the chair, she stepped down, grabbing the mug as a safety line. Giving a few steps forward she noted she was a good inch or so taller than him, usually you could never tell when the Canadian was building himself up with confidence and the fear-factor. The borrowed crimson slid over his face and into his eyes as her stride fell short of the man by a good foot. "I don' get y', mon ami. Y' come down 'ere lookin' fer a figh', den let me git away wit' de insul's." Her thoughts came out in a long sentence, cutting off short of what she was trying to say at the end. Though shrugging at both her inability to word her statement and the Cajun accent that littered the one-sided conversation she continued with a sentence of finality. "T'ought I knew y', Logan, I really did."

Wolverine had taken the growing closure with more discomfort than hopefulness. The prying look Rogue was handing him was one he'd never seen her wear before. Listening solemnly to the woman's statement, he lowered his eyes for a moment before returning her to the Cajun's stolen gaze. It was almost like having to explain himself to the bastard, but, underneath that gaze, it couldn't have been anyone other than Rogue. "You do know me, kid. Better than anyone here does, better than Chuck and better than Jeanie or Storm. Better than any of them ever will, too. I'm not going to loose that over some stupid mistake, Rogue."

Rogue blinked an odd time or two; it was odd to hear a forgiveness falling from Logan without it having to be forcibly tugged from his clenched teeth. The air of the moment was strange, littered with a 'best friend' tête-à-tête. Absently, Rogue smiled lightly, "'pology accepted, mon ami." Though as the words fell from her mouth, the brunette couldn't help but feel the need for closure rupture around her. "Why'd y' do i' t'ough?" Her gaze was pressing, but her distance far. This would not be a repeat of yesterday.

Her question was answered with an indecisive shrug, "I don't know, kid. You're the one that knows me better than anyone." There was a moment of silence that trailed between the both of them, it didn't seem like that answer was the one she was looking for. But, honestly, the dread Wolverine, king of the emotionless was far out of his league. There was no explanation would ever come to his ragged maw when it was summoned. No words to spill boyishly from his lips, embarrassing him, it was just a silent block between the two speakers.

"I love Remy, y'know."

Wolverine nodded with subtle agreement. "I know."

"But, y' did i' anyway."

"Evidence says yes,"

The answer was more sarcastic than Rogue would have preferred, but she was trying to keep her thoughts in check; adding the line of information together until it created a whole circle, a picture of understanding. It was starting to come together; in the end, Rogue was the one person who didn't just live in the purgatory of pseudo understanding of the Canadian like most of the X-men: she was lifted into a realm of insight into the man. Perhaps it was due to him being in her head so many times, or just that the both of them had a silent connection of just knowing.Either way, the comprehension was there.

An idea sprouted into Rogue's mind, it was meager and timid, but it served to spike a curiosity in her that yearned to be sated. Her unprotected hand reached out, bridging the foot between Logan and herself. Fingertips brushing his still wet hair aside, they rested on his forehead a moment. The delicate touch before would have drained most of anyone normal, instead the Canadian stood unaffected in front of her, a perplexed expression gazing his features. After a few moments of nothing, Rogue pressed more firmly into the man's forehead the first of the joints in her finger going white from the pressure. After a minute, the woman was convinced there was nothing and dropped her hand.

"Not'in'."

"What were you hunting for to begin with?"

"An answer, Logan, I jus' wan'ed t' know why."

"Hn, if that'd worked, do you really think you would have gotten it?"

"I was hopin', don' y' wanna know why?"

"Kid, I learned a long time ago, if things weren't meant to be found the easy way, they're one of two things: either not meant to be found all together, or something worth hunting for. I think this answer you're looking for is just better left locked in there. Besides, it's not all that pleasant in their." Although the explanation was left on a note of humor, it had caused Rogue's fingers to retract an undersized inch. She had been in Logan's mind on more than one occasion. He'd risked entrusting his precedent to the southerner before, why was this any different now? Her nose wrinkled a moment resentfully, Logan wasn't the best candidate to be marking efforts to find information, he'd occasionally still ask for the professor to enter his mind, after all. But the moment of antipathy faded once more. Though she need not to admit it, the Canadian was right. About to drop her hand completely, her wrist was grabbed. A miniature blaze of uncertainty crossed her still crimson gaze. Rogue had promised herself this would not be a repeat of yesterday, but she wasn't entirely sure about her teammate.

"Logan, what're y' doin'?" Her voice wavered slightly, mirroring the expression in her eyes, as the question was stationed, and the grip tightened a loosened periodically within a span of several seconds. In the background a clock ticked and the refrigerator hummed, and one woken inhabitant of the mansion prowled the hallways….

