: HOUSE OF CARDS :

PART THREE : CONSCIENCE

(10) - Conquered -

She was still shaking half an hour later, too shocked to speak.

He'd pulled the trigger, and there had been no sound, no movement, no blood, no feeling. Afterwards he'd lowered the gun and stared. There had still been that look in his eyes, the look that alternately repulsed and excited her - it was the look of someone and something she could never be, and she envied him for it, she hated him for it.

She hadn't spoken to him since they'd left the building, since they'd walked away from Kincaid's body and out into the open.

It hadn't felt any different on the outside. It was the same moon, the same stars, the same sky that still hemmed her in, wherever she was, wherever she went. Kincaid would always still be dead. They had walked on, unhurried, yet with a certain briskness to their steps; he'd placed a hand on the small of her back, guiding her and silencing her - apart from that, their direction had been aimless. Presently Remy had stopped at a nearby Starbucks and bought her a coffee. Then he'd led her into Central Park and installed her on a bench.

She was still sitting there fifteen minutes later, her elbows propped on her knees, clutching the lukewarm cup of coffee and rocking gently, trying to soften her screaming nerves. He sat next to her, nonchalant, smoking a cigarette or two and casually taking in the night-time scenery while he waited for her to come to her senses. At the present time she didn't think she would ever come back to her senses, not ever again.

Because something terrible had happened back there in Kincaid's office, and she wasn't even sure what it was. It was something so awful, so disturbing that she couldn't bring herself to wilfully comprehend it. Kincaid had done something to her more terrible than any of the men that she'd given herself to; Remy, too, had done something to Kincaid that had affected her more horribly than she knew. It was gnawing at her like some parasite, feeding on something somewhere inside her and she didn't know what or where that something was. It was a sensation of dread that she could not pinpoint. She felt alone, more utterly alone than she'd ever felt in her life.

Slowly she stopped rocking and placed the cup on the ground beside her; she dropped her head into her quivering hands, closed her eyes, wiped her face.

"You killed him," she murmured into her palms - it was more to herself than to him, as if in saying it she could clarify the reality of it. She lifted her head, stared at her hands and whispered: "Ah can't believe you killed him."

Remy looked at her. She could feel him looking at her; his gaze always sent her spine tingling, her skin crawling with a perverse delight. Even knowing what she knew about him now, it was no different.

She had expected him to say something, make some excuse or even some crude and glib reply, but he didn't. Perhaps he had no excuses. Instead he took a drag of his cigarette and looked away again. A part of her admired his indifference; another part of her resented him for it.

She continued to stare at her hands and asked quietly: "How many times have you done it before?"

She heard him suck on his cigarette - the breeze blew wisps of smoke her way, clouding the air with something fleeting, ephemeral. She didn't know whether she wanted to hear his answer.

"I don't know," he replied at last, looking back down the path, away from her. "I don't count anymore. Besides," he flicked the cigarette calmly to the ground, stubbed it out with his boot heel, "who wants to count anyway?"

She balled her fingers into fists, opened them again. She understood a little of his logic. It didn't mean she didn't resent him any less for it.

"Remy," she spoke at last.

"Hmm?"

She kept her eyes on her hands. She barely knew how to get the words out.

"Ah don't… ever… want you to do anythin' like that for me… ever again."

There was a silence. He said nothing, didn't even move. When he made no reply she sat up and stared at him. He was staring ahead, into the dimness, into a tree-lined horizon, his mouth and his gaze closed to her, revealing nothing.

"Remy?" she began again, trying to implore him with her eyes. He continued to stare ahead, his Adam's apple rising, falling.

"Kincaid would've killed you," he said quietly, gruffly, his jaw taut. "You think dat bastard would've cared if you let him live? To him you were a mutant and you deserved t' die regardless. He was better off dead. I just did what you were too chicken shit t' do."

