Disclaimer: BellaDonna, Gambit,
Rogue, the X-Men, the Thieves and Assassins Guilds all belong
to Marvel Comics. "A friend sticking closer than a brother
in times of need" is from the book of Proverbs and belongs
to God. Mary Katherine Gallegher belongs to SNL Studios, Lorne
Michaels Productions and future episodes of MST3K. "Supersuck!"
The Best Western of Milford, PA, its bar and its restuarant
belong to the franchise owners or whoever else claims them.
The story itself belongs to K-Nice ("That's me!")
and any unauthorized use of any kind is verboten. Alykat,
of course, can have it, If she wants it that is, but I think
she's the only person I've given carte blanche.
I got off the plane at LaGuardia, Gucci carry-on bag on my
shoulder and no one waiting to greet me.
I don't have a problem with that, really. I was born and
raised for independence. But it seems a little repetitive
after weeks of coming home to an empty mansion, sleeping in
a master bedroom all alone. Sure, there are servants, attendants,
guards -- but not family. Not anymore.
I slip on tortoise-shell shades to conceal my jet-lagged
eyes. Brussels is far warmer at this time of the year and
my dove-gray silk suit is suddenly inappropriate. I could
hunt around for a coat, but I feel more tragic letting the
wind whip through me as I exit the terminal.
I fork over three crisp twenties for a taxi to Salem Center.
I'd rather the back of a stuffy yellow-cab, serenaded by the
sounds of Iranian pop music, than the crush and hurry of a
commuter train. I lay my head against the greasy seat-back
and wade through the memories that are coming to me in painful
I was in the middle of a somewhat dicey job when I felt the
whisper of hands on my shoulders. I almost spun around, giving
away my precarious position, but instead I slipped a knife
from my uniform boot and arched it back ... into air. The
ghost touch was only in my mind.
I'm a professional, even before I am a woman or a Cajun or
anything else. I kept my legs wrapt around a gargoyle's wings
and gained my aim though the tiny latticed window across the
street. Three shots and the job was done. Once the scumbag,
who had double-crossed some other equally scummy but certainly
well-paying scumbag out of some scumlike deal, was lying in
a bathtub of warm water and blood, I was free to explore the
touch that was not.
Back at my hotel, I slipped into a warm bath of my own and
felt strong arms pull me back against a muscled chest. I spun
that time, splashing water on the floor and starring at the
porcelain for a full minute before regain my wits.
Perhaps it was the stress of the job, of running the Assassins
Guild long before my time was to come. Maybe it was the pressure
placed on me to lead, when all I really want to do is ply
my trade. Or possibly the fact that I lost my husband, brother,
life, memories, brother, father, husband in that order and
in quick succession.
The water was suddenly clammy and I quickly dried off and
went into the bedroom of my hotel suite. I lay on the bed,
hugged by imaginary arms. It took me a full night of dreams
and nightmares and sweating and screaming to realize I was
getting my memories back.
I asked my friends to tell me about myself, to help me be
the BellaDonna I once was, before that mindsucking-witch stole
her from me. They told me I loved Remy LeBeau. But it was
words, like the words telling me my father was a proud man,
or that my brother cared more for me that his life. Just words.
They couldn't tell me what I felt that night: the aching
need that used to simmer between us, the power in his arms
as he held me close, the fear in his eyes when I went out
on a job, the confidence in his stance when I returned. They
couldn't show me the scar where cut myself making dinner for
him when our fathers were out of town, the heat the flamed
my body when I looked into his demon eyes, the hurt that made
me willing to die to prove I was still his.
It took a box of Godiva chocolates and a fifth of Jim Bean
for me to admit it.
I loved him. I remembered, all of it. The moonlight walks
though rotting swamps. Learning to pick a lock so I could
sneak out to see him. Defying my friends, my Clan, my Guild,
for the sake of his touch. Marrying him because I could imagine
no one else more worthy of my freedom.
As the memories crash over me, they become me once again.
I don't feel like a shadow of a woman, acting the part though
I have only a digest of the lines. With the return of my lover
to my heart, I find myself whole, remembering things about
my father, my brother, my life.
Now I know, no matter what has happened between us, I love
I would weep over things I said and did to him, not knowing
what he meant to me -- but Papa told me the strong do not
weep. And I must be strong to do what I must.
