Archive of Our Own

Chapter Text

The room was much the same as any other in the mansion, with its planked flooring and paneled mahogany wainscoting. The walls were a muted shade of deep turquoise blue, interspersed by tall shelves and brass-framed oil paintings, all depicting the landscape of the Hudson River Valley. The ceilings were high and the arched windows welcomed in generous swaths of sunshine – or so they would have, had there been any daylight to speak of.

Instead, at that hour, the waxing moon spilled its light across the floorboards in long, fractured patterns of glowing silver. The room lacked any furniture or personal effects to denote an occupant, past or present – and the two connected rooms that made up this particular suite of living quarters were just as empty. This part of the west wing was rarely used, with the current population at the Institute being what it was. Their student numbers had waned following the Professor’s death, with many parents mistrusting the dream Charles Xavier had promised when even he himself had fallen to the worst of mankind’s fears and petty hates. For the most part, those who remained were those who had nowhere else to go – the ones with mutations too obvious, or too dangerous, to let them pass unnoticed amongst the general population, or those whose families had washed their hands of them completely. This room was just an empty room, and empty it would remain. It was entirely unremarkable, in every possible way.

Yet Rogue felt its emptiness echo, hollowing out a space inside her chest like a peach whose stone had gone soft and sour.

So she lingered at the threshold, never fully entering and yet unerringly present. With folded arms and a pursed mouth, she considered the force that had drawn her there. She was no stranger to sleepless nights. Her mind had a tendency to jump about like a June bug on a string, and she’d often take to the skies or prowl the mansion grounds in an attempt to exhaust herself into sweet oblivion. Yet, in that moment, she felt strangely tethered – bound in place with her feet stuck fast. She had no wish to be any further away than she already was.

This room was important, something inside her whispered. She knew this room, as if it was her very own.

Frustratingly, though, she had no conscious memory to explain that intuition – nor did any of the foreign psyches she carried inside her mind. Yet she continued to feel the certainty of kinship down in her very bones, as if drawn from a dream.

Dreams.

Maybe it was a dream she recognized – even if that was more than enough of a bramble patch to pick through on its own. In sleep, the careful order she exerted over her mind during waking hours turned thin. While she still lacked control over her skin, she’d worked hard over the years to regiment the disparate aspects of her psyche into a single cohesive whole. In the beginning, it had been the stuff of nightmares, figuring out exactly where she ended and they began – those minds she consumed as her own through even the slightest of touches – and that battle started over anew with each assimilated consciousness. Her struggles to maintain dominance in her own mind, back when Carol Danvers was still battering her sense of self and screaming righteous fury into her veins, was the entire reason she’d sought out the Professor in the first place, long before she ever had a thought of committing to the X-Men or their cause.

It had taken time, but with Xavier’s guidance she’d managed to order the essences of those she’d absorbed into a library of sorts. Through sheer willpower and painstaking effort, she’d bound their minds into structured volumes and put them away in tidy rows of infinite shelves. There, they awaited her command – pulling out Howlett L. to refine her Japanese or McCoy H. to augment her basic triage skills out in the field. Sometimes, those books had a habit of fluttering open without her conscious invitation – she’d find herself humming one of Lee J.’s favorite pop songs, instinctively knowing all the words to sing along, or she’d have a hankering for a chimichanga that traced solely back to Wilson W. More soberingly, she’d never forget the first time Lehnsherr E. had moved her hand while playing chess with the Professor, and Xavier had gone very still in recognition. He’d searched her eyes as if misgiving whom he would find staring back, and no matter how gently he’d said her name, the single syllable sounded like a question. Yet that happened less and less these days, and only when she’d absorbed enough of a person for them to leave a substantial presence in her psyche in the first place.

Yet, no matter how she grew in power, her dreams – their dreams – remained stubbornly beyond her control. Ever since her skin first opened its hungry hands and pulled, her dreams were no longer hers alone. She was not Anna Marie in her dreams – she was not Rogue, as she chose to be – instead, in her multitude, she was -

Her greatest shame and second self in Carol Danvers, wondrous to observe her first rocket launch at Cape Canaveral, her eyes fixed on the sky and yearning for the stars beyond -

Nothing more than a living weapon as molten metal was poured over her bones and she thrashed against the blue waters holding her captive, champagne bubbles boiling as glasses clinked and voices laughed and she screamed -

Her Cajun’s forsaken wife, lying awake in their empty bed and cradling their star-crossed love close to her heart, right next to her rage and her wounded sense of betrayal and her heady memories of touch -

A gangly teenager with a yellow star on her chest, her too-thin hands stained with the soot of the crematoriums and shaking for the horrors that had been inflicted by those who dared to call themselves human upon their fellow man -

And then a boy even younger than Max had been, born into peace, whose greatest feat of courage had been in catching the eye of the girl next door and bravely asking for a kiss -

Sometimes, Rogue could still hear Cody when she closed her eyes, echoing across the years in a way that solely human consciousnesses rarely stayed to linger. She could feel his scream in her own throat as his agony turned her nerve endings alight. But then, Cody had been her first. His terror had been overwhelming, gouging deep into her psyche like a river lashing a canyon into the soft bedrock below. In the hours that followed, she’d believed the raised voices that condemned her as monsterdangerousfreak – even as she'd dug in deep for her own courage and decided that she’d survive at any cost. By the time the mob arrived at her door, hot for blood – and her father had opened that door – she’d already escaped through the window and hit the ground running.

She hadn’t stopped running for years, it seemed – not until she collapsed at the Professor’s feet, finally spent, and had been shown a place of refuge with her team, her family, at last.

Yet her ruminations were interrupted by the sound of a distant cry – a baby’s cry – cutting through the hush of the night.

Reflexively, Rogue looked up, her eyes snapping to the left-hand corner of the room. Her weight shifted, intent on walking forward, before she stopped herself, freezing in place. There was nothing there but for shadows. The room was empty.

Empty.

“Nathan,” she whispered into the dark. “It’s just little Nate Summers.”

That day had been . . . complicated, to say the least. On the one hand, it had been a very good day – the best of days – for the birth of Scott and Jean’s baby. Rogue was proud of the part she’d played in Nathan’s delivery, and admittedly still touched by the faith the couple had placed in her to safely bring their son into the world. Her friends had needed her when that human doctor had refused care to a mutie mother in active labor, and so, she’d answered. Apparently, the Hippocratic Oath was just words in the face of Jean’s powers – to say nothing of insurance considerations for the hospital. Rogue had zero moral qualms about touching Dr. Brians in order to absorb his skills and expertise – leaving him in a pathetic, white-coated heap on the floor, twitching and insensate – but she very much had feared -

“If I slip and touch your baby, my powers - ”

Yet Jean hadn’t let her finish. “I trust you,” she’d declared, the force of her belief tangible against her psyche as it bolstered her courage.

“We both do,” Scott echoed, and, the same as it did in the midst of a mission, when he spoke in that voice, unyielding and sure -

- she’d answered.

That said, the miracle of life had proved something else entirely. Prior to that day, Rogue’s knowledge of birth had been limited to what she’d seen on TV, which she knew better than to trust for any sort of accuracy. Even with the women she’d absorbed over the years, there were certain memories that she shied away from even glimpsing if she could otherwise help it – and the primal agonyfeardetermination of labor definitely ranked high on that list. Even as she’d drawn upon the doctor’s consciousness in order to move her hands and command her tongue, she’d observed the experience from the back of her mind with a fascinated sort of revulsion – and ultimately, awe. It had all been worth it – Jean’s cries and struggles and that horrifying moment when the baby seemed stuck, all before the doctor’s memories kicked in to murmur shoulder dystocia and she’d acted without conscious thought before the complication could turn into a true emergency – as soon as that slippery smidge of new life had been safely secured in her hands.

Rogue had waited, her heart in her throat, for the baby to gasp, drawing in his first breath, and then -

Respiration achieved; ten outta ten – just as she imagined would prove typical for a Summers-Grey progeny in the years to come.

From there, she hadn’t trusted the grudging nurses with the baby. Instead, she’d cleaned him up herself – going over her checklist for appearance, pulse, reflex, activity – before swaddling the little one and walking him over to his parents.

There had been a part of her that was strangely reluctant to let the baby go. It sat right with her, the warmth and weight of him, as if drawing from a very old memory. She’d felt an ache, like the loss of a phantom limb, when her arms fell back to her sides – empty. Distantly, she’d wondered which of her supplemental psyches were providing her with that emotional feedback – even if, strangely, she couldn’t sense any of them over her clear and present sense of Dr. Brians, still protesting at the forefront of her mind.

“He has your eyes,” Jean had whispered to Scott – a statement that touched every romantic sensibility that Rogue had spent years ruthlessly quashing – in a private moment, just for them.

Scott hadn’t answered. Instead, he’d just stared at his wife and their baby as if they were the sum total of his entire world. “He needs a name,” at length, he managed aloud.

“I was thinking of ‘Nathan’.”

“Nathan?” Scott tried out the name, letting it settle within his heart. “That’s our boy then,” he agreed, emotion thick in his voice. “Nathan Summers.”

Jean covered Scott’s hand with her own. “Nathan Charles Summers.”

Charles.

The name had bludgeoned Rogue with all the force of a Sentinel blast. Her chest tightened; her throat constricted; all as, rather bewilderingly, her hands flexed – emptyemptyempty – and she yearned -

- for drowsy, pale blue eyes and a scent that was soft and warm and milk-sweet, her arms cradling an impossibly small bundle tight – sosmallhowishesosmall – even as another strong arm wrapped around her shoulders and pulled both her and their miracle close. “Charles,” she heard herself whisper, as if from somewhere very far away. “I thought that we could name him Charles. Charles - ”

- she yearned for what, exactly?

Jean, as eagle-eyed as ever and entirely attuned to her surroundings in this still unfriendly territory, had looked up sharply, even as Rogue pressed her hands to her temples, grappling to steady her rocked equilibrium. “Rogue?” The telepath felt an echo of her distress. “What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know,” Rogue answered truthfully. Yet she’d determinedly brushed the odd moment aside. “But whatever it is, it doesn’t matter.” It couldn’t matter – not until they were safely back home once more. “What’s important right now is you and your baby. Don’t worry about me.”

Although Jean was only a scant few years her senior, she'd shot her a look that was somewhere between mothering and the fond exasperation of an older sister – there was a reason why she fit so well with Scott, after all. “I will always worry about you,” she countered. “That’s just what family does.”

Rogue had stubbornly refused to give way to tears, right then and there in the delivery room – but it was close. She hadn’t been able to answer aloud, and so had merely nodded.

“When we’re back at the mansion” – yet Jean too was practical – “we’ll see what there is to see. That was a rather strong intraphysical disruption – and an unusual one, even for your psyche.”

