Chapter 44

"Rogue, you hearin' dis?" Remy demanded, his eyes fixed on the television screen.

Guilty. Every nerve in his body was on fire with anger. Scott Summers, guilty of murder? To hell with killing Creed neatly and humanely . . . he'd rip out the throats of every member of that jury with his bare hands.

"Rogue!"

"Yeah, shut up a minute!"

She still hadn't emerged from Creed's home office. Worry fought to make its presence known through the red haze of anger, and he tore his eyes from the screen to go find her.

She was kneeling next to an open filing cabinet, a stack of papers in her hands.

"Look at this," she ordered as soon as she heard his footsteps in the doorway. She handed up the paper at which she'd been staring.

Gambit took it and read in a rushed half-mutter. "'At dis moment of national an' indeed species-wide transformation, we mus' resolve now to establish a national policy and precedent regarding de rights of x-gene-carryin' mutants, remembering dat our great country guarantees equal protection under de law regardless of ability' . . . What is dis?"

"It's a manuscript. For an article. Creed wrote it some time last year."

Gambit's gaze skipped down the page. "In de interests of both justice and national security, let us declare now dat American mutants are, first and foremost, Americans.' He cain't have wrote dis. It's pro-mutant-rights."

"He wrote it. His name's on every page."

Creed's name was indeed inscribed at the top right-hand corner of the paper.

"He was on our side," Rogue breathed. "He was on our side last year!"

"Dat's nuts. He cain't have been." Remy flipped the paper over, as though he were expecting to see Just Kidding scrawled on the back. "How does a guy go from writin' forty pages of pro-mutant argument to leadin' de charge against 'em just a couple months later?"

"Maybe one of us ran over his cat."

"Maybe he found out who his parents is. Dat'd send me on a killing spree."

"No kiddin'. But that ain't it. Look at this bit." She handed up another page.

In the name of fairness and total disclosure, I must publicly declare that my interest in mutant rights is not entirely altruistic. Both of my birth parents are mutants—a fact my campaign team discovered several years ago while preparing for my run for the Senate. Although I have never manifested any superhuman abilities (and at my age, am unlikely to), I am a carrier of the infamous X-gene. Any children I may have will more than likely be mutants. Not only for my children, but for all the children now born and yet to come, we need to establish now that mutants are included under The Americans with Disablities Act and that discrimination against them based on their genetic code is both unlawful and un-American.

"He knew," Rogue summed up. "He knew about Mystique and Sabertooth, and he was still a mutant advocate. So what in the freakin' world could've rattled him so bad that he'd pull a one-eighty and turn into our worst nightmare? What changed his mind?"

Gambit's mind flashed back to Senator Creed—tall, muscled and tawny, betraying his parentage to anyone who knew Sabertooth and could see the connection. The day that he, Kurt, and Scott had gone to Washington to speak to him, they'd only seen him for a few seconds . . . hardly enough to get a handle on his personality or guess at his darkest secrets. Most of their time had been spent arguing with the blonde secretary.

The blonde secretary that had jumped out of her skin when Gambit had come up behind her.

Don't sneak, Scott had ordered him. But he hadn't been sneaking.

She hadn't jumped at anyone else. Just Gambit.

In the house that night, the soldiers had known exactly where to find Kitty, but Gambit had passed by them like a shadow.

Rogue could be tracked by the Air Force, but Gambit hadn't been detected by anything, though he'd been breaking into government facilities and food warehouses all over the country.

Bella had been having nightmares of something trying to find her.

Something to which Belle was sensitive, to which Gambit was immune, and to which everyone else was unknowingly susceptible. Something like . . .

"He didn' change his mind."

"What'd you mean?"

"He didn' change his mind. Somebody else did!"

Gambit grabbed for the phone on the desk. With his free hand, he fished in his left hip pocket. Somewhere in there, at the bottom, was the number Kurt had given him for the cell phone he and Rogue had been carrying.

"What're you doin'?"

"Gotta call Kurt. Now."

Kurt's phone buzzed.

People were filing out of the courtroom, still chattering chaotically about the verdict. He hadn't yet turned the ringer back on, but the sudden vibration in his pocket made him jump.

"Ya?"

"Kurt! Dis Gambit."

"Gambit? Where are you?"

"Never mind. Is Creed still dere in de courtroom?"

Kurt cast a glance around. Creed was just making his way out of the bench into the center aisle, now that the crowd had thinned a little.