"Ah don't care!" she cried - she could feel her blood beginning to boil again. "It wasn't what Ah wanted! You had no right t' follow me, t' come bargin' in on my mission… What makes you even think Ah wanted your help anyway!"

He continued to stare straight ahead of him, his smile cold, mirthless.

"Maybe I was jus' doin' my job, even if you weren't," he stated frostily.

"Fuck you, fuck the job!" she screeched. "There are some things that the job can't even touch, like this!" She smacked her fist against her heart, hard, angry at him, truly angry at him because she'd waited for him for so long, and now that he was here beside her he was killing her, killing her heart… "But do you even know what it feels like, Remy! Do you even know what it feels like to have a heart inside your breast, do you!"

His jaw was twitching; he was losing his temper and she wanted him to, she wanted him to feel the rage inside her…

"For fuck's sake, Rogue -"

"No! You had no right! It was wrong and Ah didn't want it, Ah never wanted you t' do it for me…!"

He turned then, his eyes burning red fire.

"Who says it was for you!" he yelled, but she wasn't going to back down, this was what she needed, what she wanted to hear from him…

"You followed me!" she exclaimed breathlessly. "You were followin' me, and watchin' me, and you stepped in when you thought Ah was goin' to fuck up… You thought Ah'd be grateful, that Ah'd show my 'appreciation' for yah like the fuckin' stupid whore Ah was last time --"

She stopped mid-sentence, swinging away from him as the words hit too close to home; a lump suddenly lodged itself in her throat, making her mouth crumple, making her eyes burn… It took a supernatural effort to force back the well of tears .

Silence settled, raw, uncertain; she heard him inhale a deep breath and the next moment his hand was on her elbow, his voice low, thick…

"Rogue --" he said, but she shrugged his hand away, furious that he had the nerve to reach out for her.

"Don't touch me," she muttered forcefully, and he hung back a moment before saying firmly: "I wasn't followin' you."

"Yes, you were."

"Non, I wasn't. Even if you wasn't there at all, I would've killed Kincaid anyway."

Silence fell again. Could it be, she thought, that he'd been there to kill Kincaid all along, that he was on an assignment of his own…? No, it couldn't be true. It was too much of a coincidence.

"Ah don't believe you," she finally said.

"Fine." He was beginning to lose patience again, she could feel it. "Don't. But I did you a favour back there and you know it. You got your own moral code, Rogue, and dat's fine wit' me. Hell, maybe it's even noble and commendable, what de fuck do I know? I ain't gonna argue about it. As far as I'm concerned, if you let dat guy live, he would've hunted you down and strung you up for sure. And if you weren't gonna get rid of de bastard, I was gonna do it for you. Because I'd rather see him dead than you, a million times over." He stood up, dug his hands into his pockets and stared out over the horizon again, his gaze suddenly pensive. "Look, Rogue… As far as you and I go, I don't want a t'ing from you dat you ain't willin' t' give me. You're wrong if you t'ink I'd off one worthless piece of shit jus' t' get a trick out of you. I don't play games like dat, it ain't my style."

She shot a look at him, then glared back at the ground. She was shivering again, from so many things - the cold, his words, the entire night's events. She didn't know what to say. So she waited for him to continue.

"I'd be lyin' if I said I wasn't attracted t' you," he began again, slowly, seriously. "You and I both know dat. But de cold hard truth is dat dis is a big wide world, and there are a lot of girls out there I could be attracted to, and I could walk away from you right now and not regret it. You ain't a whore, and there ain't a t'ing dat binds us t'gether, not in any way. Not even what happened t'night. Tradin' a life for your body - dat's a game I'd never play. We owe each other not'ing."

He halted, and she closed her eyes momentarily, weak, tired, wounded. He was right. Killing Kincaid didn't bind her to him, he hadn't meant it in that way; and yet he had bound her to him in a different way. She was a whore, and somehow, in taking her virginity he had made her into one. The logic was twisted, perverse, and yet somehow it existed and she couldn't explain why it should be so. It was imperative to her that she make him understand that, even if he would take no responsibility for it - and yet how could she tell him, when to tell him of that bond would break the first unspoken rule between them - that what they had shared was nothing more than just sex?