Jean had been treating her cerebral health for almost as long as the Professor had – first as a way of learning from her mentor, and then as a friend and teammate, vested in her wellbeing for her own sake. Now, with Xavier gone . . .

“Sounds good, sugar.” Rogue had smiled warmly. “For now, just concentrate on little Nate. He should sleep for a few hours after feeding. Skin-to-skin contact is the best thing for him right now – with both you and Scott - ”

- again, that emptyemptyempty ache resounded -

“ - so I’ll give you some privacy. I don’t think anyone is getting through Logan at the door, but that’s just where I’ll be too. Hollar if you need anything, and I’ll come running.”

So, yes: in many ways, it had been the best of days. Even the attack on the UN tribunal – which, at first, had only demonstrated just how far they still were from achieving the Professor’s dream of peace between humans and mutantkind – had reached an unexpectedly positive resolution. Magneto’s restraint and extended olive branch – which had been all the more powerful for its rather dramatic delivery – had done far more to further their cause than any violent act of retribution ever could have accomplished. She'd challenged Erik to prove himself – to earn the heavy mantle of leadership that the Professor had bequeathed to him – and he had, submitting to the judgement of those he considered inconsequential, at best, and outright enemies, at worst. In return, he had been granted amnesty for his past crimes. She still had yet to fully process the weight of that. Her thoughts of Magneto were rather all tangled up with her thoughts of Erik, and she couldn’t let her mind go there. That path had long been closed, and with good reason.

Besides, Rogue sternly reminded herself, how could she think of anything else beyond the loss that Storm had more personally suffered in defense of the Council?

She closed her eyes, her heart aching for her friend. Though there were days when her powers felt more like a curse than a blessing, she couldn’t imagine living without them. Her mutation was simply a part of her, for better or worse. To have her very self ripped away – to have the sky torn from Storm, who embodied the deepest mysteries of nature like the goddess she had once been worshiped as . . . it wasn’t right. Ororo was the very best of them, and for such a small-minded bigot (a human worm, she heard his voice sneer in her mind – and, in this instance, she fully agreed) to take down the indomitable Mistress of the Elements . . .

No; Rogue squared her jaw, defiant. Storm’s condition had to be something reversible. If anyone could fix Ororo, it was Hank. He was running his tests – most likely at that very moment, even while the rest of the mansion slept – and they’d know more soon enough. Until then, there was nothing left to do but try and sleep, and let the morning come when it may.

So she turned and softly closed the door, leaving the empty room behind.



.

.

The room was almost exactly how she wanted it.

It had been a labor of love, fixing up the old Xavier property in Westchester in the first place. The sprawling Neoclassical mansion had been in a bad way – so much of their world seemed to exist in rubble as Apocalypse tightened the choke-hold of his rule – but that was nothing a little elbow grease and determination couldn’t make horse-high and bull-strong once more. The X-Men had been on the run for so long that it was a novelty in and of itself, the idea of a permanent base. Of course, she knew better than to trust any so-called sanctuary as absolute – they couldn’t, not until their fight was finally won – but for now, even if just for a very short while . . .

“You know, I think that I like the crib back where we first had it.”

From her place, sitting cross-legged on the cushioned window seat, Rogue gestured to the left-hand side of the room with her fork. They’d taken a break from their nursery prep in order to eat dinner – or, at least, she had made quick work of devouring her own bowl before cheekily stealing the rest of her husband’s portion, as well. Ororo’s koshari had become a staple of her pregnancy cravings; she couldn’t get enough of the dish. As she scraped up the last mouthwatering bite of rice and vinegary tomato sauce, she knew that she’d be making her way down to the kitchen for more before long.

Erik, she saw, was amused – both for her admittedly changeable stance on the positioning of the furniture and her clear enjoyment of the meal – yet he said nothing aloud as he made the necessary adjustments. She watched him direct the crib into place with a wave of his hand, critically evaluating the change, and then put their dishes aside.

“Here?” he sought her approval with a raised brow, but he couldn’t tease her overmuch – he was just as bad as she was when it came to the details, which he knew full well.

“Hmm,” she drawled, holding the moment with an exaggerated tilt of her head as she thoughtfully stroked her chin. Yet she couldn’t help the smile that ultimately broke free, ruining the effect. “Yeah, I think that’s perfect.”

And it was.

Everything about the nursery was perfect – or it was as perfect as it could be, given the present state of world affairs. They’d taken every precaution to shield the estate from unfriendly eyes, but the same measures that granted them a semblance of safety made for limitations in almost every aspect of life. There wasn’t just a shopping mall up the road that they could stroll into willy-nilly – not for anyone; those luxuries were a thing of the past. Even groceries were dearly won, to say nothing of the medical supplies, raw building materials, and the ever evolving tech and ammunition they needed in their fight against Apocalypse. Between the team’s surplus of teleporters and Pietro and Morph, they were able to get their hands on what they needed, but there was an inherent risk to every run they took beyond the mansion’s walls. So, they ventured out only as necessary.

Rogue had thus been touched when, after one such run, Kurt brought back a gallon of sage green paint for the nursery, simply because he knew it was her favorite color. Blink had managed to find bolts of soft muslin and pastel shades of cotton, which she had presented with a wink and a mischievous grin. Piotr and Kitty and Bennet and Alison had all gone on to contribute their own trinkets for the baby. Even Shiro, whom Rogue was still getting to know as the newest member of their team, had offered a type of drum-like rattle native to his homeland. She’d read the kanji invoking protection and good fortune aloud – much to Shiro’s pleasant surprise – and thought of Logan with an acute pang of missing. Wherever he and Jean had ended up, she hoped that they were happy together – and safe, first and foremost.

Even Bobby had fashioned a set of teething rings as a gift. Though their friendship had never quite broken, it had strained when Gambit quit the team. She knew that Bobby blamed her – he believed that neither Erik nor she had done right by Remy – and his judgement rankled. While she’d hated to hurt Remy, she’d made the only choice she could have for her own heart and happiness. She’d broken no trust with Remy but for the future he’d imagined they’d share together, and every insinuation to the contrary had smarted as the worst sort of insult. In answer, Rogue had proved that she could be just as frosty as the Iceman himself, only to melt when Bobby put forth that first effort to mend their bridges. The end of the world didn’t leave much room for grudges, and besides, she was ever a sucker for a good apology. Her temper could burn long and hot once stoked, but life was far too fraught to hold onto anger when anger had no true place.

Perhaps somewhat surprisingly, the most practical gifts had come from Sabretooth. Victor had taken up sewing almost from the get-go upon joining the team. Finding clothes to fit the hulking mutant had been a trick, and he was notoriously hard on his uniforms. What had begun as a practical pursuit had turned into a true passion, and Victor had kept up with the art when he saw how working with textiles helped ground and temper Kyle. The younger feral mutant grappled with his humanity as it was, but he seemed to sooth whenever he held a needle in his clawed hand. Blink and Alison both turned out to have a knack for design, and they learned quickly at Victor’s instruction. Blink only truly seemed happy when she was around Victor – he’d been her protector and safe haven for so long that they were inseparable now – and the usually unsmiling Alison enjoyed reclaiming what she could of her former life as a performer when she put pen to paper to draw up designs for her teammates. In short order, swaddles and bibs and jumpers and such tiny, tiny hats and socks had filled the dresser drawers in abundance.

Earlier that week, they’d discovered a parcel of knit blankets, left just outside the estate's boundaries. Rogue suspected Mystique as the silent gifter, and Kurt – after a long moment of silence, in which she had carefully wrapped an arm around her brother’s shoulders and held him tight – had agreed. Like Kurt, she hadn’t heard from either of her adopted mothers since they retreated south. For so long, she had resented them – both Destiny for the vision that had prompted Mystique to send her away in the first place, and Mystique for trusting in the nebulous promises of fate, rather than her daughter’s own strength. Now, as an expectant mother herself, she felt that she understood both women far better than she had before. She still wasn’t quite sure what to make of that knowledge – if anything – but she had draped the largest blue and yellow blanket over the side of the crib, and left it there to stay.

The crib – like so much of the furniture in the nursery and even beyond – Erik had carved himself.

At first, she’d been surprised to learn of her husband’s talent for woodworking, all before the sight of him with a chisel in hand summoned a very old memory, and she knew, even before he said -

“My father fought in the Great War, but he was a carpenter, far more so than he ever identified as a soldier. I once expected to follow in his footsteps, but that was a . . . very long time ago.”

Erik rarely spoke of his youth, and she’d gone perfectly still in order to listen, not wanting to miss a single word. Even in his own mind, he held himself apart from the boy who’d been born as Mordecai Eisenhardt. Everything that was human about Max had been chipped away at, bit by painful bit, before finally being laid to rest in the ashes with his daughter. Rogue usually avoided reliving his memories out of respect, but that did not prevent a specter of strong hands and kind blue eyes from drifting up from the depths of Erik’s place in her psyche. Tenderly, she’d held the memory close before laying it down once more. She was grateful that she could help keep the entire Eisenhardt family alive in her mind – Edie and Ruth and Erich, and then Magda and Anya too. That was one of the blessings of her mutation. The dead would live through her for as long as her mortal form endured – and if her lifespan was to be as long as Jean theorized . . .

Even as a runaway teenager, her shoulders had bowed underneath the yoke of her collected years. She'd felt so incredibly ancient in her mind – world-weary, even, in a way that her peers in age couldn’t begin to understand. But Erik . . . Erik had recognized the weight upon her from the beginning. He too carried the ghosts of so many dead, and their memories would remain with him through the long decades – centuries, even – to come. In him, she’d found a true partner to share her burdens, just as she helped shoulder his load in return.

In the beginning, she’d been pleasantly surprised when Pietro joined his father in the project. He’d joked that he was hopeless when it came to metalwork, but maybe, with wood . . .

Pietro had once confided that he thought it would have been better for their cause if he had died, rather than Wanda. His twin had a useful power, after all – a power that could have potentially turned the tide of the war – and deep down he feared that his father felt the same. He would have done anything to have taken Wanda’s place. Some days, the guilt of living without his sister was still enough to pin him in place, motionless. He would never be able to outrun the pain of that loss, no matter how he tried.

Rogue had long encouraged him to share his grief with his father, but she didn’t think that he had until that day. She’d stood back at the doorway of the workshop, watching where the two nearly identical white heads were bent together, speaking softly in a language she first thought was German, but then recognized as Sinte Romani. Ororo had joined her vigil, her own eyes gleaming as Pietro’s shoulders silently shook – and then Erik had abruptly reached out and pulled his son close. Pietro held himself very still, his limbs taut with uncertainty, before melting into the embrace and clinging to the older man as his grief finally broke free after being supressed for so long. With that, Rogue had turned with Storm, leaving both father and son to their much needed catharsis in peace.