"Yeah, he's here."

"Is his secretary dere? De blonde secretary?"

"Yeah. Why?"

"Knock her out!"

"Vhat? Vhy?"

"Knock her out, now!"

As if she'd heard Gambit's shout, the statuesque blonde woman's head swiveled around on her long, elegant neck. She met Kurt's eyes across the courtroom.

"She's a telepath! She's a stinkin' telepath! She's been playin' de whole t'ing from de beginning. She been usin' Creed like a puppet! Knock her out!"

She's a telepath, Kurt realized, staring at the woman. As soon as the thought appeared in his brain, he saw her carefully shaped eyebrows draw together. She'd heard his thought.

Kurt dropped the phone and shouted at the top of his lungs. "TELEPATH!"

He yanked himself out of reality into a teleport, re-appearing practically on top of her. He was fast, but she was faster. The instant he was back in the real world, his head all but exploded with pain. The woman's perfectly made-up face was twisted into a scowl of annoyance, contempt, and concentration. She stepped aside, letting Kurt crumple to the floor, clutching his head and screaming.

The thirty or so people still left in the courtroom, friend, foe, and spectator alike, had all turned at Kurt's shout. Everyone tried to run: some towards the door, some towards Kurt, others towards the woman. Quick-thinking Royal grabbed Scott and shoved him under the defense table.

Magneto extended a commanding hand at the woman, as though he were throwing a handful of salt at her. The tightly compacted metal parcel shot out of his hand toward her, unfolding as it went. The telepathy-blocking helmet had nearly reached her head when she whipped around and narrowed her eyes at him.

Magneto . . . the fearsome, the unstoppable Magneto . . . crumpled like a house of cards. He barely had time to cry out before his knees gave way under him and he collapsed in the narrow space between the benches. The helmet hit the wood floor with a sound like a tin can hitting tile and skittered harmlessly away.

Everyone was crying out now . . . partly from panic, mostly from pain. The blonde telepath was tremendously powerful. She couldn't knock out so many people at once . . . it took a Xavier-like level of power to do that . . . but she could induce incapacitating migraines in every conscious head in the room. Even Sabertooth dropped to his knees, snarling. With a zip of rapidly displaced air, Pietro vanished—getting out while he still could.

Betsy Braddock had been taught what she knew of telepathy by Charles Xavier. To him, telepathy was a tool of discovery, of communication, of healing. Of course, the possibility always existed that such a gift might be used to harm someone, but he'd never taught her how to do anything like that. She doubted he knew much of how to do it himself.

This woman, whoever she was, had never been a protégée of Charles's. This force that Betsy could feel pressing against the inside of her skull was a ruthlessly weaponized ability. This telepath knew how to kill people with a thought, and she was willing to do it.

Betsy and the blonde woman were the only people in the courtroom who were still standing. There was no one else to fight this battle.

The blonde telepath turned to walk up the aisle of the courtroom, out to the freedom of the street. As soon as her back was turned, Betsy struck.

She launched herself out into the aisle with all the power in her legs, trying to ignore the pulsing ache in her head. She and the woman hit the floor together in a tangle of limbs. For a second, the pressure in Betsy's head eased enough for her to scream a plea in every direction. HELP ME!

You're too far, Charles's faint voice echoed back. I can't reach you . . . Betsy, hold on!

Hold on. Help had to be coming. Betsy twisted herself free of the other woman and aimed one of her magnificently powerful martial arts kicks at the disarrayed blonde head. It connected, and she felt the blonde recoil in pain. It was enough of a respite to let Betsy struggle to her feet, using the end of a bench for balance.

By the time she was up, the blonde had crawled away, scrambling awkwardly in her narrow pencil skirt. She, too, was on her feet. As she twisted to face Betsy, her next attack came: a wave of psychic energy that swept down from the ceiling, powerful and silent. Betsy could almost see it, like a wave cresting on a beach, or a snowy owl stooping for a kill.

She blocked. She wasn't sure how. The reflexes in her physical body were trained into her mind, too, so that although she remained motionless, something in the air moved, diverting the attack around her.

She'd been lucky, but it wouldn't last long.

SOMEONE GET IN HERE AND HELP ME!

Jean stopped in her tracks.

It was only about a three mile walk from the train station to the courthouse, and they were covering the distance on foot. When they'd left the station, the jury had only been out for about fifteen minutes. Neither of them had expected anything to happen so soon. But the scream in her head was insistent, with an edge of panic to it. Something bad was happening.