"Kid, I'm sorry, I know you love him." The apology did all: demolished closure, relinquished the grip on Rogue's arm, and ended the conversation all in one fatal blow. As his fingers lightened and allowed Rogue's porcelain wrist to leave his trap, he turned his head to the head and sighed. It wasn't until then he caught a very familiar and unwelcome scent.

"Frost, you can come out of hiding now."

There was a laugh first before the infamous ivory appearance of the White Queen allowed herself to float into the kitchen. "Sorry, darlings, I wasn't sure if I'd be interrupting anything, I thought it best to hang back." The excuse could have been shattered easily, but no one dare challenge the woman. Not out of her authority, but silent and building wonderment of how much she had heard.

Finally, Rogue took the initiative to speak, "Non, y' weren't interuptin' not'ing, Emma." Eyeing the woman's face Rogue looked for tells that she had been out drinking the night before. Naturally, there were none. No deep bags present under her eyes, not a hair was out of place, and there was no stench of day-old-alcohol emanating from the woman. Hell, Rogue didn't even catch the traces of makeup where the evidence should have been. "T'ought y' wen' drinkin' las' night."

The White Queen rose a slender, blonde, eyebrow in an equally questioning response. It was evident from the eyes and accent what had happened this morning, or later the night before. Also, it began to spark curiosity as to where the southerner's Cajun lover would have been that morning. Finally, Emma's tongue clicked against her teeth before she answered, "I did, why?"

Rogue shrugged, "Not'in'. Y' jus' don' look like it, dat's all."

"Ah, well speaking of last night, where's the dear other half of my drinking party?" The words were chosen specifically to cause damage while still holding some innocence. If Rogue looked as she did, the woman probably harbored the knowledge of what had gone on at the bar, not like it was anything particularly incriminating. But, the fact Rogue may have grown weary and untrusting of Emma in a single night was a most startling development.

Once more Rogue let a shrug fall over her shoulders and down her back, rather than admit why he hadn't joined her that morning, an excuse pulled from her lips. "Still in bed, Remy ain't a mornin' person, probably git up 'round noon."

"Is that so?" Emma questioned, it wasn't unheard of, and it would explain why Emma had fallen into the habit of seeing him afternoon rather than at the crack of dawn, however, the White Queen had an impeccable sixth sense when it came to unearthing a lie. Having the ability to read people's thoughts helped immensely. A knowing smile spread across her lips, but the blonde didn't dare press the matter, it wouldn't do to come off as a threat. Well, not yet anyways. Stepping forward, Emma's bare feet slapped against the hardwood gently as she strode towards the coffee maker. It was the only staple need in the Institution that the woman could not go without in the morning. Breakfast could be skipped but not the coffee, not even with the promise of a Double Mocha Latte after a shoot. Icicle gaze examining the coffee, the woman debated silently whether or not she wished to brew a fresher serving or trust the southerner's ability to prepare coffee. Falling on the latter, the White Queen slid her dainty fingers around the handle, dipping the spout into a nearby mug for herself. Leaving a good inch at the top empty, the blonde set the kettle back down on the coffeemaker and turned herself to face her two early morning companions. Cradling the mug in two hands she was about to let a droll comment drop from her lips before stopping, raising the mug to her lips and taking a sip. Every once in a while Wolverine would slip a look towards the White Queen from the corner of his eye before snorting and looking away once more. It was clear he was still untrusting, but it was to be expected. At her greatest, Emma had managed to kidnap and contain the X-men; Wolverine included, and nearly killed him, too. She also played a key role in the unleashing of one of the graver X-men foes: the Dark Phoenix. But seeing as Jean was still breathing and lively as ever it seemed the philosophy of the infamous mutant group remained true:

I got better.

Taking all the factors under advisement, the White Queen would have been worried if the Wolverine was a forgiving soul, enough so to let her slide into the Xavier Institute without judgment. "Tell me, is the kitchen usually this empty in the morning, or is it just like this because everyone's away?"

Wolverine was the first to answer, his voice gruff borderline of violent, "It's because everyone's away. You try having a cup of coffee with several little hellions running around."

Emma Frost smirked, "Trust me, Logan. I know all about Hellions." The mention of her students in passing was a brittle topic for the woman, borderline painful and hide-able.

"Whatever, Frost." Giving a moment for his irritation to subside from his words, Wolverine posed a question, "Why'd you leave that mock school in Massachusetts?"

It seemed the question shattered the confident air around Emma that had protected her. As a makeshift shield she brought the mug up to her lips once more ad lowering it before she answered. "There was a Sentinel attack on my school. Majority of the students were killed, the ones who managed to get away are currently on the list of Missing Children." Her eyes fell down to the half-full mug that was cradled in her palm. Out of everyone in the institute if just had to be the cruelest to ask the question. Charles had been kind enough to accept her as a repenting student returning from the darker side of mutant life, not bothering to ask why she suddenly cut her ties with the Hellfire club. He'd checked her mind though, to make sure she wasn't just a poorly placed bug; other than that precaution, he'd not dragged Emma through memory lane over the murder of her students.