Even now, she swallowed, feeling a rise of emotion stick in her throat. While so much of their world was engulfed in pain and suffering, she knew her blessings in the family that she had to call her own. When her mutation first manifested, she’d bitterly accepted the full scope of everything she’d have to sacrifice in return. She’d mourned the children she always assumed she’d someday have, just as she’d grieved the love and intimacy she’d hoped to find with a partner in marriage. The toxic nature of her skin precluded the possibility of her bearing biological children, she’d always thought – and that would have been in the best of times. As things now stood, with Apocalypse . . .

She’d feared, more than once, that she was being selfish in her decision to keep her baby. Needless to say, his conception hadn’t been planned – to the contrary, they were usually so careful – but the idea of terminating her pregnancy had been unbearable. Her baby was an unexpected light in a world that had gone so incredibly dark, and she would do everything in her power to keep him safe and ensure that he’d come to inherit a future of hope and peace. She could do – would do – nothing else.

Erik was watching her, and she didn’t need to access his psyche to know that he’d followed the distraction of her thoughts through to their inevitable conclusion. What she feared in the abstract, he’d already suffered in actuality twice over. First with little Anya, and then . . .

Once again, she felt her own grief for Wanda rise up inside her chest. Out of reflex, her eyes flicked to the mobile that Pietro had gone on to carve on his own, without his father’s help. Dangling on beaded strings, there were emblems representing each member of the team, but perhaps most poignantly of all, there hung a delicately tooled sunflower, painted in Wanda’s trademark scarlet and gold. Even now it softly swayed, its petals brilliant against the lengthening shades of the night.

For a moment, Erik followed her gaze. His expression shadowed – just as it always would – but their hopes for the future were then great enough to sooth the sorrows of the past. He crossed the room from the crib and bowed over to kiss her hand in a gentlemanly gesture, left over from a bygone era. Feeling his hand cradle hers as he gently brushed a thumb across her knuckles still made her heart swoop and butterflies fly up to dance in her stomach. Here, where it was just them, she didn’t have to wear her usual bodysuit and gloves. Instead, in a loose, flowing dress, her skin was allowed to breathe in the cool spring air. The perpetual tension she carried – even amongst her teammates, who were fully aware of her mutation and respected the danger she presented – leeched from her entirely, leaving her free to exist solely and completely as her own self. There was nowhere else in her life where she could so completely drop her guard, and she cherished that freedom as the true gift it was.

Going forward, she was determined to know that same peace of mind with her son, as well.

Yet while she’d progressed in ordering her psyche over the years, she’d failed to make a similar advancement in controlling her skin. Dr. Reyes theorized that the physical aspect of her mutation was perhaps beyond her ability to switch off and on again – the same as if she’d been born with fur or scales or horns. Yet Rogue refused to accept that explanation. She’d gone thirteen years of her life without poisonous skin; this wasn’t something that had existed within her from the very beginning. There had to be a way for her to consciously wield her mutation, the same as she did whenever she chose to lift off from the earth in flight. She just hadn’t found it yet.

She wanted nothing more than to hold her child without fear – to press her cheek against his cheek and kiss his brow and nuzzle her nose to breathe in his sweet baby scent. She’d already decided to forego a natural birth, for obvious reasons. Skin-to-skin contact following her recovery would be possible, in theory, either with Erik there to create another magnetic field or if she siphoned off a bit of his powers to create her own. Yet she would be unable to do something as simple as nurse her own son without taking excess precautions – and she doubted that she would ever be able to truly relax, even then. Thankfully, she’d never touched a child, let alone a baby, since her mutation manifested. What would her powers do to an infant mind and body? The idea alone made her nauseous to consider. Cody, at the relatively advanced age of thirteen, had spent three months in a coma for the sake of a single kiss. What would happen if she -

“Would you like to try again?”

Erik’s voice cut through the increasing turbulence of her thoughts, anchoring her against the storm of her doubts and fears. He turned her hand over, his invitation made clear as the barrier between them flickered and waned. Visible tremors of blue electricity sparked as his fingertips ghosted against her palm, teasing where the cells of her skin trembled and awakened in eager expectation of his touch.

“Are you sure you don’t mind?” Rogue was grateful she didn’t have to ask. Her opposite hand fell to rest on the newly visible swell of her midsection, strengthening her resolve. “I feel like I’m running out of time.”

Erik did not offer any empty platitudes, no matter how kindly intended, as he resumed his seat by her side – which was something else she appreciated. It was simply a given that they would make adjustments and take protective measures if she should ultimately fail to conquer her skin. Yet, until then, her path forward was clear, and he would do everything in his power to help her achieve the goal she had firmly fixed in mind.

“Are you ready?” He released her hand in order to offer up his own. Though she couldn’t see the recession of his powers with her naked eye, she knew that the barrier between them had disappeared entirely.

Rogue drew in a deep breath, fighting down her every deeply engrained instinct to shield and protect from her skin. She had no desire to inflict even a passing harm on another human being, to say nothing of the very real damage she could do if she held on for too long. This was like swimming next to a whirlpool – or flying too close to a black hole, was probably the more apt analogy. No matter how strong the swimmer, there was always a point – an event horizon – where the current would pull them down and drag them under, every time.

She’d once asked Erik what it felt like, being on the receiving end of her touch. Oh, she had her victims’ memories to draw from, but they were usually overwhelmed by raw panic and a sense of base animal terror. Especially in her younger years, their suffering had been all-consuming – even if she was now better at keeping her head during that initial rush of transference. Erik, however, she trusted to take a more scientific approach.

“That first contact is something of an electric shock. It is no worse than the sting of a bee,” he’d considered his answer before speaking, his tone thoughtful. The sensation was hard for him to quantify, she knew, as he’d well learned his own capacity for pain over the years. “Then, there is a feeling of intense suction, and the rush begins. My skin tightens, my veins constrict, and a path of nerve-endings activate until it feels as if you are drawing directly from my chest. My pulse, which quickened at the onset, then starts to beat irregularly. I suspect that is where most lose consciousness, if they managed to endure the initial joining.”

The more powerful the mutant, the longer they could hold out before even the greatest amongst them inevitably succumbed – some were even strong enough to overload her own consciousness in return – while, with a human, a mere glancing touch was instantly detrimental and could quickly result in lethal consequences if prolonged. It helped, knowing that Erik had a failsafe against her power. He was safe from her skin, should he wish to be. The knowledge that he instead chose to give himself up to her was heady in its own right, but she couldn’t allow herself to be distracted by that thought – not then.

Instead, she reached for Erik with focused intention. To start, she merely brushed a single fingertip against his palm, feeling as her skin stretched its fanged maw wide. Frustration welled within her, more so than outright panic – that feat alone had been borne out of their long hours of practice – and then she closed her eyes and gritted her teeth. Off, off, off! She willed with all her might, but it was like holding back a tsunami with a tennis racket. With a jolt, she registered a sudden catch, hooking into place between them. Then, there was a great, surging influx of -

Admiration and steadfastness and love – such love. There was pain, too – a blistering, caustic pressure that was both icy and scalding all at once – but that physical stimuli was far from the forefront of his mind, and thus, only distantly gleaned by her own. Waves of luminant bioenergy and psychical pulsion buffeted her, causing her to sway in her seat as she grappled for control. Her limbs jerked and her mouth opened in a silent scream against the violence of the imbibition, her entire body straining to stem the deluge at its source. She had to – if she could only – she just had to -

Off, off, off! Rogue inwardly chanted in desperation. Stop it! Stop it now!

Yet the torrent refused to ebb at her command. If anything, her skin only seemed to open up wider. Her conscious will was crystalline in its clarity, yet tiny, almost imperceptible fault lines began to fracture through her resolve as her husband’s life force joined with her own. It was an exultant sort of pleasure, feeling her body and spirit and mind awaken and augment and reshape the very essence of her being as she’d been designed by nature to do. It wasn’t an unwilling victim that she held in thrall, at that. No; this was Erik – Erik – firmly closing her hand in his own and choosing to give of himself. A bright sense of rejuvenation welled up from deep within her, imploring her to take and take and take – in and in and in. It was so easy – too easy – to feel drunk on the poignancy of his gifts as his powers sang through her like wildfire. She didn’t want to let go, was the awful truth of the matter. She wanted to pull him in, to drink him down to the very marrow of his bones and the last spectral atom that formed the core of his subconscious being. She wanted to horde everything he was deep inside herself, to wrap her spirit around the molten heat of his deconstructed soul and the everlasting imprint of his will and his faith and his devotion and -

Yet shame lanced through her for the voracity – the veracity – of her desires, shocking what remained of her higher capacity for reason. With that shock came the ability for action. A choked cry escaped her as she yanked her hand away, abruptly ending the connection between them.

All at once, she felt like a rubber band pulled tight and made to snap. She slumped forward, boneless, as she gasped in heavy lungfuls of air. She closed her eyes while the room spun around her, and kept them closed as her equilibrium slowly reestablished itself. Erik was similarly affected, yet he seemed no worse for the wear when she finally recovered enough to fix him with a critically evaluating gaze. His skin was too pale for comfort, perhaps, and the veins of his right hand were still visible in a way that made her gut clench, but his eyes, when they met hers, were very blue, and very bright.

“Why did you let go?” His words may have been strongly intended, but his voice was dry for the speaking – as if all the moisture had been leached from his body, along with his life force. She took her glass of water and passed it to him. His grip was steady as he accepted the cup with a nod of thanks, but she caught a lingering tremor before his fingers flexed and he drank deeply.

“I let go because it wasn’t working,” Rogue attempted for humor, but there was a bitterness to her words that she couldn’t entirely disguise – not from him.

Erik examined her just as closely in return. He put the glass down, and then, much to her surprise, he held his hand out, indicating his readiness to start again. He did not reach for her, but instead simply offered himself up to her touch, waiting.

“I believe that, this time, the initial draw was slower before it regained its speed and strength,” he remarked.

She found that hard to believe. “Was it? It didn’t feel any different to me.”

“It was.” Erik, as ever, spoke with a calm certainty that she wished she could make her own. “It is difficult to maintain clarity when swept up in the midst of a storm. In time, however, you’ll stand as its epicenter.”

“In time?” she echoed. “But look at how long it’s already been. You’d think that I’d have learned that trick by now – if it’s even possible to be learned.”

“Even the most benign mutations are chaotic upon presentation,” Erik did not agree. “We all must practice our control – which is an opportunity you’ve scarce been afforded, due to the nature of your gift.”

“And with good reason!” She threw up her bare hands before letting them fall again, useless. “My gift is dangerous. It’s not fair to anyone else, having them sit through me draining their souls dry, over and over again on the off chance I someday get it right.”