She stood, trying to hide the shudders now consuming her body once more, and faced him. He was standing, looking at her, waiting, watchful as ever, like a devil, like her angel…

"Ah didn't want you t' do it," she found the words tumbling out quickly, unable to help herself. "Ah didn't want yah t' do it because Ah wanted yah t' have a heart, and Ah didn't want t' see it tainted. It's stupid, it's crazy, and Ah'm sorry, Ah just…" She trailed off, looking away and swallowing, her cheeks burning… "Ah just don't want t' believe that the man Ah was with last year didn't have a heart when he told me he wouldn't hurt me," she finished in a rush.

There, she'd said it, she'd said as much as she dared, and yet it was so wholly inadequate that she didn't think he'd even halfway understand…

He half-smiled, a grim, self-deprecating smile; his gaze returning to that point far off on the horizon as the breeze caught his hair, his coat, sending the tails flapping in the wind, making her shiver even harder.

"Then I guess I don't have a heart, chere," he murmured softly, and she thought she heard regret in his voice, but she wasn't quite sure. He shrugged, looked back at her. "I'm sorry."

He turned then, began walking back down the path that they had come from; but as she watched him leave, suddenly she could feel the butterfly pendant pressing against her breast, still ensconced inside the inner pocket where she had left it for good luck, just as she always brought it along for good luck.

And a luck of sorts had come along, in him.

It didn't matter how he had come, or what he had come to do - that he had come at all was more than she could have ever wished for.

She didn't know whether it was weakness or strength that suddenly made her run after him; all she knew was that she couldn't lose him again, not when the butterfly pendant, not when Fate or whatever it was had brought him her way once more. When she reached him she grasped onto his sleeve, making him stop, pulling him round to face her.

He swivelled and looked down at her - there wasn't any triumph, any sense of victory on his face. His expression was as open and impassive as ever, his eyes searching her own, waiting for her, just like always… She didn't even have to think anymore.

"You have a heart," she said with certainty, and placed her hand upon his breast, feeling his warmth, feeling his life pulsing away beneath his skin, and she wanted to catch it, she wanted to make it her own, even if he was the hunter and he could never be caught… "Ah know you do," she breathed.

It didn't matter to him, it would never matter to him; but it mattered to her, and that, in essence was all that mattered. She raised her eyes to his and this time she didn't flinch.

"You don't know," he answered softly. "What if I don't? What if I'm just usin' you?"

"Ah'm willin' to take the risk," she whispered back. "This time, Ah'm willin', Remy."

His hand slipped over hers. Despite everything, he smiled.

-oOo-

He took her back to the safe house, the one that he'd taken her to just over a year before.

Despite all her experience with other men she'd found herself unsure how to initiate anything with him. Because with him it wasn't an act and it wasn't a seduction; it was something she wanted. Standing there, in the middle of that little room, she'd felt out of her depth, frightened even. Frightened of him, frightened of the hold he had over her heart. And yet, somehow, she had made him come to her. She'd needed him and somehow he'd been there for her. It was a combination of his need as well as her own that frightened her.

So she'd stood there.

How does a woman show a man that she cares for him, however tainted and flawed he may be, when caring for him can neither be shown nor implied?

In the end he'd come to her first; she'd accepted his slow and gentle kisses uncertainly, as if she had forgotten how to kiss. And when he'd unclothed her, deliberately, sensuously, the thrill of exposure had never been so acute, so dreadful. Because she understood now every intimation of his foreplay, of the sexual act. She understood what every touch, every caress, every movement meant. She understood the significance of what he did when he made love to her, in every minute detail. It was the knowledge that had banished Eve from Eden.