"Logan!"

Logan, who was only just noticing that she was no longer beside him, wheeled at the sound of his name.

"You know how I really, really hate for you to drive?"

"Yeah."

Jean pointed ahead of them to the parking lot of a gas station, where several motorcycles were parked while their riders ate lunch inside. At her command, one of the engines roared to life. "Gun it."

Logan didn't need telling twice. He ran for the bike, Jean right behind him.

The bike was made for racing, arranged so that both driver and passenger had to lie forward over the engine. The position felt precarious and vulnerable to Jean, who'd grown up riding pillion on Logan's much bigger and more comfortable Harley. She mounted the bike and got her feet out of the way, her arms wrapped tight around Logan's waist and her face buried in the back of his jacket. She didn't want to see him navigate Manhattan traffic in this much of a hurry; she just wanted him to do it, and tell her when it was all over.

"What happened?" he demanded as he kicked the bike into motion and angled out onto the street.

"Betsy's in trouble," Jean half-shouted back. Already the wind was making it difficult to talk. There's another telepath in the courtroom. She's powerful.

She was getting brief pictures from Betsy in the split-seconds of attention the older woman could spare from the fight: the secretary entering the courtroom walking demurely behind Senator Creed, the false testimony of the Marines and National Guardsmen, the guilty verdict.

She's Senator Creed's personal assistant.

He's got a telepath working for him?

No. More like she's got a senator working for her. She rigged the trial. She probably ordered the attack on our house.

She felt Logan scowl. Clever. A senator puppet means she can take over half the country and never be in any danger herself.

The bike swerved dangerously. Jean dared to open her eyes for a moment. Logan was riding the lane divider, and cars were zipping by mere inches from her knee. She squeezed her eyes shut again.

And only another mutant could ever figure it out, Logan mused. So she has him campaign for a mutant registry . . . to keep other telepaths out of Washington.

She's going to kill Betsy.

No, she ain't. The bike revved underneath her. When I say, pull your left knee up to your chest. Got it?

What are you—

Go!

Jean pulled her knee up as far as she could manage. The bike dropped hard to the left, and the pavement scraped the sleeve of her jacket. There was a shriek of metal and asphalt, and a sudden darkness. Something hard, but yielding, struck her on the side of the head, and she felt a few of her long red hairs being yanked free of her scalp.

The light came back a second later. Logan threw himself sideways, dragging Jean with him. The bike swiveled underneath them, swerving back onto its wheels, and took off with a roar.

Jean opened her eyes a crack and looked behind them. The intersection they'd just blown through was packed with traffic, all of it motionless as it waited for another light to change. The semi-trailer in the middle of the intersection had snow chains hanging from its underside. They were still swinging from where Jean's head had bumped against them.

Well, that must have been pretty spectacular.

Keep your eyes closed while I'm driving and don't blame me if you miss the cool stuff, Logan told her, absurdly calm as he swerved into a right turn and left yard-long skid marks on the pavement. Horns blared around them.

Betsy's voice resounded in her head again. HELP! PLEASE HELP ME!

Logan, she's not going to last much longer.

Hold on. We'll make it in time.

There were orange-and-white police barricades across the street that lead to the courthouse. Evidently there were so many gawkers and protesters that the city had deemed it necessary to close the block to traffic. Logan hopped the curb and plowed through the crowd. Jean pushed forward, creating a telekinetic wedge out in front of them to shove people more or less safely out of the way.

"Off the bike!"

New York police officers were stationed on the courthouse steps. They drew weapons as the bike roared up to them. Logan slammed on the brakes, and the motorcycle screamed and skidded to a stop.

"You go!" Logan shouted at her, but Jean was already off and running.

An officer tried to grab her, but she swiveled easily out of his grip. A shot was fired somewhere behind her and she threw up a TK shield, though nothing hit it.

She heard the high, sweet, metallic note of Logan's claws slicing free of their housings. It was close; he was only a few steps behind her.

Jean Gray of the X-Men threw the doors of the courtroom open before her and charged inside.

The night of the attack on the house, Logan had used his claws as they were meant to be used: mercilessly. It had been a question of life and death for a houseful of kids. Now, as he found his way barred by five National Guardsmen, the situation was different.