Especially when there was a part of her – too long denied and left wanting – that couldn’t help but crave, and yearn to -

It would be best for everyone, she reflected miserably, if she just made do with self-denial. That was the only safe choice – the only sane and ethical choice. She should count her blessings and be content with what she had – which was already so much more than she’d ever hoped to expect. She should put on her gloves and smother her skin and refuse to ever risk consuming more than she had any right to take. If she didn’t, there was a very real chance that she could -

Well, she need look no further than Carol Danvers for proof of just how insatiable her powers could be when left unchecked.

Yet Rogue didn’t voice her thoughts aloud – she didn’t have to, as this was ground well travelled between them. Erik too fell silent, considering, before he said, “The first time my abilities manifested, I feared them. Mutations were rare then – unheard of, really. My child’s mind first assumed the stigma of witchcraft; of the work of the adversary’s hands. Then, I convinced myself that I had imagined what I had done entirely. Many years passed before I was able to access my powers again, and when I did . . . they rather erupted after being denied for so long.”

With the renewed conflux of their minds, his memories were close at hand. She only had to close her eyes to picture a boreal forest road with ancient fir trees, dusted with snow, rising high in every direction. She could smell cold pine resin; could see her breath mist in the air; could hear the sound of her own heartbeat, thundering in her ears. They’d risked everything in fleeing Warsaw, only for their efforts to be for naught. As the soldiers raised their rifles, her father’s hand squeezed on her shoulder. “Do not be afraid,” he whispered – and those were Jakob Eisenhardt’s last words before the bullets flew, but never struck – they never struck.

For years, she’d wondered why the bullets had seemingly bent around her body, yet hadn’t similarly spared her family. And she continued to wonder up until the day that she failed to save Anya, just the same.

“It took far longer still,” Erik added softly, “for me to find any enjoyment in using my gift.”

A moment passed. She wanted to reach out and offer what comfort she could against such an old wound, so deeply gouged, but she didn’t dare with the barrier between them still left open. It was on the tip of her tongue to reply that she’d never enjoyed using her own powers . . . yet that wasn’t completely true, now was it? So, instead, she muttered, “What is there to enjoy, having killer skin as a gift?”

Levelly, he met her gaze. Even though she was the one who had absorbed his psyche, she felt as if her every thought was open before him, drawn up and laid bare from the hidden-most recesses of her mind. “Your mutation only has the malignancy which you assign it. It is a part of you. By its very nature, it carries the same capacity for good and evil as you yourself possess. It is not inherently one or the other.”

“That’s only true to a point.” Stubbornly, she shook her head. “Some mutations – by that same nature – are more inclined to do harm than good. There’s no danger to others in being able to phase through walls or teleport or run faster than the speed of sound. But me? A vampire may enjoy drinking blood, but that doesn’t make it right when answering that thirst comes at the cost of someone else.” Swallowing, she forced herself to continue, “No; it makes them a monster when they enjoy - ”

“ - you are no such monster,” Erik interrupted swiftly, his tone unyielding. He spoke with the same force of will that he used to insist that their fight against Apocalypse was not in vain, that the future they strove to protect was not just an impossible dream, but rather an assured expectation of a fate yet unseen – for that was ever the crucial difference between hope and faith. It was hard not to join him when his belief was so iron-bound, his certainty so absolute, yet she found it easier to imagine that Apocalypse’s end was near at hand than she could accept that she was little more than a parasite – an invasive species that could only thrive by allowing -

“Besides,” Erik continued, his voice gentling, “you cannot take what is freely given.”

Her smile – or what she managed of the attempt – turned wry. “There are few lining up for the pleasure, hun.” She cursed her hormones for the umpteenth time, feeling as the onset of tears threatened once more. “You’ve always been an odd one that way.”

Even before they discovered their ability to touch, Erik had never feared her mutation. Instead, he’d done his utmost to convince her not to fear herself. There were days when she almost succeeded.

She very much wanted to reach out and take his hand then – not in answer to the prompting of her powers, but just to feel the simple human comfort of skin pressing against skin.

“How does it feel when you fly?” at length, Erik chose a different tack.

“The first time?” Rogue thought to understand his aim, yet she was unwilling to give up her ground – not when she knew she was right. “I had Carol’s memories to guide me. There was some clumsiness, sure, with my mind relying on muscle memory that my body didn’t possess. Controlling her power, though – that was as easy as blinking. It was a reflex.”

She still didn’t understand why her skin failed to work much the same. That frustration was an old and burning one – an itch, irritating the back of her mind and chafing all the way down to her very bones.

“Do you enjoy using her powers?” Erik pressed.

Rogue stared at where her hands rested in her lap, unwilling to meet his gaze. She couldn’t lie to him, and yet: “I shouldn’t,” was the only truth that mattered. “It’s like spending Judas’ silver, me using her gifts. I don’t have any right to them. It’s a miracle that I don’t have her blood on my hands.”

She’d had Carol’s voice in her head, rising higher than her own for so long, to know that fact as the absolute, unvarnished truth.

Erik’s mouth thinned, yet he allowed her statement to stand without challenge – if only, she knew, for the time being. Instead, he continued to engage the fight at hand. “What do you feel, then, when you use my powers?”

That was far easier to answer. “In the beginning, I felt” – awed and exhilarated and invincible and – “overwhelmed, in all honesty. I was being pushed and pulled in every direction. The earth itself was humming, and I was vibrating right along with it. I thought that my teeth would chatter right out of my head. I had a migraine for days after.”

Rogue could feel that same undulating force of being drawn to and drawing unto herself, even then. She lifted a hand, and the furniture in the room trembled, raised by their metal brackets and braces and discreet iron nails. The pen she had out by her check-list spun in place. The wire-strung mobile danced in an unseen wind. Showing off, she pushed against her husband’s carbon-based body with a diamagnetic force, the resultant repelling sensation playful without the strength behind it to more physically move him. Cheekily, she tugged on the folded steel of his wedding band, lifting his hand and then letting it fall to rest between them again.

“The migraines are better now, unless I really overdo it.” She allowed herself a grin. “But that humming noise? It’s always there, vibrating in the background.”

Here in private, away from the heavy mantle he bore in leading their team, Erik’s expression was unguarded. He thrilled in sharing his power with her, she knew – in having her experience the wonder of their world through the unique scope of his gifts. While he did not reach out to touch her physically, she felt her own wedding band turn on her ring finger. An answering diamagnetic whisper traced across her shoulders before dipping to follow the line of her spine. The focused point of his powers curled around her waist and broadened to stroke over the growing curve of her abdomen. Deep within her womb, she felt their baby flutter, and knew that Erik could sense his movement just as well as she could. She rested her hand against her stomach, holding both father and son close, her heart seemingly full enough to burst inside her chest.

“Our world is comprised of a myriad polar forces, with each one perfectly balanced to work in harmony together,” Erik’s voice was a caress of its own as it lowered. “That hum you hear is indeed the earth itself. Even now, I am conscious of the planet’s rotation beneath our feet. I can feel its iron heart burn, just as I can feel its magnetic sphere ripple in the cosmic wind. On a cloudless day, I can sense the dark spots on the sun and the lashing of its solar storms. At night, the stars sing with the rhythm of their own distant dynamos. I can hear them, echoing across the vast expanse of time and space.”

There was always a captivating sort of magnetism in the way Erik spoke – that had been one of the first things that had drawn her to him, all the way back when she’d been homeless and adrift and looking for a place to call her own. She’d long thought him a leader worth following, even before she came to admire the man who wore the uniform for his own sake. Now, she felt his words just as keenly as she did his touch, shivering through her before settling to pool, honeyed and warm, in the innermost depths of her being.

“Here, closer to home, every living organism moves to its own electric impulses and magnetic rhythms. The human brain exudes an electromagnetic field, that is true – but that is nothing compared to that which is created by the human heart. The field it emits stretches well beyond the body; in that aura, love and joy and pain and anger are all undisguised constructs; each emotion creates unique fluctuations as they dance. It is the physical act of the heart contracting and expanding that manifests that field. I can feel yours as it beats . . . just as I can feel his.”

Though, by then, she’d long understood the full potential of her husband’s powers – and had even experienced them herself in what a way she could – that didn’t stop an answering flare of wonder from sparking into life once more. Thanks to Erik, she’d been blessed to know the exact moment her baby’s heart had started to beat. At the time, she’d only been newly aware of her pregnancy and still reeling for the knowledge. It had been their night to cook for the team, and they were discussing nonsensical topics when Erik suddenly went still at the cutting board, the knife falling motionless in his hand. She’d looked up from where she was peeling potatoes, instantly suspecting danger and searching for a threat before understanding that it wasn’t alarm that had overtaken his expression, but rather . . .

Words were far too cumbersome – and would have wasted precious time, besides. Erik touched her in explanation, infusing her with a renewed dose of his powers so that she could share in his perceptions for herself. She hadn’t understood, not at first, but once she had . . .

(Needless to say, sensing the flurry of vibrations that was her baby’s heartbeat – even if it was no more than a tube of cells pulsing together in an organism no bigger than an apple seed, so much faster than her own pulse but already synchronizing in perfect harmony – had brought the lingering uncertainty of whether or not she should carry her pregnancy to term to a swift and irrevocable conclusion.)

“If you could only see the way you both look to me right now,” Erik whispered, his words in the present overlaying with her memories of then. The depth of love and devotion in his voice was everything – meant everything – to her. “Together, you are the most beautiful thing I have ever had the privilege to behold.”

For his words, Rogue reached out with her borrowed powers once more, eager to hear the exact rhythms that he spoke of and see their combined electromagnetic fields for herself. When she focused, she could glimpse a sort of shimmering aurora, emanating from his body – and even rising from her own. Try as she might, though, she struggled to bring those incorporeal fields into focus – and she’d never managed to interpret their ever-changing patterns with any sort of specificity. She concentrated, and the humming pressure in the room turned louder in answer to her call – but she couldn’t make out one note from the other. It was all just a vague collection of discordant frequencies and muddled flashes of prismatic light.

“It’s all still static to me,” she confessed. “Static and noise.”

“For now, perhaps,” Erik allowed. “In time, I have no doubt that you’ll be able to distinguish each note from the whole – all you require is practice.”

It was not only Erik’s raw power that made him such a formidable opponent, but rather the dexterity of the mind which he applied towards those powers. The years of discipline he’d put into developing his gifts were considerable. He’d dedicated himself to understanding the complexities – and potential – of his mutation until he knew his powers inside and out. In the beginning, he had struggled to control the path of a single bullet; now, he could feel the earth itself as it turned. She suspected that, if for some unfathomable reason he ever wanted to, he could even -

“I understand what you’re saying, Erik” – truly she did – “but there’s no one you can hurt in trying to pick out our sun from a neighboring star. You’re just listening to heartbeats; you’re not stopping them outright.”