But it had been different to the way it was with other men - in many ways, she hadn't known how to react to him or what to expect. He was always very gentle, very tender with her, as if she were fragile and he was afraid to hurt her. She could only suppose that even thieves and cold-blooded killers needed a little pretence at romance in their lives.

They didn't say anything afterwards.

She lay on her stomach and stared at the wall, her hand trailing over the edge of the mattress and onto the carpet; she didn't want to see his face. As usual she heard the click of his lighter behind her. She wondered how much of his indifference was real and how much was just an act. He was always so passionate, so attentive in his lovemaking that she found it difficult to believe that could so easily disassociate himself from her. Because underneath the nonchalance, underneath the calm, cold composure, she could feel something there inside him. It was more than just his charm, his humour, his vigour, his artifice. It was something deeper even than all these things put together, a depth of feeling she could sense and yet could not touch, and it was perhaps this that attracted her to him the most. The knowledge that he had a soul, one that nevertheless was shrouded.

"You do have a heart," she murmured accusingly at him, once the silence had settled. He laughed.

"A heart maybe. A conscience I'm not so sure about."

She stared at the wall blankly. Nothing about this place had changed - it was exactly the same as it had been before, virtually untouched, unchanged - their little time capsule. She liked the idea of that. She was suddenly grateful to him for having brought her here rather than anywhere else.

"You were testin' me back in Central Park, weren't you," she spoke again, still accusing. "You knew Ah was gonna come with you."

His reply was careless.

"Well, there ain't many women who can resist dis Cajun's charm," he returned lightly. She grunted and buried her face in the pillow. Part of her wanted to slap him, but another part was still too flushed from the afterglow of orgasm to do so. It was easier just to hide her face in shame.

"Are you still mad at me?" he questioned.

"After givin' a gal the time of her life, who could be mad at yah?" she muttered into the pillow, her voice muffled. He chuckled knowingly.

"You're still mad at me," he stated in an undertone.

"Peh. Ah'm the one who decided t' come up here with you, ain't no one Ah've got reason to be mad at apart from myself."

"I didn't mean dat," he said slowly. "I meant about Kincaid."

She opened her eyes, swivelled her head and stared at the wall again.

"Oh."

"Well?"

She thought about it.

"It's your life," she returned at last. "And you can do what you want. Just as long as you don't do it in front of me again. But what am Ah sayin'?" she suddenly spoke wryly to herself. "Hell, Ah don't even know if Ah'm ever gonna see you again."

"Dat's true," he said indifferently. She was glad she couldn't see his face. "Unless I decide to go follow you around again," he added pointedly. She groaned.

"Stop teasin' me about that."

"I was bein' serious."

"So you have been followin' me round?" she queried archly. She had, after all, felt as if someone had been tailing her for quite some time now, and she would honestly feel a lot better about it if it had been him doing the stalking…

"Non. I just happened to see you outside de FoH Headquarters t'night, figured I'd check you out."

"Figured you'd 'check me out', huh?" she repeated sarcastically.

"Yup. Why? Didn't I 'check you out' thoroughly enough?" he asked, his tone suggestive.

"You've 'checked me out' most thoroughly, Cajun," she retorted snidely. "Just remind me never to let you 'check me out' again, okay? Ah've had a rougher ride t'night than Ah've had in years. Bein' with you is nothin' short of traumatic."

"It's all part of the fun, chere."

"Watchin' you killin' someone isn't fun, swamp snake," she remarked bitterly. There was a long pause before he spoke again.

"You are so still mad at me," he murmured.

She said nothing to clarify it. She didn't even know what she felt towards him anymore. So much had happened that night that she still couldn't take it all in. After a minute or so she heard him shift beside her; the next moment his hands where on her shoulders, kneading her flesh with expert hands. She let out a soft murmur of approval at his touch, finally allowing herself to relax as she fell into the rolling cadence of the massage. His movements were skilful, deft, and there was no doubt in her mind that he'd done this a hundred times before. Surprisingly, it didn't make her want to push him away. She'd guessed already that he slept with other women, that to him she was just another lay amongst many. She'd accepted that she'd never get any closer to him than this.