Logan had let his chocolate orbs examine Emma as she told her story; he sniffed once in disbelief only to be whacked by Rogue. As the silence fell over the three of them, Wolverine finally took the liberty in mending the conversation he had led to its death. "Sorry to hear that." It wasn't much, but it was a start.

Rogue's gaze followed the invisible trail of the apology. Frost still seemed fascinated with her mug of coffee, appearing much more fragile than the woman who had been laughing and flirting at the bar only the night before. It seemed even the seemingly invincible White Queen had her moments of weakness despite popular belief. The settling silence between the three of them was causing Rogue to become self-conscious of her own thoughts. It wasn't just Emma; Rogue had a nasty habit of being a little untrusting when it came to Jean and Psylocke with their psychic abilities as well. Shifting her weight from one foot from the other, words finally fell from the woman's mouth; excusing her from the kitchen under the justification she was getting changed into proper clothing.

Slinking away from the deafening silence, Rogue tiptoed her way up the stairs to her shared room. Slipping passed the barely ajar door, her crimson gaze showered upon Remy hoping for some movement or another. She went unrewarded for her vigilance. Turning her back to Remy, she started to strip down from her pajamas. The loose cotton top was the first to be shed, the diluted sunlight hit the woman's skin; it glowed with the sun-kissed effect of models. Her hands quickly slip down, underneath the elastic of her sweatpants. Quickly, she shed them as well, stalking to the closet as she did so, nearly tripping over the foot of the pants several times. Swearing quietly, Rogue danced nervously, weight padding from foot to foot. Even though the door was locked, and the only companion in the room was a lecherous, but undeniably unconscious Remy, those facts didn't comfort her much. Rogue still felt incredibly vulnerable, as if be some freak accident, something would be able to get into the room and touch her bare skin…well, and see her naked, too.

Letting out a near inaudible whine she ripped through the closet and dresser searching for something to cover herself up with, she came up empty. Hell, at this point she would have settled for underwear, not that she could find any pair of her own. Finally desperate and anxious Rogue settled for a large shirt of Remy's she'd picked up from the floor of the closet until she could find something more suitable. As the ebony fabric fell over her head, she rolled her eyes sarcastically. As soon as the woman's arms were comfortably fitted through the long sleeves, her hands pulled at the edges of the seam, trying to lower the hem, much in vain. Whenever the southern brunette pulled at the hem, it bounced back up, returning to its normal length. The dark fabric hung proudly at the quarter point of the woman's thighs, barely covering her behind without the risk of it riding up whenever she bent forward, but until she could find underwear and her own pair of jeans, this was the best she could do.

Pouting, Rouge started searching through the drawers methodically, the top-left followed by the middle-left, bottom-left, and then top-second-column. The pattern fell in that order until she reached the third-right-column. It wasn't until the middle-right did Rogue find the starting of an outfit. Snatching the bra from the drawer she silently vowed she would take an afternoon to organize their closet and dresser properly, instead of the 'throw it where it fits' method her and Gambit had fallen into. The bottom-right drawer had supplied, by surprising coincidence, a matching pair of boy-short underwear. The lingerie set was a dull green, accented with a sea-blue, corset trim along the sides and front, topped with little bows on each; the underwear followed suit, only the corset lacing did up only the back, allowing a small window for the defined line to trail downwards, leaving what it could to the imagination. The front of the boy-shorts was topped with a small bow, matching the cerulean of the trim.

The boy-shorts were the first to be slid over the woman's toned legs, clinging tightly to her buttocks and hips like a jealous lover. Next, casting a glance over to Remy, Rogue examined his face carefully. There were a few moments where she thought she caught the flutter of an eyelid, but once she was satisfied the man was asleep she shed his top momentarily to change into the bra. As soon as the bra was in place, the woman held tightly to the shirt, she'd keep a hold of it if by some curse a passerby did manage to get into her and Remy's conjoined room, but until then she resumed her rummaging in the closet until she was blessed with her own shirt, jeans and socks.

Remy had always been a fine actor, both verbally and physically. He could talk himself out of death, cheat the devil and even deceive his dearly beloved. It was at that very moment he was doing the latter, where Rogue was concerned, he had been either unconscious or slumbering, both assumptions were undoubtedly wrong. From his curled resting posture his eyelids had batted open once or twice, mainly remaining a portion of the way closed so he could spy on Rogue through a thin veil of eyelashes. The show was admittedly hard to keep from giving a standing ovation. Probably one of the reasons Rogue was paranoid of letting Remy see her naked. He was never fond of those 'you can look but not touch' rules. However, the Cajun was also one to know to make compromises. In return for the show, he would give Rogue the belief she was alone in the room. It wasn't the best of deals but if it was in Gambit's favor, he was more than eager to put it silently into play.