“I could, though,” he countered. “It would take very little effort to reverse the polarization that commands the heart to beat. I could confound its rhythm; strangle the flow of blood at the source; or simply crush the tissue of the organ itself – those are all things I am more than capable of.”

“But that would require conscious action on your part. That’s the difference between your power and mine.”

Yet Erik was unmoved. “Before long, it shall be for you, as well.”

She huffed, but there was very little irritation in the sound. “You’re impossible, do you know that? It’s like arguing with a gate-post.”

“I am only unyielding when I am right – and, in this matter, I am rather certain that I am.”

“You say ‘right’; I say ‘mule-headed’ - ”

“If by ‘mule-headed’,” he returned pleasantly, “you mean ‘entirely reasonable’ - ”

“ - dogged - ”

“ - equanimous -”

“ - stiff-necked - ”

“ - and only somewhat pertinacious when the situation calls for, then I - ”

“ - pertinacious?” she parroted with a snort. “Dang straight you are – and on a whole ‘nother level of your own.”

Rogue loved it when he smiled like that – insouciant and boyish, as if the years of hardship and tragedy had never been. She loved it even better when she was the source of that smile, just as she couldn’t help the wide grin of her own that blossomed in answer.

“Yet,” Erik continued to tease, “I would say that my pertinacity is a quality you admire in me – it is most certainly a quality I admire in you.”

Once more, he held his hand out, a challenge sparking in his gaze – but, this time, she was ready to meet him.

“Fine, then. As long as you’re game, I’ll show you pertinacious.” Rogue raised her hand, but hesitated before making contact. “Yet if I ever go to far and drain you dry – what then?”

“You are welcome to try, my dear,” his voice fell to a low, purring rumble of sound – which was entirely unfair. Lord, but that timbre did things to her – which he well knew. “Yet I have never been an opponent so easily vanquished."

“Be serious, Erik,” she chided with a mock glare, speaking to herself as much as him. Her skin was no laughing matter. He could – she could – make light of the threat it presented, but only at their peril.

“I think you’ll find that I rather am,” he returned with a quiet certainty. “All that I have to give, it already belongs to you.”

The assurance of his words settled in to wrap around her heart. A pulsating sort of energy thrummed between them, drawing her in close and then even closer still. She traced the pads of her first two fingers from the inside of his forearm, soothing over the faded numbers that were still branded there, down to his wrist and over his palm to the base of his index finger. She envisioned her powers as a whisper, skimming from the surface of his lifeforce the same as she would dip her hand into the current of a gently flowing stream before pulling away again.

Even that fleeting touch was enough to tip the cup of her psyche into overflowing. She ladened on his sense of anticipation and wonderment and such a rich, heady pulse of warm concupiscence that ever fed back and heightened her own – a closed circuit offered on infinite repeat.

Discreetly, Rogue sucked in a breath.

“Don’t try to control it this time,” Erik coaxed, his voice resonant and deep. “Let yourself enjoy your gift for its own sake. For too long you’ve viewed your mutation as something invasive – as something foreign and predatory – but it is a part of you. Acceptance, I suspect, may just be the key to control.”

Oh, but how she wished that it could be that simple. There was no small part of her that wanted to believe him. She wanted nothing more than to give in and take – accept – exactly what he was offering her. She wanted so very badly to . . .

“If it’s too much, I need you to let go,” she still had to caution.

Steadily, he met her gaze. “I promise I will.”

Rogue side-eyed him, but she knew he wouldn’t make a vow that he didn’t intend to keep – not even lightly.

So, she tried again. This time, when her skin opened up wide, she allowed it free rein. She made no attempt to stem its flow; instead, she did her best to relax and allow herself to drift, suspended upon the undulations of its current. As she closed both of her hands around his, she unconsciously began to generate arcs of electric light – sparkling and gold, like the writhing corona of a sun. She wasn’t sure what was her own power and what was simply her use of his – filling her to the brim and seeping from her pores as the ambient humming in the room turned to a dull roar in her ears, like the sound generated by the ocean far beneath the surface of its waves.

And there, at the forefront of his memories, Erik offered her . . .

An image of her, as seen through the lens of his gifts. In his eyes, the electromagnetic field about her body was clearly brought into focus – ah, so that was what love looked like when it was so overwhelming that it leapt and blazed and twirled like a spiral galaxy, dancing on the wings of its precessional axis. She could see the physical rhythm of her own heartbeat, racing in her chest, just as she saw . . . oh, but that was their baby! That was their son, burning like a small star at the core of her. He was – they were . . .

She stared, suspended in place until, as promised, Erik’s hand flexed against hers, and the barrier flickered between them once more. This time, it was like emerging from still waters, coming up for air again. She drew in a breath, and felt her lungs shudder – had she neglected to breathe that entire time? She trembled, but did not let Erik go. His opposite hand came up to clasp hers in return, holding her to him and welcoming her to cling even tighter.

As she regained conscious awareness of her physical self, she registered the hot, wet sensation of tears as they streamed down her cheeks. But she couldn’t stop smiling – just as Erik’s own eyes were tellingly bright. Joy and awe and exhilaration – and yes, desire too – still coursed through her, both his and her own, with the one being entirely indistinguishable from the other, entwined as they were in that moment. She sparked and shimmered like a live-wire, positively charged and seeking -

“Again?” This time, Rogue was the one to venture, her voice breathless to her own ears.

In answer, Erik leaned forward and kissed her, and she felt as everything he was poured into her anew once more.



.

.

Rogue woke the next morning feeling groggy and unrested. Her night had continued to prove fitful, and she slept only in fleeting starts and stops. Remnants of her dreams clung to her mind like cobwebs, but when she pulled at any single strand, searching for clarity, the images dissolved like wet sand beneath the roiling the tide. When the surf finally retreated, exposing her conscious shore, there was only a vague imprint left behind, and nothing more.

At length, she grudgingly pulled herself out of bed. Heavy bags hung beneath her eyes, and her skin looked pale and stretched thin. After a half-hearted effort, she admitted defeat in taming the unruly curls of her hair. With a muttered curse around the elastic held between her teeth, she scraped the entire thick mass up into a high ponytail and had done with it. She pulled on her usual black bodysuit, but then lingered by the door of her closet, unsure of what else to wear. One of the dresses she had hanging was a cute little number with strappy sleeves and a lace skirt, perfect for breezy spring days. She’d felt ridiculous buying it in the first place, but Jubilee had insisted that the floral details brought out the green of her eyes, and she’d allowed herself to be suckered. Without her bodysuit, the dress was a deathtrap just waiting to happen. With the bodysuit, she’d garner a few curious looks if she ventured beyond the mansion, but the combination was still attractive enough to be considered a fashion statement, rather than too much of an oddity. She was used to valuing function over form anyway. She’d been a practical sort, even before her mutation had manifested, and there was nothing that compared to peace of mind. The lure of baring her skin in a pretty dress – all to fit some preconceived notion of normalcy – just wasn’t worth it in the end.

And yet . . .

Rogue touched the soft, cool lace, luxuriating in the delicate texture between her bare fingertips, and then let it slip from her hand.

Ignoring the dress, she pulled out an oversized blue and grey flannel. With her mood being what it was, she rather wanted the fabric to swallow her whole. She felt as if her skin was giving off sparks, actively seeking to snag on whatever – or whomever – it could, instead of just ambiently waiting for a glancing touch. A thick belt and her usual trusty boots completed the look. She stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror, her eyes fixed on the bare skin of her neck. After debating with herself, she picked out a long red scarf and matching red gloves – which were, as ever, non-negotiable. With that, she was ready to face the day.

Clouds were already gathering outside, obscuring the pastel colors of the sunrise, which Rogue thought rather fitting. Yet she squared her shoulders and sternly told herself to fix her face. No good would come of keeping a burr in her saddle. Her lingering fatigue and irritability were nothing that a good cup of coffee couldn’t fix – in the largest mug she could possibly find.

In the kitchen, the gurgling sound of the coffee machine and the roasted, nutty aroma of the percolating brew worked its magic. By the time the carafe was full, her outlook had improved considerably. She had only just finished pouring a cup when Scott entered the room, very much looking as if he hadn’t found a wink of sleep himself. His shirt was wrinkled – or, that was to say, it wasn’t as perfectly crisp as their fearless leader normally preferred – and his hair was still wet from what she suspected was a quickly stolen shower. She’d bet anything that his eyes were bloodshot behind his crimson glasses, though no one but Jean would ever be able to tell.

“Here, sugar.” She passed him her untouched mug in commiseration. “It looks like you need this more than I do.”

It spoke volumes when Scott actually accepted her offer instead of politely demurring – as he was ever one to put the needs of his team before himself, even in the little things. “Thank you, Rogue,” he sighed gratefully. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“I reckon you didn’t sleep much, then?” she hazarded a guess. She still had the human obstetrician in her mind, informing her that newborns didn’t have developed circadian rhythms from which to tell night from day. And their tiny tummies needed feeding every two to three hours. Little Nate – according to the perceptions of her newfound skillset – had seemed like a particularly alert baby, at that. She had predicted a sleepless twenty-four hours for the new parents, and that looked to be about right.

“What is sleep?” Scott mused philosophically, and she snorted.

“Hang in there,” Rogue advised as she poured another mug for herself. “These first few weeks – months, really – are rough, but they get better. After twelve weeks or so, you may just be able to snag six hours of sleep at a time. But I promise that it will all be worth it. There’s nothing like these early days with your baby – so cherish them.”

Her words came easily, as if from firsthand knowledge. It was an unsettling sensation, spouting off facts that she didn’t remember consciously learning – let alone experiencing – for herself, but not an entirely unfamiliar one. She could have been drawing from any one of the parents she held in her mind, or even from Dr. Brians. It was a common enough occurrence, at any rate, that Scott nodded along with her, completely nonplussed.

It was common enough, all but for that feeling of emptiness, still yawning like a void and searching for -

“And Jean?” Rogue asked brightly. “How’s the new mama doing?”

“She’s sleeping, thankfully. I’m going to let her for as long as I can.”

“Good man,” Rogue approved. She moved to stir a generous helping of sugar into her coffee, and watched as Scott selected and poured a second cup.

“Two mugs?” she asked curiously.

“It’s a peace offering,” Scott admitted, and she didn’t have to ponder to figure out his meaning. He stared down at the cup, his jaw squaring, before he visibly exhaled. “I wonder how Magneto takes his coffee. He doesn’t strike me as the cream and sugar type.”

She quirked a grin. “You’re not wrong – just black.”

That detail, however, pierced through Scott’s mental fog, and he turned to her with a raised brow.

Rogue was glad that Scott already saw the world in shades of red as an all too telling blush flooded her cheeks. Lord, but she was as see-through as a window pane. She’d demanded silence about their past from Erik, in no uncertain terms, but he wouldn’t have to say a word aloud if she continued on this track; she’d spill the beans with her own hand. So, schooling her expression, she tapped the side of her head.