It was several minutes before he spoke.

"You said it was my life," he stated curiously above her, the cigarette obviously clenched between his teeth. "Why are you still so bothered about it?"

"Yah think a sexy massage is all it's gonna take t' stop me bein' mad at yah?" she threw back at him acidly. The rhythm of his hands on her back didn't stop, didn't even pause.

"I'm bein' serious," he said. And this time, his tone was completely serious.

She said nothing for a long while. Instead she closed her eyes, feeling his artful hands stroking the small of her back, moving back upwards, following the trail of her backbone, his fingers settling on the nape of her neck, rubbing her deftly, making her spine tingle, making her body unfurl again, and suddenly she knew… …

"When we were back in Kincaid's office…" she murmured, closing her eyes, remembering, "when you took that gun and pointed it at him… The look in your eyes… on your face… Ah didn't recognise it. Ah didn't know who you were."

Above her, he paused momentarily, one hand leaving her skin to remove the cigarette from his mouth; she felt him lean over her, heard him stub out the cigarette in a nearby ashtray with a faint hiss. Presently his hand returned.

"There's a lot you don't know 'bout me," he stated quietly. His fingers were still on her neck, ingratiating, insidious… Her core stirred pleasurably, her body ached with the ache of sudden need…

"Ah know," she drawled thickly. "But that look, Remy… It was a side of you Ah'd never seen b'fore… And it scared me." She gave a short, fluttering sigh. "But at the same time… somewhere inside… It really turned me on."

And maybe that's what frightens me most of all…

His hands left her neck, and when they returned she felt them on the sides of her breasts, caressing them lightly; she arched involuntarily, a small whimper of desire escaping her throat.

"And is dat why you're mad at me?" he asked her silkily.

She wanted him, Lord she wanted him so badly…

She opened her eyes.

"Ah don't wanna fuck a man Ah don't know," she whispered to the wall, her mouth suddenly dry. She could feel his eyes on the back of her neck as his hands moved lower, settling on her hips, circling slowly…

"But, chere, dat's what you've been doin' all along," he murmured back.

Yes - she saw that now. And yet, despite all the danger it entailed, she found she had feelings for him, this man she didn't know. She'd always had feelings for him.

She turned over then, meeting his eyes for the first time since their conversation had begun. She didn't find it hard now, to look into those soulful eyes, the handsome face that always seemed to hold too many secrets, too many lies. She knew nothing about him. But she would take him anyway. She would take him because he was her escape, he was her fantasy, he was her dark angel Gabriel, and whatever he gave her was a thousand times better than anything she'd ever receive from anyone else.

"Ah know," she said at last, and her voice held no regret.

He smiled, a small half-smile she couldn't read. He had conquered her, and they both knew it.

"Good," he said softly. She reached out, cupping his face in her hands, feeling the texture of him on her fingers.

"Good," she echoed just as softly.

He leaned forwards, his mouth enveloping hers in an ardent kiss and she slid her hands into his hair, holding him close as she felt his hands travel up her body, smooth over her breasts and up towards her face, his thumb caressing her cheek, his fingers tickling the back of her neck, before his body closed over hers. Flesh on flesh, her demon, always her demon… And yet he was good to touch, so very good to touch.

He kissed her neck, her ear, her hair, and when he penetrated her she didn't flinch, she didn't make any sound at all. She stared over his shoulder, up at the ceiling, up into the horrible, heavy, all-consuming realisation that now loomed over her, thick and ominous and impermeable.

Ah'm fallin' for you, Remy LeBeau. So help me God, Ah'm fallin' for you.

-oOo-

She woke up later, shuddering, to the echoes of screaming. For a moment she thought she was in her own bed, alone and wreathed in darkness with only the insistent cries of her ghosts to keep her company. It took a while for her to realise otherwise. Outside the faint and unfamiliar baying of a dog sounded from somewhere she couldn't pinpoint. She swivelled onto her side. Remy was lying asleep next to her; she couldn't see his face for the darkness.