"Stand down and drop your weapons!" the lead guardsman roared at him, a pistol leveled at his head.

"Move outta my way or you're gonna get hurt," Logan told him.

No one moved. Logan gave a mental shrug, then lashed out with a fistful of claws. It was a feint—the blades came nowhere near anyone's flesh—but it was enough to make the guardsman flinch. Logan shoved past him in his split-second of disorientation, slashed another guard's gun into several neat pieces, snarled in pain as a bullet punctured his lung, and made it to the relative shelter of the courthouse.

There were no guards outside of the courtroom door; they'd probably run for it. The double doors stood wide open, revealing a room full of collapsed people writhing on the floor and three women standing in the middle of the aisle, crackling and glowing and raging with invisible power.

The ceiling of the courtroom was crammed full of . . . something. Energy or light. Logan's eyes were telling him that the ceiling was bare and clear, but at the same time he could perceive huge swirls of white force, like arctic winds . . . or like a snowy owl must look to a mouse it's about to kill. Barely visible among them were little wisps of purple, the same shade as Betsy's hair. They flickered and danced like butterfly wings, avoidance their only hope of survival.

The blonde secretary's tight pencil skirt was torn, and she had a gash across her forehead, but she was still on her feet in her expensive high-heeled shoes. Betsy, whom Logan had known for years and whose combat skills he had solid reasons to respect, was swaying where she stood. She'd turned around to see who'd thrown open the doors, and Logan could see a fat drizzle of blood sliding from her nose into her open mouth. She was seconds away from cerebral hemorrhage.

Jean Gray strode towards them up the aisle. For a moment, there seemed to be nothing astonishing about her, except that she was still standing when no one else could even get up onto their hands and knees. She was unkempt and travel-worn, but her fingertips crackled with energy as she held them out away from herself.

The crown moulding burst into flames.

Logan tried to lunge forward into the room as dread shot through every nerve of his body. He couldn't make it past the doorway. The courtroom was so crammed with telepathic power that even trying to get inside left him with purple spots blocking his vision and a dial-tone-like noise screeching in both ears. But Jean had just created fire. She wasn't supposed to be able to do that. She could manipulate it, even expand it, but not just will it into existence. Not even Pyro could do that.

But Jean was doing it.

It was certainly her, not the blonde woman, controlling the flames; the blonde looked just as startled as Logan. Jean raised her hands, stretching them out like the resurrected Christ, and the fire stretched upward in response. The sudden rush of heat sent every loose piece of paper swirling crazily around the room.

The fire reached the ceiling and twirled and twisted together in a single lump of light and heat floating over Jean's head. Then it unfurled, like a dam breaking, into two broad wings and a head with a fiercely hooked beak and gleaming red eyes. It was bigger than the white-owl projection. It seemed too big to fit inside the courtroom.

The blonde woman scowled and set her teeth.

Betsy collapsed into a senseless heap on the floor.

The two winged projections slammed into one another, screaming in clear, sweet, high voices. Logan caught glimpses of wisps of fog curling into talons and the fiery beak ripping away great chunks of white mist.

Jean clenched both hands into fists. It was a tiny gesture, but her enormous firebird projection suddenly grabbed hold of something solid in the swirling mass and slammed it down into the floor in the middle of the room. A split second before it made contact, something with wings—real, physical wings, covered in ordinary white feathers—lunged out from between the benches and landed on top of Betsy, sheltering her.

The blonde screamed. The flaming apparition dissipated into nothingness, leaving Jean untouched, the winged creature smoldering, and the blonde woman on her knees with black scorching streaked across her clothes and her face. The room stank of burning keratin. Jean walked forward, ignoring Betsy and the feathered thing entirely, and although she made no sudden movement, Logan could feel her strike.

A surge of psychic energy resonated in his brain, and the blonde cried out in pain. A second hit, and a thick rivulet of blood escaped from her nose and blended with the bright red of her lipstick. A third, and she fell, unresisting, either unconscious or dead, at Jean's feet.

The courtroom was silent except for the rustle of papers fluttering to the floor.

Jean? Logan wasn't sure if he was yelling with his mouth or with his brain. Talk to me!

He heard an astonished half-giggle at the back of his mind. Holy cow, said Jean, to no one in particular.

Y'okay?

Yeah. I'm . . . Jean turned back to meet his gaze. A smile of astonished delight was spreading across her face. I'm fine. I'm great! I think I just saved the world!