The cabbie nudges me awake with a lecherous smile. My skirt
has risen up and I don't want to think about how long he's
been looking at my thighs. His look changes as I tense, the
muscles of my legs, honed in battle after battle in a futile
war with the Thieves, flexing beneath my stockings. He doesn't
even see my palm coming as smack him across the face. The
slap is hard enough to wake us both up.
I leap out of the taxi to keep from shooting him. He had
stopped at the cross section, in need of further directions,
when he became "distracted." I'd call him a pig
but he's Muslim.
I'm in the middle of Salem Center, which is obviously synonymous
with Nowhere. I spoke to my former father-in-law, Jean-Luc,
at the airport in Belgium. He had been reluctant at first
but unlike my father, he was willing to let his son make his
own decisions about me. I have the address and phone number
memorized, because, I suppose, he and his little friends are
in hiding from whatever government agency has taken on the
mantle of the harassing mutants in the wake of OZT.
What a load of crock. Mutants versus humans, what a stupid
war. But then, Assassins have fought Thieves for hundreds
of years. Which just proves how stupid the whole thing is,
in my opinion. People don't consider me philosophical, or
even that moral. Even my friends see a blood-thirsty, remorseless
professional killer -- although, they admire those qualities
in me. Remy is the one that used to meet me late at night
at the city library, laboring for weeks through Sartre and
Marx, so we could both pass the collage philosophy classes
we had enrolled in at Tulane. There were many sides of our
souls that we only showed each other.
I walk into a drug store and make a beeline for the pay phone.
As I dial the numbers, I envision the address labels we had
made up, our names side by side in bold calligraphy. We never
did send out our thank you cards for our wedding gifts.
The ringing stops and I wait for his voice. Instead, "Xaviah
School fa Higher Learnin', how ken Ah help you?"
I grip the phone so tightly that my nails burst through my
gloves. My other hand contracts into a fist and I scratch
my palm to keep from screaming. The Mom 'n' Pop behind the
counter start to stare in my direction and I'm suddenly glad
I have said nothing to them. That makes this easier.
"Hello, I'm Ayanna Williams of DiTel Communications.
I'd would like to speak to ... Mr. Remy LeBeau about an exciting
opportunity for telecommunications savings. Is he available?"
My voice goes to Midwest Cornsyrup in seconds, but I speak
quickly to hide any slips. I've spoken nothing but French
for a solid week, albeit Belgian French, and I don't trust
my accent but she seems to buy it.
"Sure, Ah'll go get him." There's a sickening giggle
in her voice. She probably figures its a great prank, sticking
him on the phone with a telemarketer. Idiot.
Several minutes pass and I use them to plan my first words
to him. I let my anger at Rogue slide away as I ponder the
man I remember as BellaDonna and the man I have seen since
I awoke. Somehow, they are the same and they both belong to
me. I just have to remind him, the way he reminded me of who
"Allo?" His voice is scratchy, tired. It's two
in the afternoon on a Saturday, so as far as I know, that's
pretty normal. When you work nights the way we do, you didn't
really want to see both twelve o'clocks if you could avoid
Only, I suppose he isn't working anymore, at least not the
old job of dashing thief. Then again, I also remember the
time he stayed at a party for three days and stayed in bed
for four days afterwards. "Remy?" My voice cracks
as I put back on my own accent, my own face as it were. I
know it's him of course, but I had no idea it would feel like
He recognizes me, I can almost see his surprise. "Belle,
where are you?" he whispers in French. That smoky, smooth
voice embraces me, filled with the Cajun French of home and
more than a little bit of worry. He sounds so much older,
though its only been a year since we saw each other last.
I push the anxiety and fatigue from my voice, answer in our
native tongue, "Edmounds Drugs, in Salem Center."
I say the words coolly, formally. It's not an invitation,
only information. "I just wanted to let you know ahead
of time before I came to visit. Didn't want a repeat of last
time." We probably wince in concert, if the intake of
air at the other end on the line is any indication. I'm not
sure which last time I'm talking about, but we both get the
"Non, chere, ya can' come here, not now. I'll meet you,
t'night, Milford, PA -- de Best Western. De Edmounds can give
ya directions." And then he's gone, suddenly and sharply
ending our first civil discourse in ages.
I slam the phone down, stomping my feet, which is not the
smartest thing to do in high heels. I stumble but do not fall.
Snatching my bag from the floor, I stalk up to the pharmacy
counter and ground out a request. "I need directions
ta Milford, Pennsylvania."