“Oh, right,” Scott accepted her explanation. “Of course.”

After all, in this case, the truth was far stranger than any fiction she could come up with – or so it would seem to her teammates. They wouldn’t understand, at best, or judge her outright, at worst – even if they meant well. Neither option much appealed to her. It was far easier to let Scott infer that she’d stolen Magneto’s memories during the heat of battle, rather than earning them organically during drowsy mornings of companionable silence and comfortably domestic -

“I am an infinite source of random knowledge,” she deadpanned, cutting her thoughts off at the root.

Scott huffed a quiet laugh. “Well, I’m happy for the help – as always.”

Then, picking up both mugs, he turned to leave the kitchen behind.

Rogue raised her own cup, and after a single fortifying sip, she made to follow. She didn’t have a class to teach until later that morning, so she decided to head outdoors for some fresh air before the skies inevitably gave way to rain. Her path to the back entrance and the waiting gardens mirrored Scott’s until he turned into the rec room. She kept on walking, but stopped when she heard CNN playing on the television. The news anchor was reporting on the outcome of Magneto’s trial, as was to be expected, but there was more. It seemed that the UN was prepared to go a step further in their efforts to improve human relations with mutantkind, and her eyes flew wide to understand just how far that was.

Genosha, a UN nation?

A frisson of excitement bubbled up from deep inside her, and she unconsciously began to float from the ground in her joy. This was absolutely game-changing news – momentous, even! She wanted to duck inside in order to hear the rest of the story, but she knew that the room wasn’t empty. Erik – Magneto – was inside . . . and she didn’t feel ready to confront him just yet. She didn’t think that she could – not when her thoughts were still as jumbled as they were. She needed more time to settle her mind and set her heart to rights – even if she feasibly knew that she wouldn’t be able to avoid him for too long.

Her feet touched the ground again as gravity reasserted itself. She’d only just determined to keep on walking – the last thing she wanted was to be discovered lurking in the hallway – when she heard Erik dryly ask from within: “Poison?”

“Dark roast,” Scott replied.

Ah: the coffee.

Those three words weren’t a resounding ceasefire, exactly, but they were a truce. Rogue bit her lip to stave off an entirely triumphant sort of grin. While she hadn’t expected Erik to up the ante so drastically when she’d challenged him to earn the team’s trust, his gamble had paid off. It took her a moment to recognize the feeling swirling within her as pride – but, doggone it, she was proud. She’d always known that Erik was capable of far more than he allowed himself, and after bearing up underneath every affront and sneered word both large and small from her teammates for so long in silence – and even voicing more than a few of her own whenever Magneto’s bull-headed and egocentric schemes really ticked her off – she felt strangely vindicated. Yet that feeling was half the source of her greater disquiet in the first place. She needed time to sit and dwell with the emotion in order to better make sense of it all.

For that, she predicted, she was going to need a second cup of coffee.

“Genosha, a UN nation?” Scott commented next. “I never thought I’d see the like.”

“This is a good day for our people – one that hopefully portends many to follow,” Erik agreed. Satisfaction gleamed in his voice like the edge of a steel blade, but it tempered when he added, “Yet our victory was not without cost.”

Storm, Rogue thought with an ache, and the silence between all three of them turned heavy.

It was not until the newscaster moved onto the next trending story that Erik ventured, “I hear that Jean and you are making arrangements to leave.”

Scott hesitated, but replied, “We’ve talked about it. I can’t remember a time we haven’t spent fighting, all for the right to live a normal life. What’s the point if we can’t even raise our son in the little bit of peace we’ve managed to earn for ourselves?”

There was a defensive edge to Scott’s voice, as if he expected Erik to deride his choices – for their greater war was yet far from won. Yet: “I understand the draw of normalcy,” Erik said simply. He did not state that normalcy could only exist as an illusion while they held no equal share with their human brethren – for there was no need. Scott knew that truth full well. “It is no easy decision that stands before you, and its repercussions will be keenly felt by those you seek most to protect.”

“I’ve struggled with this decision,” Scott admitted. “I have a duty to my team, but I also have a duty to Nate and Jean. Part of that duty is ensuring that my son has a future worth inheriting. Is that future better achieved by staying here and taking a stand? Maybe. Yet I know that the X-Men will continue to fight, whether or not I’m there to lead them.”

A pregnant moment stretched, heavy with implication. Rogue held her breath, even as Erik asked outright, “Does that mean you trust me to carry on Xavier’s dream in your place?”

Scott did not immediately reply. “The Professor trusted you,” at last he gave, “and I trust the Professor.”

It was not a ringing endorsement, but it was already leaps and bounds ahead of where they had started.

“That will have to be enough,” Erik was gracious to accept. “Yet if I may offer advice, Scott, as you embark upon this next chapter with your family: be wary. Be vigilant. Tragedy, I have come to find, often lures with fortune first.”

His words found their mark. Rogue felt their truth resound, distracting her to the point where she only distantly recognized the tall, loping figure who came down the hall from the staircase that led up to the staff quarters.

“Ah, there you are, chère!” Remy called out playfully. “Gambit was looking everywhere for you.”

Rogue spun around as if she had been caught with her hand in the proverbial cookie jar, fighting her first furious instinct to put a finger to her mouth and shush him. It wasn’t that she was eavesdropping, exactly – she was only loitering a teensy bit while she planned what to do next with her morning. As for whatever she may have happened to overhear in the meantime – well, these were the common rooms of the mansion. She could hardly be blamed for that.

“Morning, Cajun,” she greeted as quietly as she could without rousing Remy’s suspicions as to her odd behavior. That wasn’t the easiest thing to do, with his instincts being what they were, but she tried her darndest anyway.

Yet Remy gave no indication of picking up on anything amiss as he sauntered down the hallway and bowed over her hand with a flourish. He may have been a scoundrel, she allowed, but he was a charming scoundrel. An easy affection filled her for his antics, as soft as sunshine on a drowsy afternoon.

“I was going to drink my coffee outside. Want to join me?” she invited.

“You should know by now that I will follow you anywhere,” Remy was happy to accept. “Lead the way.”

She was prepared to do just that when Scott and Erik walked out of the rec room. There was a moment’s surprise – Scott and Remy, she thought, had been entirely unaware of each other, while Erik glanced from Remy to her in a way that made her suspect he’d known she was there all along – but it passed quickly in favor of the usual pleasantries.

“Morning, there, ami,” Remy made a point of addressing Scott alone. “I didn’t expect to see you out and about so soon. I heard your bout de chou last night. He didn’t give you much rest at all.”

Sleepless night or not, Scott’s expression softened at the mention of his son. “I’m on my way back now. I just needed fortification.” He raised his coffee to demonstrate. “I’ll see you later, Gambit; Rogue.” He nodded to both of them, and then, after a pause, he paid Erik the same courtesy. “Magneto.”

And with that, Scott left them alone in the hallway.

It felt tense to her, the heartbeat that followed – but Erik was hardly one to be affected by a less than cheery welcome, and neither Remy nor she were the sort to stand on ceremony. “Good morning, Rogue,” Erik said cordially. “Gambit.”

Remy merely gave a lazy salute in acknowledgement.

“Good morning, Erik,” she replied before quickly correcting herself, “I mean – Magneto.”

Oh, but she was off to a fantastic start, now wasn’t she? This would only be as weird as she made it to be, and she was, without a doubt, making it weird for everyone involved. She was grateful that Erik didn’t blink for her fumbling, but Remy’s scarlet eyes were heavy on her as they narrowed. Inwardly, she bristled for the look. He wasn’t entitled to her past, she wanted to protest, just as he’d hardly ever been forthcoming about his own – up to and including telling her about his wife. If she wanted to keep her previous relationship with Erik a secret – which was long done and over, and thus had no bearing on the here and now – then she damn well would.

Her temper sparked like a firecracker, but she just as quickly found herself wilting. It wasn’t fair of her to hold Remy’s past mistakes against him when he’d apologized and they’d both moved on from the turmoil caused by his sins of omission. He was working to turn a new leaf, and she was being waspish instead of confronting her own discomfort – and gnawing, growing sense of guilt – head-on.

So she summoned a smile and forced herself to remark to Erik, as easily as she would to any of her teammates: “I didn’t expect to see you either this morning. I’d imagined that you’d have half the Danger Room torn apart already, seeing to upgrades.”

Yet an edge of familiarity seeped into her words, rather than the simple Southern friendliness she’d been aiming for, and she gave way naturally to teasing. Her deduction wasn’t too much of a stretch, at least. They all knew that Erik had been one of the Danger Room’s original designers – he’d worked with the Professor on that and Cerebro both, back when the idea of the Institute and the X-Men had been in their infancy – and it stood to reason that the engineer in him would have been hard-pressed to resist the draw. Especially after giving up on what must have been a restless night, he’d turn his mind – and hands – to active industry, instead.

Rogue didn’t stop to wonder how she knew that he too had gone without sleep – she simply did. Erik was already suited up in full uniform, even without a battle at hand to fight. He had to be truly comfortable with his surroundings in order to wear anything else, if he wasn’t trying to go unnoticed intentionally. Even in the initial weeks of their first getting to know each other, he'd never -

“I already was.” Yet she found her line of thought interrupted when Erik replied, proving her supposition correct. “Though my aim was more to refamiliarize myself with the room’s parameters than to implement any alterations – at least at present. Shi’ar technology is ever fascinating in its elegance, and both Dr. McCoy and Forge are true craftsmen; there is little left wanting in the base mechanism of their design.”

“High praise.” Remy crossed his arms with a scoff. “Is that your aim, then? You’ve come to learn our secrets, and then you’ll be on your way?”

Erik raised a brow, yet chose not to humor the barb. “Yet, no matter my respect, I find the results of their programming somewhat . . . indulgent,” he continued as if Remy hadn’t spoken. “Growth is not possible without toil. It is better to find – and push – one’s limits in a controlled environment, rather than in the midst of true combat, where life and death are at stake. I seek only improvement, for the benefit of the entire team – and all those whom the X-Men serve to protect with their powers.”

If they’d thought Scott a stickler for discipline, then that would be nothing compared to their new leader. Yet, rather than apprehension, she felt an eager sense of expectation sear through her for the thought. “I look forward to that,” she approved, one corner of her mouth curling upwards.

“The anticipation is all mine. It is always a pleasure to fight beside you, Rogue” – Erik’s smile turned sharp to match – “and a true challenge to fight against you.”