Scott's eyes were twitching like crazy. He and Royal were sheltered under the defense table, trying to breathe quietly, choking on the sudden heat. He saw enough of the fight inside his head to know that Jean was there, and that she was doing far more than he'd ever seen her do before.

When silence fell, it was all he could do to keep himself under the table. Letting Jean fight alone went against every instinct and ounce of training in his body.

"Your Honor," said Jean. Her voice was clear, calm, and loud. There was a long pause as her words rang against the walls. If the judge was sheltering behind the bench, it might take her a few minutes to believe that it was safe to emerge.

"This woman's name is Emma Frost. She is a telepath. She is wanted for various crimes in the United Kingdom and several other countries of the EU. She has been controlling Senator Creed's every decision for at least the past eight months. She forced several of the witnesses here to perjure themselves and tainted the decision of the jury. She was the driving force behind Mutant Registration and ordered the attack on our home."

After another long pause, Judge Webb responded, her voice sounding feeble and shaky next to Jean's. "Young woman, who, exactly, are you, and on what authority do you make these accusations?"

"My name is Jean Gray, Your Honor. I am a student at the Xavier Institute, and I'm also a telepath. I took all of this information out of her mind."

"Telepathy is hardly considered admissible evidence, Miss Gray."

"Not yet, Your Honor. But I'm telling you the exact truth. You've been very skillfully manipulated, and are being used for a miscarriage of justice. This woman wants Scott and all other mutants removed as threats to her power."

There was another long pause.

"As of right now," Webb said slowly, "I have no way of either proving or disproving your allegations. I also have no way of contextualizing what I've experienced in this courtroom in the last few minutes. But I will not to you the disservice of ignoring you, as it seems that you have risked a great deal to say what you have said, and to the best of my understanding you have just saved the lives of everyone in this room."

The room was dead silent. Scott didn't dare to breathe.

"Until we can sort out exactly what's happened here," Judge Webb said at last, "I'm declaring a mistrial."

The gavel rang out against the pew, making both Scott and Royal jump.

"And Mr. Summers, Your Honor?" Jean asked.

"After what I've seen here, I'm willing to exercise a little faith in his good will. Mr. Summers is released on his own recognizance until such time as a retrial can be arranged, on the condition that he not leave the state of New York."

Bang went the gavel again.

"Scott?" Royal hissed. "Scott, are you hearing this?"

Scott was still listening to the words reverberate in his head. Mr. Summers is released.

"Scott, snap out of it!"

"I'm free?"

"That's what the lady said. So you gonna stand up, or spend your newfound free time squatting under this table?"

Scott squirmed out from under the table and climbed to his feet. "Jean!"

By the time he yelled it, he could hardly hear his own voice. Pandemonium had erupted all around him. There were voices raised in anger, one even shouting obscenities at Judge Webb, but more were whooping and cheering in cacophonous celebration. He could hear Kurt yelling "Ve von! Ve von!" somewhere in the din, almost buried under shouts of "He's free! Summers is free!" and an underlying babble of "Excuse me . . ." from reporters pushing their way out of the room. Outside, the din was quieter and less distinct, but bigger.

Scott grabbed Royal's sleeve. "Royal, can you see Jean?"

"Yeah. She's got a blue thing on her, and it sounds German." Royal took him by the shoulders and pointed him in the right direction. "You want to go stumbling blindly after her, or would you like to wait while I twist some arms and try to get your visor or your sunglasses out of hock?"

Scott was already moving before Royal had finished the question. Kurt's voice gave him something to navigate towards, and the bar gave him something to hold onto so he wasn't knocked off his feet by the people that jostled all around him. "Jean!"

"Scott!"

Worst party game ever, he joked to her in his head.

"I'm over here!"

It would have been easier, in all the noise, to reply to him telepathically . . . maybe she was tired. She'd earned it.

He stumbled forward, his foot snagging on something, found his balance again, reached out, and found her arm. Then her shoulder, her neck, her cheek. She was smiling.

He couldn't see, he could barely even stand up, and the room was in chaos, but there was still no time like the present. "Marry me!" Scott yelled above the clamor. It was, he thought, probably the stupidest proposal ever. Right then, though, he didn't care.

Marry me? Had he just asked her . . . now?

Jean was unspeakably glad that Scott couldn't see her face. He could feel it, of course; all his fingertips were on her cheeks, feeling her smile fade. But a smile might fade with astonishment. He couldn't see her eyebrows pull together in dismay.