Ironically, or maybe not, they have no clue. But for $5.99
I can buy a map of local interest. I charge $50 worth of maps
to the account of a woman two years dead and leave the store,
eager to find my way to the commuter train station. Along
the way, I walk with my head buried in a Mid-Atlantic Atlas,
thanking God for Rand McNally.
No one notices me, certainly not the security guard and I
drive out in an unassuming little Jetta. The simplest way
is I-84, although, in true Assassin fashion, I don't make
a move until I have two alternate routes. Even on the map
that Route 209 looks like childs scribbled drawing and
I just came from New York City so why should I go all the
way back there, then through New Jersey and who knows what
else. But, its good to know that I can if I have to.
It should be a forty-five minute trip but I'm in no hurry
so I set the cruise at fifty-five and grapple with my anger.
I feel rejected, hurt and bitter. I came all this way and
he sends be away, not even willing to talk for a moment. Part
of me says to keep on driving and let him wonder if I'll show
up. But my father drilled me and in the last months of leadership,
I've learned -- first impressions are powerful but usually
I examine his words, the texture and force of them. He was
begging, not ordering. Why? Then I remember. Antarctica. Jean-Luc
mentioned it in passing -- "I saw him right after Antarctica.
They abandoned him there, as punishment." Jean-Luc had
sneered even through the phone and she had felt a resonant
pain within her own heart. I know it wasn't a "they"
that left Remy. It was a "she." Rogue. Or Carol
Danvers or Mary Katherine Gallagher or whatever that witch
was calling herself these days.
I 'm not sure who Remy was protecting -- her, me or him --
but if thinks it's best to meet on neutral ground, then maybe
I pull off the interstate, and the hotel is right in front
of me. I decide to park the car myself, since valets usually
want keys and I have none. As I approach the car port I realize
the hotel has no valets. Wonderful. But then, it's a Best
Western, not a Ritz Carlton.
The lobby is full of natural light, which has faded the carpet
to a dull warmth. It has charm if not style. The clerk smiles
at me, a smile that grows as I ask for a double room and gains
wattage as I offer cash.
Room 342 is somewhat better looking than the lobby, but the
view is off the highway in one direction and the scrubby little
town in the other. I kick off my shoes and dump my bag on
the bed. It contains my body armor and two used changes of
In the bathroom, I turn the shower on as hot as I can get
it. I feel somewhat mechanical, the fatigue and jet lag catch
up with me as the emotional stress only grows. Inspecting
each part of my suit, I hang it on a hotel hanger. I check
my stockings for runs as I peel them off. My slip joins them
across the chair, along with my bra.
I rinse out my panties in the sink, which is a somewhat humbling
process. I feel poor yet proud, but I've never been either
one of those things. Rich and arrogant is more like it. I
place them on the air conditioning vent and walk into the
bathroom nearly naked. I finally remove my gun holster and
hang it over the shower bar, just outside the curtain.
I wash up quickly, efficiently, but there's no reason to
rush. It's only five o'clock, and to people like Remy and
I, "tonight" means after 11 pm. I sink to the floor
of the tub, the mat rough against my bottom.
I'm so, so tired. I let the water soothe and punish me at
the same time. Drops of water strike me, half massage, half
beating, pounding the aches out of my muscles and the pain
into my heart. The only thing on my mind is the drumming against
my skin and on the fiberglass walls of the shower/tub. I let
the rhythm lull me, cradle me, poison me. I'm stronger than
this, but should I have to be?
Instead of weeping at the bottom of a deep basin, I finger
my braids. Grabbing a slightly thicker one from amongst its
thinner sisters, I begin the paternoster. "Our father
which art in heaven, Hallowed be thy name. Thy kingdom come.
Thy will be done in earth, as it is in heaven. Give us this
day our daily bread. And forgive our debts, as we forgive
-- " I choke on the words " -- our debtors. And
lead us not into temptation but deliver us from evil; For
thine is the kingdom, and the power and the glory for ever.
Amen. Hail Mary, full of grace..."
I don't falter again, not once during 15 rounds. I end on
the last braid, on the opposite side of my head, my conscience
whitewashed of my recent kill. I dry off in a haze and strap
my holster back on.
Wrapping my hair in a towel, I grab my suit and try to hang
it in the bathroom so the steam can smooth out the creases
travel has left in the fabric. I grow frustrated quickly,
vowing to find out why they don't put hooks on their hangers
and create my own hook for the headless hanger by shoving
two knives from my uniform into the wall.