Confessing silently to himself, Remy did divulge his curiosity as his lover stripped down to her birthday suit, his shaded, crimson eyes fluttered over the woman wolfishly. Smirking smugly, the Cajun remained silent, stifling any sort of remark he could have slid into the river of swears, commenting how un-lady like the colorful language may have been. Silence being the man's cover he remained undetected as the nude body of his lover crouched by the dresser, finally pulling out whatever little coverage she had found. Personally, Remy was never object to nudity, but the lingerie was even more intoxicating. If there was ever a moment touching the woman was a staple requirement, it would have been then. After Rogue had slid on the underwear, Remy found himself having to clamp his eyes shut hurriedly or suffer the wrath of the Southern Belle. Realizing the clench in his eyelids would have looked unnatural his eyes fluttered softly, trying to regain the angelic look of sleep. Giving the woman a few extra seconds than what it should have taken her, his eyes quivered into small, open slits. Once more the woman had set about her hunt in their closet, attempting to organize it as she wrenched through their clothes that were not safely on hangers.

Remy remained deathly silent as Rogue yelped occasionally, her balance compromised several times with the tossing of clothes this way and that. Finally, when the woman had returned from the depths of the closet green shirt in one hand and tattered jeans folded over her forearm, it was the moment the woman stepped into the view of the beds that the Cajun bade his lover 'good morning'.

"Sassy as ever, chère."

There was a small pause as with more difficulty than usual, the Cajun pushed himself into a sitting position letting his eyes trail down the woman's voluptuous figure. "Remy's a fan o' de green, always have been."

Fading crimson eyes grew to humorous proportions as Rogue whipped around to find Remy very much awake despite her earlier assumption. The moment of surprise was splintered by the descent of her expression into a firmly set scowl. Her mouth, though wired to start with the river of scolds and insults, remained dry and short of words. The effect of disbelieve still ebbed into her motor abilities.

"Cat git yer tongue, River Rat?"

"A-ah oughtta throttle y'! Y' perverted, lyin', dirtbag!"

"Remy loves y' too, chère."

"Ah wish he didn't."

As soon as the familiar retort flew from her lips, Rogue settled back on her heels, smiling broadly. Even the beginning of her native accent was beginning to show through for the familiar argument, shown just barely by the 'I's coming out as a relaxed drawling, 'ah'. For the first time in twenty four hours everything was beginning to seem normal again. If it wasn't for the fact she was still in her underwear the southerner could have sworn that this was a replicate of the argument Gambit and her had the afternoon before. Hell, she could almost guess the next comment before it spilled from Remy's lips.

"Why y' gotta beh so col', chère?"

"Because Ah love y', Swamp rat," From where she stood, Rogue slid her own long sleeved shirt on over her head quickly before Remy had a chance to retaliate verbally. As soon as the long sleeved, jade shirt fit comfortably, the woman slid her palm and fingers into the sleeve. Making sure her hand was covered completely she placed her faux-gloved hand to the man's forehead as she approached and kissed the back of her own hand. It was then Remy noticed the crimson in the woman's eyes and grinned cheekily.

"Y'know chère, I'd have t' say de red don' look so good on y', green's definitely y'r color." The tender contact of the woman's covered fingers soon turned into a pseudo slap upside the head.

"Yeh, yeh, now git outta bed." There was a roll of her eyes as Rogue snatched the covered from Remy's bed as she stalked over the jeans she had dropped to the carpeted bedroom floor. Quickly, the woman slipped into her worn jeans before the Cajun had even managed to straighten himself into a standing position. "An' hurry would ya; Fros' is certain Ah put ya in a coma." The tone was resentful to the woman in passing mention; Rogue would have been keen to avoid her all together. It wasn't that she didn't particularly like the woman; she just didn't like the White Queen when she insinuated silently Rogue had harmed her own lover.

"Fros', huh?" There was a small pause in Remy's voice as a sly smirk crept and wove its way into his waking features. "I t'ink we should go see 'er, y'know for a 'session'."

Rogue rose a slender eyebrow, finished sliding on a pair of leather gloves she'd fished out of the nightstand table as Remy posed his preposition to the skunk-haired woman. She didn't ask any verbal questions, just held out a safely covered hand out for Remy to grab once he was finished sliding on a pair of jeans he'd fished out of the laundry basket. So, they smelled of day old crawfish, they were still wearable. Taking the woman's gloved hand; he slid his fingers between her comparatively slender ones, the wolfish simper never easing.