He was still there.

Somehow it mattered to her that he was always still there when she woke up.

She reached out tentatively, finding his cheek and running a forefinger lightly down the side of his face. Her eyes were becoming accustomed to the dark, and now she could make out his features, the calmness of his face in repose. She'd never seen him sleep before - somehow he seemed different this way; somehow his face seemed more open and less elusive. And suddenly it became clear to her - she could absorb him now, find out all his hidden secrets, discover who he was and what he truly wanted. It wouldn't take much - he'd never know.

She couldn't. Touching him now whilst he slept, it was enough - she felt closer to him than she ever had before. She felt as if she was finally touching the deep and impenetrable void that lay between them.

And suddenly it was all welling up inside her, for the first time in months and months and months, a surge of emotion she'd never known existed, heaving up within her, pushing so hard that she thought her body would burst with it, and she choked. Hot tears were spilling out of her eyes, so thick and fast it was as if all the tears she'd ever stored inside her were at last pouring forth.

She couldn't bear it, not even if he wasn't conscious to witness it.

Sweeping the comforter aside, she staggered out of bed, went to the slightly open window, leaned her head against the sill and wept without a sound. She wept because their sordid encounters were the only source of happiness she had; she wept because come the morning they would part and she would be nothing but a whore once more.

She wept because if there was one man in the world she could love, it would be him.

She wept until the birds began to twitter, and the darkness of night gave way to the luminous grey of daybreak. Then she stood up, dried her eyes with the back of her hands, and stared out onto the dusty skyline. The shadow of a new day was dawning, the day when she would leave her fantasy and return to her nightmare. She didn't want to let it go.

Silently she padded back across the room to the mattress, slipping back in under the covers with a fatigue that consumed her utterly, from her bones to her very heart. He was still asleep, and she curled into him, seeking his warmth.

He didn't stir, and before long she fell back into a deep slumber.

-oOo-

When she next awoke, it was to the sound of his voice.

"Rogue? Rogue, wake up."

She opened her eyes slowly.

He was leaning over her, his face hovering so close, and yet so far away. His eyes were once again distant, detached; he was already dressed, that same battered old trench coat hanging off his shoulders, flooding her nostrils with the scent of his aftershave and the tang of old leather. Her heart sank. He was still there, but he'd already placed that gap between them, the gulf she'd never be able to surmount.

"Rogue, get up," he murmured calmly, evenly. "It's eight in de mornin', girl, we gotta be gettin' back."

She hated it, she hated this. It was a game she didn't want to play anymore.

"Ah don't want to go," she muttered mutinously, challenging him to agree with her, to say the same, to stay with her. He didn't. Something else crossed his face - vexation, disdain.

"So stay here then. You think it's gon' do any good? They'll come back for you, you know it."

They. The Brotherhood. The ones who had let her become this creature she'd never wanted to become, for something vague and indefinable called 'the greater good'. It'd been three years, and she still didn't see it. She didn't care if they missed her, if they chased her down, or even if they killed her. She hated them and she hated everything they stood for.

"Ah'm stayin' here," she decided firmly. It wasn't bravery, it was pure petulance and he had no time for it.

"For what?" he asked, stony-eyed. "There's a war goin' on outside, and however long you stay here it ain't gon' change dat fact."

Rogue felt her temper begin to flair. Didn't he understand? Didn't he understand that the war, the cause, the suffering outside of this room didn't matter to her one iota, so long as he remained with her?

"Ah don't care," she told him, her voice rising belligerently. His eyes narrowed, flashed.

"Shit. Fine then. You stay here. But I'm goin', chere. Like it or not, Rogue, we got a job t' do, and dis don't mean a t'ing to me, chere, not a t'ing. Dis is just sex, got dat? Just sex. It's time you learned to face dat fact."