Frustration abated, I ignore my hunger and lie naked under
the covers. I'm not sure when sleep overcomes me but I wake
with a panicked feeling. I don't remember the dreams, but
for one image. Remy standing over my brother, staring in shock
at the blood on his sword. I blamed Remy for Julien's death,
because that is what people told me to do. Now, with the truth
in my own heart, I know it's just like so many things in our
lives. Reckless behavior and noble intentions collide for
a spectacular, rubber-neck-worthy explosion of pain and guilt.
I watch the clock turn over the minutes. After a few mindless
moments, it's 10:30 and I can justify getting up. My underwear
are stiff and cold, but at least they are fresh. I slip my
clothes back on and check my profile in the mirror. I look
like I just left a business meeting. No good.
I lose the jacket and unbutton my silk blouse. Still not
enough. I rummage through my bag, pulling out the black bodice
I wear under my armor. The high collar makes it impossible
for me to go bare-legged, and I certainly can't wear white
stockings after 5 pm. I call the desk and wheedle and plead
and beg until they agree to send a busboy to the drug store.
I have to be content with cheap Lycra and nylon, but at least
they're dark. I don't have a purse, just my luggage bag, but
the carry case for my knives is black and small. I add my
lipstick and cellphone to its gleaming metal contents and
make it out the door by 11:50.
As I exit the elevator, I have two choices. There is what
must be a hotel bar/club and the hotel restaurant. I can hear
chintzy piano music, even worse for being live, wafting from
the dining room, so I duck into the club. It's almost as low-brow,
but I suppose it passes for classy in Sticksville, PA. I grimace
at the pounding pop but manage to avoid an "Assault by
the Macarena" by mere inches. Ouch, don't these people
know that thing is deader then road 'possum.
Then the unthinkable happens. Remy walks in just as I hear
"Its Electric" starting up on the stereo system.
He winces and comes no farther into room. He beckons me and
waits by the door. I manage not to cower and cover my ears
only because I need my hands out in front to protect me from
the thundering line dancers.
Once in the hall, I stiffen as he hugs me. It's too much,
too soon. The same warmth I remember holds me, caresses me,
tugs at my eyes until they tear. He has my arms pinned and
he doesn't seem likely to let go very soon. I awkwardly pull
my arms up so I can hug him back. His musky scent is the same
but the body I hold so tightly is far too thin. Slipping my
arms under his trench coat, I run my hands along his back
and bite my lip to keep from gasping. I can feel his ribs
even through his suit jacket, dress shirt and undershirt.
But he feels me anyway, always so aware of how I feel.
"Don't worry 'bout me, chere. I'll be back in fightin'
form b'fore ya know it." He takes off his coat and holds
it over one arm because there is no coat check. He still lies
with uncanny ease, the right words at the right time still
his stock in trade. Forget thieving, he would be a wicked
I laugh. A brittle sound, not the twinkle of stars he is
accustomed to. I can see in his eyes that he has fought too
many battles, too hard and in too short a time. His eyes are
fiercer than ever before. He is always in fighting form.
"Oh, I don' know cher, you look ta be in fine form,
to me." I try to cover the cover my sympathetic pain
with flirting. It is our oldest and dearest form of communication
and I smile as he bows to kiss my hand.
His red-black eyes rise to meet my violet ones, and he smiles
that old smile. I control the shiver like I control my breathing
in the final moments of an assassination.
"Ya like lobster diners and oyster's fa desert?"
He is leading me into the dining room, where a sign proclaims
this "Seafood Buffet Night."
"Well, I suppose 'all ya can eat' might help ya put
some weight on dem bones." I try to ignore his wince.
I come from a long line of Cajun women who truly believe a
well-fed man is a well-loved man. It's Rogue that's done this
to him and she hasn't done a thing to help him. I may have
never forgiven her for trying to kill him, but no I'm certain
I shall damn her to hell for letting him waste away. I can
see kicking a man down, but not helping him back up again
is out of my range of relationship savvy.
A bland little waitress seats us, and takes our drink orders.
I want alcohol between me and him. I don't like apologies
-- whether I'm giving them or hearing them, and I know we
both have things we need to say.
He seems reluctant to start to conversation, but then, I'm
the one that came to him, so he must be waiting for me do
what I've come to do. I'm not quite ready. "So, where's
dis lobster I been hearin' 'bout?"