She was already itching to step into the ring, right then and there. It had been far too long since she’d faced her equal in a spar. Sure, she and Wolverine could pummel each other ‘til kingdom come – if she kept her gloves on, at least, to make it a fair fight – but, outside of Logan, she pulled her punches with every last one of her teammates. Granted, she actually had to catch Ororo and Jean before she could do much damage, and the two women were always careful to scale back their nearly god-like powers in their own right. Scott and Remy and Morph and Lucas and Jubilee were all clever with their gifts, but she inevitably pinned them all in the end. Erik, however, was a force to be reckoned with. With him, she didn’t have to hold back – he would never tolerate her doing so in the first place, just as he ever refused to curb his own strength in return. When they faced off, she had to fight smart and fast and even dirty to come out on top. Her victories were far from assured, and tasted all the sweeter for being so hard won.

Yet she was distracted from her thoughts when Remy draped an arm around her shoulders and pulled her up bodily against him. “Name a time, pote,” he threw down his own gauntlet, “and we will show you what a good team the Gambit and the Rogue make.”

She had to scuttle her first instinct to shrug and push him away. Remy had far too much skin bared between his sleeveless Rockin’ Dopsie t-shirt and his cut-off sweatshorts, and he was, as ever, reckless when it came to the dangers of her mutation. His disregard for her powers should have been comforting – it was comforting – yet she more often felt as if she had to be careful enough for the both of them. If she didn’t keep up her guard, Remy would drop himself into a coma with a wink and an unrepentant grin faster than a walnut rolling down a henhouse roof.

That, and – lethal skin or not – she never appreciated being marked like a dog’s territory. Remy’s arm tightened, belying the casual affection he’d undoubtedly intended to convey with his pose, but she could feel the tension lashing his every muscle tight. It was that which held her still in place. She owed Remy this small gesture of loyalty – at the very least.

Ultimately, if it was a message that Remy intended to send, then that message was received loud and clear. Erik looked between them – taking in Remy’s smirk and the familiar way he traced his hand up and down the sleeve of her flannel as she held her head up high – his expression unreadable all the while.

“I look forward to evaluating the team’s abilities as a whole.” Erik’s answer was a study in passive indifference. He didn’t yield an inch, but Rogue could feel the distance between them as it grew. “I already have some idea of your strengths” – he met her gaze one last time before flicking a parting glance at Remy – “and your weaknesses.” Yet before Gambit could muster a retort, he put a swift end to their interlude. “The roster is already up – both for patrols and training. Until then, if you will excuse me.”

With that, Erik passed them, and continued on his way back down to the lab.

Remy exhaled from between gritted teeth. “And I thought that Cyclops was tête dur,” he muttered darkly. “We have a new martinet on our hands, it seems.”

She bit her lip, but was spared from having to reply as Remy continued, “It’s a shame the tribunal didn’t see right through him. Under all those fancy words, Magneto ain’t nothing more than a rabid animal – and he should be put down like one.”

Rogue slipped free from his arm with a sigh. “I don’t know,” she couldn’t agree outright. “The Professor trusted him, even after everything. That should count for something, shouldn’t it?”

“In this case? Je n’y crois pas.” Remy snorted. “Sure, Xavier may have loved that man to the end, even after everything” – again, his eyes narrowed on her – “but the heart makes fools of the wise, all the way from Solomon on down. In that, the Professor was just as human as the rest of us.”

Rogue bit her tongue to keep from arguing that few people had ever seen Erik more clearly than Charles Xavier – warts and all. There had never been any blinders involved in their relationship, even if she had her own opinions on the finer points of their interactions – none of which, she knew, Remy would appreciate hearing just then. In all the world, that was a knowing that only she herself shared for the place that Erik still inhabited in her psyche. No amount of love had ever been able to color her perception of him, even when she’d closed her eyes and wished that it would. To the contrary, it was cold logic and a clear head that had finally forced her to separate her path from his, regardless of her heart, just the same as the Professor once had.

Now that they were thrown back together again, with mutual goals and a shared purpose closing the chasm of ideology that had once stood between them, what did that mean – what could that mean? – for the future of -

But Rogue refused to follow that thought through to its conclusion. Her emotions of old were a trap just waiting to spring, and she’d give the tangled weave of what-could-have-been and in-another-time-and-place no further rope with which to hang her.

Though she kept the finer points of her musings to herself, Remy was hardly blind to her struggles. Playfully, he tugged on a white lock of her hair. “Yet Rogue has a soft heart beneath the shell she keeps oh so strong. That be one of the things Gambit loves most about her. Of course you cannot condemn Magneto – you always see the best, even in the most undeserving folks.”

It was hard for her to hang onto her annoyance – for it wasn’t any sort of innate feminine softness that moved her to mercy, nor was her mercy so blithely bestowed – when his gaze shadowed and turned inward. She well knew the mask – the facade – that Remy presented to the world, and all of the doubts and bitter regrets that he better carried underneath.

So she reached out with her gloved hand to safely clasp one of his own. Affectionately, she squeezed.

“I’m not suggesting that you trust Magneto,” she assured him. “As for me, I think that he honestly wants to honor the Professor’s legacy. Do I trust him to hold that line when tested?” For that, she loosed a breath from deep inside her chest. Erik could be absolute in his thinking and furious in his righteousness – to the point of arrogance and beyond. He ever believed that the ends justified the means, and he was willing to shoulder even the worst atrocities if he thought that blackening his own conscience would protect his people in the long run – no matter who was caught in the crossfire in the meantime. “His actions with the UN were a good start. Beyond that, we'll just have to wait and see. Yet I’m willing to give him that chance – just as the Professor once took a chance on you and me.”

Remy squeezed her hand in return. “You got Gambit there. This thief still owes much to Xavier and his kindness – without that, he never would have met you.” His half-grin turned rueful, and he exhaled theatrically. “Fine, then, mon trésor. We do it your way. Yet, the moment ol’ Mags steps out of line . . . ”

She felt the crackling of static energy rise in the air, and allowed herself an answering smile. “Then the X-Men will be there to stop him – just like we always are.”

“Mais yeah,” Remy seconded, and she didn’t let his hand go as they turned to leave the hall behind.

By the time they made their way out onto the back terrace, the sun had fully risen, even if the lingering dawn was hidden from view in the sky above. A dark layer of steel-grey clouds made all the world seem small as the promise of rain pressed down close to the earth below. While the air was caught in that springtime dichotomy of feeling both cool and warm all at once, the humidity was something palpable as it seeped through her layers of clothes. As they trekked across the dew-soaked grass, verdantly green against the gloom, she broke out in a fine layer of sweat. Her bodysuit stuck to her skin in a clammy embrace, and she wished that she could take her scarf off, at the very least – but she was used to enduring a modicum of discomfort with her wardrobe, and resisted the urge.

Instead, she concentrated on filling her lungs with the storm-charged air. The flowers were a heavy, sweet scent in her nose, and the damp loaminess of the soft ground beneath her boots was almost rich enough to taste on her tongue. She looked across the neatly ordered raised beds, to the gate which led to the kitchen gardens. Storm taught a class on earth science, and her students shared the seasonal work of tending to the plots of herbs and vegetables within. Ororo was usually to be found here in the mornings, pulling weeds and watering and coaxing each and every growing thing to its fullest potential. Rogue frowned when her searching eyes came up empty, but she veiled her unease when they came upon a pair of students – one, a girl with fine brown fur and delicate fangs, and the other a black-haired girl who was working to control her power of telepathic possession. It was their morning to check on their newly sprouting seedlings, yet their teacher was nowhere to be found.

Remy was ever a favorite with the students – just as he had a soft spot for the youngsters in return – and Rogue was happy to let him take over in explaining that Ms. Munroe wasn’t feeling well that morning, but would be back with them soon. “So do the same as you normally would together as best you can, ouais? Then head back inside and have something warm for breakfast. It looks like rain.”

A dual chorus of, “Thank you, Mr. Gambit!” echoed from the pair, and Remy watched them return to their assignment with a fond expression. Yet she was close enough to see the way his jaw tightened. He was just as concerned for Storm as she was – if not even more so. Their friendship was a strong one, with deep roots. Ororo had been Remy’s original link to the X-Men, and he’d even toyed with the idea of their bond evolving into something more before Storm’s gentle rejection and meeting Rogue herself had set him on a different path. Any pain done to Ororo, he felt as a wound inflicted on his own spirit. He wouldn’t rest easy until Hank found a cure – none of them would.

. . . and that was only if Hank found a cure.

Yet that thought didn’t bear thinking of just then – not yet. So, she firmly pushed it aside.

“You don’t need to worry about Storm,” Remy declared aloud. “It will take more than a FoH pig with a lucky shot to take down la déesse. Just wait and see.”

“Of course you’re right.” Rogue attempted to make his belief her own. “Still, I can’t help but worry.”

By unspoken agreement, they continued on the path that led from the gardens, down to the greenhouses, closer to the lake. Ororo may have sought sanctuary in the oasis she'd further cultivated there, but Rogue already suspected that their search would come up empty.

“You worry too much.” Remy squeezed her hand. “There’s no use borrowing trouble before it comes. You’ll just wrinkle that pretty brow of yours for nothing.”

Yet, when they entered the elegant trio of glass houses and found them empty of their teammate, this time Remy was the one to frown before his expression smoothed over, unaffected once more. He whistled a jaunty tune as they walked over to the chairs set up by one of the gently gurgling ponds, where an artful series of waterfalls fed a pool filled with brightly colored koi fish. Rogue picked a seat and attempted to relax, listening to the cadence of the falling water and breathing in the heavy green scent of lush foliage and thriving vegetation. She sipped her coffee, but found that it had gone too lukewarm for her taste. She crossed one leg over her knee, and drummed her gloved fingers against the leather of her boot in a restless cadence. The air turned saturated as the rain beyond began in earnest, pattering against the vaulted glass ceilings and sluicing down the walls in dancing rivulets to feed the thirsting earth below.

Underneath her carefully constructed layers, her skin seemingly sparked and notched in answer to the unfettered energy of the storm. A shiver ghosted across her spine as thunder rumbled somewhere yet far in the distance. If she but peeled back her glove, she felt as if she would be able to draw the lightning itself in through the pores of her open palm.

For his part, Remy sank down to comfortably drape himself across a chair. He stretched out his long legs and leaned his head back, easily inhabiting the space his body occupied. He closed his eyes with a contented breath, but then cracked open one red-on-black orb to comment: “You’re still thinking too much.”

“But there’s so much to think about.” Rogue flexed her fingers against her coffee mug. “Yesterday was a lot for all of us. Between the trial, the attack on the UN, and Storm – not to mention that I delivered our friends’ baby – my mind hasn’t stopped running in circles. I didn’t sleep much last night, and when I did, my dreams . . . ”

Again, her gaze shuttered as that inexplicably hollow feeling stretched in her chest – emptyemptyempty – haunting her with the distant impression of -

“You should have come and found me, chère. Gambit could have made you forget all your cares. Then, imagine just how sweetly you would have slept.”