He pushed away from the bed and picked up his cigarettes and cards from the nightstand, leaving her simmering. As she watched him stuff his few belongings into his coat pockets, she'd never felt so deceived, so betrayed in all her life. He stomped towards the door and she pushed herself up against the pillows, the flame of anger spurting, twisting inside of her…

"Remy!" she snapped. "Don't you dare walk away!"

He swung round when he got to the doorway, his gaze like daggers.

"You're a fool, Rogue!" he shouted. "A fuckin' fool! Everyt'ing in dis here room, it's fuckin' fantasy, don't you get it? Just some stupid fling! Sure, it's great and sure, it's fun, but outside of dese four walls, dat's our real lives, dat's who we are! You stay in dis room, you can wait all you want, but I ain't comin' back. Do you hear me! I ain't comin' back!"

He turned, his hand already on the door handle, and she shot up, her head pounding, her teeth clenched with anger.

"Ah don't believe yah!" she shrieked at him. "You did come back! You came back to me!"

There was a short quiet. His body, which had been so taut and tense, suddenly slumped. He drew in a sigh, hung his head, and said to the door through gritted teeth: "It doesn't mean anythin'."

She shook her head wildly, refusing to believe it.

"Yes it does! Don't lie to me!"

A short, cold laugh spasmed through his body. There was a weariness about his shoulders, a tiredness she hadn't seen before.

"It doesn't mean anythin'," he repeated in a low voice that wavered with pent-up frustration. "Outside of dis room - even inside of it - we're nothin', we can have nobody, there can be no emotions. You heard what Kincaid called you. Nameless, faceless, soulless. We all are. Until de fight is won, until we're free, we can be nobody, we have no hearts to break." He raised his head slowly, continued: "Outside, you and I, together or apart… we're meaningless. We're terrorists, Rogue. We're rebels with a cause. By definition, we can have no ties, no loyalties, no loves. Emotion is useless, chere. It makes us stupid, it makes us reckless. If we allow ourselves to feel, we might as well die."

She stood, silent, his words sending a chill stealing through her as she understood what he meant.

Even if I wanted to, I couldn't feel anything for you.

He had a heart - a heart of glass.

She swallowed, looked down at her feet, feeling her eyes burning dangerously once more.

"You can feel," she whispered. "You can… …"

He said nothing to confirm or negate her words. After a moment his hand pressed against the door handle, and when next he spoke his voice was low.

"I'm sorry, chere. I'm sorry I ain't de man you thought I was. Please - don't wait for me. Don't do dat, Rogue. For both our sakes."

He opened the door then, walked over the threshold, closed it softly behind him. She stood for what felt like a long time, letting the silence drift over her, cover her, wreathe her as though in snow. His words resonated poignantly in her mind. They were the rules that Mystique had tried to impress upon her from the very beginning - that emotion and empathy were useless, tantamount to suicide.

She didn't believe it.

She didn't believe for a second that he did either.

"Ah'm feelin'," she whispered to herself, "Ah'm feelin'." She said it quietly at first, and as she said it she became bolder, more confident in her statement - she knew it was undeniably, unequivocally the truth. "Ah'm feelin'," she finally announced. "And Ah'm still alive."

And she wasn't going to stop. She wasn't going to stop feeling, because it was the only thing left in her of any worth, and she'd rather die feeling than live cold and emotionless.

Ah'll wait for you, Remy, you just see. Ah'll wait for you in my heart.

It wasn't so hard when the time came, for her to walk out that door.

-oOo-

A/N: Many thanks to all those that have taken the time and effort to review my humble story. There is so much I would like to pick up on but I've been busy the past week and have kinda lost the plot... Apologies. All I can say is that many of your comments have been particularly insightful and I'm so very grateful for all the kind words and the constructive crit. You guys rock my world. And for all you Remy fans especially, the next chapter is from his POV. The boy begins to squirm... ;)