My delaying tactic is foolproof and we both fill our plates
with shrimp, crabs, oysters and of course lobsters. I make
an effort at getting greens and rice but all they offer are
salad and pasta so I compromise. Remy, on the other hand,
goes straight for the Hawaiian pork roast. That man will eat
meat all day long and never gain an ounce.
When we get back to the table, I dump half my pasta onto
his plate. "Ya need ta eat more carbs if ya gonna fatten
His eyes suddenly snap with fire. "So, what, you didn'
come 'ere ta kill me, ya came to make sure I was eatin' a
balanced diet?" His voice slaps me with his anger.
I put down my knife because his violence is infectious. I
put down my fork because I know far too many lethal uses for
it. I place my hands on the table because my gun is at my
"No, I didn' come 'ere to kill you." I can say
no more. How can I take back the threats, the price on his
head, the capture, the betrayal to Candra? I can't not with
words. But the softness of my voice calms him. Barely.
He sits back from the table, crossing his arms, the picture
of defiance. "Den why you 'ere?"
I grab my wine glass, the quick movement causing him the
rear back, away from me. I drain it. Such a display of nerves
is unprecedented for me and he watches in disbelief. He doesn't
realize I hurt inside, cut to the core by the fact that he
can't imagine any other reason for me to be here than to commit
murder. I feel as if he has rent the bond I only recently
realized existed -- the bond between two souls that are so
similar that they must either be very close or very far apart.
"I'm here to, to..." To beg your forgiveness, to
avenge you, to remember you and me and us. I stop, tongue-tied.
He melts, flowing forward until he cups my hands in his own,
his eyes searching mine. I try again. "I came ta see
you. Ta see what you are now. And to find out what we are."
"I'm still me, Belle. Maybe a little bit betta, in heart.
I'm still findin' out who I am, who I wanna be. We're..."
He pauses. His eyes drink my soul, savoring it. I feel his
charm, which he has honed from a passive quality into an aggressive
skill, wash over me. My hands shake a little as he takes them.
It's plain on my face, in the quiver of my body, that I love
him -- then, now and future; once, still and forever.
His hands reach for my face. He thumbs stroke my cheek, carefully
avoid the tear there, because he knows I hate to cry. And
the love that shines in his crimson eyes is the love I remember.
From when we were children. "We're friends, Belle. Dat's
what we always been, what we always gon' be. Dat ain't changed."
Friends. I'm not going to dignify that with a response. I
won't. I can't. Because I came all this way to find my husband
and found a friend instead. I don't want a friend but, perhaps,
I need a friend. But I can't just give him up so easy. "Is
dat 'causa Rogue, or 'causa us?"
He rips his hands from me, drawing away again. I lean into
his touch for one last second, then steel myself for the fight
ahead. His eyes are confused, guilty. Because he was touching
me and he can't touch her. I reach my hand out to remind him
of that fact. He doesn't move as I take his hand in mine.
His fingers are so long that my hand looks like that of child
His grip tightens and he begins to caress the back of my
hand with his thumb. I can feel need simmer between us again.
The electricity of his touch charges me like he charges his
cards and I wait to hear his answer. He is here with me; he
need never leave. "We could stay here, togedda, always."
But I already know we couldn't. His eyes lit like fireworks
as he spoke of his new life. I could never deign to live in
a place like for more than a few days. But those would be
some amazing days.
He smiles at my plaintive gesture. There is regret in his
eyes, an image I know I will make dear to me. "T'ink
'bout Belle -- we can' make forever out of yesterday. We can'
live our memories: no matta how sweet dey are, dey gon' and
past now." He releases my hand and stands. "Our
time togedda is over, Belle. But our time apart has just begun."
I hang my head because he's leaving. But a shadow runs across
my face and I look up. He's offering me his arm.
We walk out the restaurant and into the lobby. I try to steer
us toward the elevator. His chivalry will force him to see
me to my room and then I can convince him of what he's missing.
But he resists without appearing to notice my efforts. We
leave the hotel arm in arm. His car is parked near mine, which
now bears new license plates.
I reach up to kiss him, and he accepts my thanks. How he
knew I'll never know, but I can at least thank him for his
efforts. He pulls away before I can entrap him.
He opens his car door, the black of his suit disappearing
against the Benz' shiny exterior. I guess it belongs to his
friends; he hates sedans, even stolen ones. He tosses his
coat across the passenger seat, which basically says I'm not
welcome to join him.
And somehow that's fine with me. I wish he would stay and
sate the hunger he has awoken in me, but some local from the
club will do just as well. I suppose he is right about us.