- only for her eyes to fly open and fix on Remy’s wolfish expression, just in time to see him wink.

“Nice try, swamp rat,” she drawled, “but I managed just fine on my own.”

“Eh, a man can dream, can he not? And what a pleasant dream this one be.” Remy folded his arms behind his head and leaned back once more. “But know, in the future, that I would never close my door to such a beautiful woman – you always have a place with me.”

Although his posture was a study in nonchalance, a sincere offer lurked behind the deceivingly casual shape of his words. His overture went far deeper than any of the flirtatious remarks that rolled off his tongue as easily as trading one breath for the next. No, with her, she knew that he truly wanted something more. He wanted something real – something official and permanent and lasting – while she . . .

Didn’t she want the same thing?

She did – of course she did. Rogue didn’t know why she continued to hold him at arm’s length. The recalcitrance of her heart frustrated her just as much as she knew it frustrated Remy. She hadn’t been interested in any sort of romance upon joining the team, was the honest to God truth of the matter. Besides the complications – the limitations – imposed by her skin, she’d had far too much on her mind as she sorted out her psyche and determined what she wanted next from her life. Especially so soon after the intensity of what she’d shared – and so painfully ended – with Erik, she hadn’t been looking to fill that void with someone new. Yet there was Gambit, fresh from the wild himself and delighting in the thrill of the chase. He hadn’t batted an eye at her emphatic no ways and nevers and repeated don’t push your luck, Cajun, if you don’t want me to smack you with my gloves off. It had gotten to the point where Logan had taken to lurking by her side, more of a faithful guard dog than his more solitary namesake, and Scott had bluntly voiced some choice words about getting with the times and realizing that disrespecting a woman’s explicitly stated boundaries qualified as harassment. And harassment, of any kind, wouldn’t be tolerated amongst the X-Men.

But Gambit never pushes where he is not wanted – the Rogue may say no with her cruel tongue, but her eyes say yes. She is the siren in my sea, and I am powerless to resist the song of her call.

Rogue had allowed a little more force to her punches in the Danger Room that day – if, unfortunately, much to Remy’s starry-eyed admiration. And then she had thanked Scott, but told him that this was a battle she was more than capable of fighting on her own. After all, Remy was harmless. He simply wheedled and cajoled – sweet-talking and soft-soaping and buttering her up until she couldn’t help but think him as high-hearted and endearing as he was thick-headed and boastsome. She had been flattered by his persistence, no matter how grudgingly so. There was no denying that Remy was a gorgeous man, and for him to single her out – little ol’ untouchable her, with all her barbs and bristles – from the very available, very receptive women at the mansion and beyond had stoked her ego. Yet it was those rare moments when he was more Remy than Gambit that had truly drawn her in like a moth to a flame, and kept her close. He’d slowly chipped away at her walls, brick by stubborn brick, only to come to find -

But no . . . no. They’d come a long way since Belladonna. Remy wasn’t the same man who could so easily lie to her anymore – just as she was reasonably certain that what she felt for him was separate from the influx of love and devotion she’d absorbed from his wife. Belladonna wasn’t the reason why she hesitated to take that next step and define their relationship as something official – she wasn’t. Rogue’s reservations had more to do with the fact that she still didn’t feel like she was enough to keep Remy once she had him. Sure, he enjoyed chasing her now, but wouldn’t he grow bored of her in time – or worse, come to resent her for keeping him trapped in a half-fulfilling union? That fear was only compounded by the fact that she couldn’t touch him, not truly – and he was very much a man who longed to be touched. She’d caught enough of that from his mind, and had seen as much with her own two eyes from the women he'd paraded before her in an attempt to inspire her jealousy in the very beginning. He’d hardly been faithful to Belladonna, even before their estrangement – and after his exile from New Orleans, she’d caught a long string of partners in his mind, with each passing fancy only loosely anchoring against his psyche from one memory to the next.

Yet that was who Remy had been. He wasn’t the same man now. Why would he even be interested in settling down with her in the first place, if he still was? He hadn’t been truly happy, living as he once had – she knew that from the very depths of his soul, just the same as he did – whereas now . . .

Now, he swore to her that love was enough for him – it would always be enough for him. If he loved her enough to want to build a future together in spite of all that she could not give him in return, then how could that not be enough for her? It was enough for her. She knew that she should be grateful – how could she not be grateful? She just had to turn her mind off long enough to listen to her heart, and let him in.

Yet that was always the trick with her, wasn't it?

Even then, in the relative peace of that moment, she struggled to keep her mind from gamboling between one anxious what-if and the next. Where did Remy see them – where did she see them – one year down the line? How about five years? Twenty years? A hundred years, even, when her lifespan carried on long after even his dazzling light eventually dimmed and burned out completely? Or, at least, so it would if the risks they took day in and day out didn’t first erase either one of them from the mortal coil before it was otherwise right and natural for them to go.

She thought back to yesterday, and remembered how it felt to hold little Nate in her arms. Though she had never considered herself particularly maternal – it was far easier not to want what she could never have – it had felt right in that moment, swaddling that tiny body and tucking him in close. Even now, she couldn’t help but remember, and feel -

emptyemptyempty

- and yearn.

“Have you ever thought about having kids?” she found herself blurting, the words escaping her mouth before she could think to stop them.

Remy did not open his eyes. “Are you offering, ma belle?” he returned with a sly sort of smirk. “Because, if so - ”

“Whoa, hold your horses there, cowboy.” He did not see her glare, but she well imagined he could feel the force of it. “I’m strictly talking in the theoretical.”

“Why?” He opened his eyes then, and there was something almost guarded about his expression as he lowered his arms and sat up straight. “Having children . . . is that something you want?”

On a base level, she knew of Remy’s longing for family – all in defiance of his own tumultuous upbringing. That desire for connection was what made him settle into their team to begin with, even when he was still uncomfortable with taking orders from anyone other than himself. He was good with the children at the Institute – the best, even. He taught a class on self-defense that he shared with Logan, and he was an excellent teacher, balancing constructive criticism with praise and levity with discipline. She knew that he’d once had this conversation with Belladonna – she'd gleaned that memory from both their minds, and felt how their unified desires strengthened their bond, at least in this aspect. Yet there was a difference between gleaning directly from his psyche – she tried to respect his mnemonic privacy whenever she could, for the drama that had unraveled in the past whenever she’d unwittingly uncovered his worst secrets – and actually hearing him express himself aloud.

So Rogue didn’t answer. Instead, she held his gaze, and waited.

“Yes,” Remy admitted in a quiet voice, thick with feeling. “I want a family . . . in every way.”

It should have been a comfort, having his sincerity and the depth of his commitment confirmed. Instead, she felt the heavy weight of expectation press down on her shoulders, as if she was Atlas holding up all the wide world above. She couldn’t -

“But what I want more is you,” Remy added quickly. “I want you to be my family – you are my family, whether or not that means - ”

“But you shouldn’t have to throw away your chance of having everything you want on me.” The words erupted from her, as restless as the rain thrashing against the glass dome above. “You’ve already given up so much for me – too much. You shouldn’t have to sacrifice something as important as this, not when - ”

“And you don’t bear my burdens?” Remy was incredulous to return. “That’s the very definition of a partnership – of love. I carry your load, and you carry mine; pas vrai?”

But when that load was so unevenly distributed, what then? If she didn’t cut him loose now, she was certain that he’d someday grow to resent her. Someday, he’d want normalcy – he’d want something easy and bright and new, most likely with one of the readily available, entirely touchable women who liked to titter and sigh whenever he so much as smiled and drawled je t’amie in that whiskey and molasses voice of his, as easy as ice cream melting into warm apple pie.

She couldn’t give him that – hell, she’d dropped him unconscious the one time he’d held on through a kiss and refused to let go, no matter how she’d protested. He’d only been out for a couple hours – he was far hardier than poor human Cody had been – but still, the guilt she’d felt while waiting for him to wake up had been enough to eat her alive. Intimacy wasn’t entirely impossible between them – it simply involved forethought and creativity – but, each time they tried, she’d found it impossible to relax and let herself go enough to fully enjoy -

It was almost more difficult when she'd once known what it was to freely relish in the touch of a lover. She had known the intoxication of letting her bare hands wander over the open expanse of broad, firm muscle; of feeling the hot slide of skin against skin; of tasting another human being without a barrier of fabric standing in the way – worrying, all the while, in the back of her mind, of what would happen if that barrier ever failed. She had known what it was like to give herself up completely, surrendering to the rapture of being adored and cherished and worshiped -

But that shouldn’t matter – it didn’t matter.

There were still words, after all – even in 1997 – condemning women for whom it did.

Abruptly, Rogue put her coffee aside and shot to her feet. She couldn’t sit still – not then. No, she needed to be doing something.

It had been some months since she’d last had Storm in her mind, but she still carried enough of Ororo’s consciousness to know where she would start, had she been in the greenhouse herself. The plants indoors weren’t benefitting from the rain directly, and while many were on automated watering systems, others were more particular. They needed a human touch to judge what, exactly, they needed, and when.

Across from the pond, the purple calathea had opened up their broad leaves in welcome to the morning. They were thriving, mature plants, with waxy white buds nearly ready to burst open with new life. While they preferred humidity to heavy watering, they required extra TLC to help them flower outside of their native environment, and their soil looked much too dry for comfort. Storm would be heartbroken if her prayer plants didn’t bloom properly, which was unacceptable.

So Rogue moved to the nearest spigot and turned the knob. Water leaked from the brass fixture, soaking through her glove, and God, but she hated the sensation of the sodden, synthetic nylon clinging to her skin. She should have gone with leather that morning, but she hadn’t, like an idiot -

A warm hand fell to rest on her shoulder, but, no matter how gentle, she nearly jumped out of her skin. Remy, to his credit, pulled back immediately, and she had to scuttle the urge to apologize, again, for her latest shortcoming. She didn’t want to turn and see the hurt that she knew would flash in his eyes before he hid the expression from view. Why couldn’t she just stay still and let him touch her? It wasn’t that she didn’t want his touch, furiously, she raged against herself. Attraction had never been the problem – it had sparked and simmered between them since the beginning, even when she’d wanted nothing to do with him – merely its indulgence. Even worse was the way that her skin liked nothing more than the idea of breathing him in, of soaking up the very essence of everything he was until -

Not for the first time, she wondered what was wrong with her. Something inside her was broken – horrifically and disgustingly so – and it wasn’t fair of her to expect him to -

“Someday,” Remy whispered, pulling her from the downward spiral of her thoughts, “you’ll decide to trust me. When you do, I’ll be here waiting. But, chère . . . please don’t make your Gambit wait for too long.”

Rogue didn’t trust herself to speak. Instead, she only nodded, and then focused her attention on the wanting flowers.