He was so happy. This was his moment of victory. She couldn't . . . absolutely couldn't . . . tell him now. She couldn't take this from him. But she couldn't lie to him, either. So she said the only thing she could think of that was both true and safe. "I love you!"

He'd know soon enough. And he'd heal.

She kissed him then, eagerly, impulsively, in full view of everyone in the courtroom. She could let him have this moment, this victory. He didn't have to know right now that she was kissing him goodbye.

In her mind, she felt Logan recoil. His anger was reflexive and possessive and painful, but even as she felt it she knew that he wasn't angry at her, or even at Scott. Jealousy happened beyond logic or compassion.

Even as she kissed Scott, she reached out to Logan's mind and held it tight, as though they were holding hands. I love you, she insisted. And I'm staying with you. You and Laura.

I know, Red, he assured her. I get it. Then he discreetly closed his mind to her, letting her have one last moment with the man whose heart she was about to break.

Betsy Braddock opened her eyes very slowly. There was much too much light pouring into them for her poor injured brain to handle. She could taste blood in her mouth. After a few blinks, a man's face wobbled into focus above her, and above him . . . she blinked a few times more, just to be sure . . . were the upper curves of his snowy white wings.

Betsy swallowed, cleared her throat, and asked in the calmest, most absolutely British voice she could muster, "I'm sure you hear this all the time, but am I dead?"

The man grinned. "I was about to ask you the same question. I'm Warren."

"Betsy."

"A pleasure. Thanks for saving all our lives."

"I think the feeling must be mutual."

"I realize this might be moving a little fast," Warren teased, "but would you do me the honor of allowing me to escort you to a hospital?"

"Not even going to buy me dinner first?"

"Kurt! Kurt, pick up the dang phone!"

Rogue had been yelling into the phone for what seemed like forever, pacing the ground floor of Creed's house with Gambit following behind her just enough to keep her in sight most of the time. She would have taken off at lightning speed for the courtroom if she'd thought here was any chance of getting there in time to help. Even at her speed, Albany to Manhattan was a long way.

Finally, there was a scrambling, clattering sound, and Kurt's voice cut through the confused jumble of noise. "Hallo?"

"What's goin' on?!" Rogue all but screamed at him, stopping her pacing in the middle of the living room.

"It's okay! Ve're all okay!"

Gambit heaved out a sigh of relief and scrubbed at his face with one gloved hand.

"Jean took out ze secretary lady. She says she's called Emma Frost. She vas amazing! But she's out cold now, and—"

"Too many 'she's, Kurt. Try again. Jean's there?"

"Ya, Jean and Logan both."

"They're okay?"

"Zey're great! Jean just about blew up ze courtroom! It vas cool!"

"And y'all got the secretary?"

"Ya, she's out cold. You don't mess vith ze X-Men! Woo-hoo!"

Rogue let the phone fall with a sigh and a smile; she'd lost Kurt's attention. In a distant room, the television was chattering away about an attack on the courtroom, but the reporter was even less coherent than Kurt.

"We did it," she said, aloud but mostly to herself.

"Did a bit of it," Gambit corrected. "One telepath maybe caused de problem dis time, but dat don't mean de whole world gonna love us now. Still a long fight t'go yet."

"Ah'm up for a long fight. How 'bout you?"

Instead of answering, he crossed the room in three steps and kissed her, hard, without ceremony and without hesitation.

Rogue nearly jumped away from him, remembering all too vividly what had happened last time and how it had hurt them both, but she couldn't quite make herself do it. Hurt or not, she wanted to be kissing him right now.

It didn't hurt. It overwhelmed. His energy flowed into her as hers poured into him, swirling together where their lips met, and suddenly Rogue was ravenous for that feeling. Her response to his kiss was neither graceful nor romantic; it was fierce and greedy and clumsy. They were together, they were safe, they could go home, and she was never, ever going to stop kissing him, not if she lived to be three hundred . . .

At some point, long after they'd forgotten which of them was which, balancing became difficult and they both toppled, either by some measure of planning or by sheer good luck, onto the sofa. The person underneath was the smaller, so it was probably Rogue, but she seemed not to care about being squished so neither did the other person, who was probably (mostly) Remy. All either of them cared about was being together, and being safe, and celebrating their victory in the empty near-silence of Senator Creed's deserted house.