Maybe all that remains are memories of the good and bad times,
He has had all this time to think about me, remember me,
and us. I just found my memories, but perhaps in time, I will
come to the same conclusion he has. Friends. I don't think
I could stand to love him and not have him. But if he survives
living with that whore he insists on caring for, then I can.
I've always been the stronger of us two.
He turns back toward me and I offer my hand for a "friendly"
shake. Instead, he takes me into another one of those hugs,
tight and fierce so he doesn't have to say goodbye with words.
I cling to him, letting the memories freshen and bloom. I
let go as he does, because I hate to feel needy.
He pecks my check like a brother, on both cheeks because
we're not that far from home. I try to reciprocate, but my
love is new and strong, not dulled by time as his is. My lips
linger on his cheeks and he lets me.
Then I step back to let him get in his car and drive away.
I watch him through the rear view glass of a nearby car.
The night is far too cool for me to be walking around in.
But I do it anyway, to soothe my frayed nerves and calm my
raging hormones before I do something I might someday regret
from my deathbed. I work my way through half a pack of cigarettes
in four hours. He tends to have that effect on me.
Back in my room, as the moon begins to set, I pick up the
note left on my nightstand and begin to undress.
Still the same old Gambit. Left me with the check and stole
the clip from my gun before I even had a chance to use it.
All I can do is laugh.
Subject: From a lady friend
Date: Nov 9 1999 3:45 AM PST
Mr. Steven Dupont:
I hereby inform you that your half our dinner
and hotel bill come to $76.43. Please remit payment by cash,
check, money order or credit card to Ms. Adele Marquis at
342 Best Street, West Milford, PA.
I'm waiving the usual fees since I had such
a wonderful time.
PS -- I've sent a copy of this correspondence
to a Ms. Sorcière de Verte in hopes this will speed up the
I watch through bulky hi-tech binoculars as she shoots up
from the ground, obviously dissatisfied with whatever explanation
he has chosen to give her.
I contain my belly laughs to smug snickers. He said we would
be friends from a far but he didn't say how far.
I sense movement behind me and turn, keeping careful balance
on the rocky cliff. All I see is yellow and green, brown and
white before she knocks me backwards with just one open handed
slap. She doubled back while I was enjoying my little prank.
I leap from the ground, ignoring the blood in my mouth and
the pain in my back. I step away quickly, grateful that I
fell away from the cliff edge. She is no longer advancing
on me but I crouch defensively, ready to fight on whatever
terms she sets.
"That was for Cody. And for making Remy lie to me."
So he told her the truth and she didn't believe him. How typical.
How Rogue. I started this trouble, but she took it to the
I whip out my Nina, loaded with Cop-Killers that should make
at least a dent in her filthy hide. "Dis is for Antarctica,
you putain chienne." But before I can fire a single round,
he is there between us. He glares at Rogue, and I fairly crow
as she backs down.
Then he is walking towards me, right in my line of fire.
"You alright, Belle." He reaches up to wipe the
blood from my chin. But he places his other hand on the gun
and before I can jerk it from him, I see it shimmer red at
charge he places on it. I have to hurl it from me before it
kills us both. He looks at me in horror as I toss it toward
Rogue, but she understands in ways I never thought she could.
He dives toward her futilely, but she does what she has to
The gun explodes seconds later, somewhere over the Atlantic
Ocean where Rogue has thrown it. Remy puts a relieved arm
around the woman he loves and I realize I'm done here.
I guess I just wanted to see if he still cared. I know Rogue
will suffer over it, but I sashay over to him and kiss him
like the friend he is. He returns my goodbye, hugging Rogue
to his side all the while. She looks away, too proud, too
afraid, to watch us touch.
I slip away, back into the night that spawned me. I won't
look back, but there's someone watching me go, someone loving
me like a father, a brother and a friend. A friend sticking
closer than a brother in times of need.
I light a cigarette from the pack of Remy's favorite brand,
with his favorite lighter, both of which he always carries
in the left inside pocket of his trench coat.
I'm not that far from home.
Down-Home Charm / Fan-Fiction /
Fan Artwork / History Books /
Photo Album / Songbank /
Miscellania / Links /
Legalese: Rogue, the X-Men, and the distinctive likenesses thereof
are Trademarks of Marvel Characters, Inc. and are used without permission. This is an
unofficial fansite, and is not sponsored, licensed or approved by