Y'all know the dilly yo that I don't Marvel, these characters or this song by Jewel.

Author's Note: Takes place after Remy and Rogue leaves for their 'alone' time without powers in X-treme X-Men. I think it was issue 19. This is perhaps my favorite piece of my own writing. So up it goes. No revising, no editing. Thank you.

 Foolish Games

                The doorknob turns slowly since he is still reluctant to enter without her permission. But then again, he has been banging on the door for a couple of minutes now and she has not responded. The door cracks open but as soon as he peers through, he immediately charges through.

                She is beneath it all, completely submerged in the water, eyes shut. His heart races as he drags her out of the tub. He listens for a heartbeat as he cradles her in his arms.

                He hears nothing.

                He's frantic now as he tries to perform first aid but as the minutes continue to pass, it only extends the time she doesn't breathe. "I'm sorry. I'm sorry." He cries repeatedly, with a hope that perhaps that is what it will take to bring her back to life, but her eyes remain closed and her face remains pale.

                Water trickles down her face but it's not hers, it comes from a mixture of rainwater from his wet hair and his own remorseful tears. He should have known better; he should have saved her like she did him.

                "Please don't leave me. I'm sorry. Chere…Rogue…wake up. Please." He pleads desperately as he continues to cradle her in his arms, rocking her back and forth.

                She doesn't respond.

                A scream comes from the doorway, but he does not hear it. She runs out of the room in hysterics as she cries for an ambulance to be called. A rush of madness bursts into his room, people from the rooms next to theirs, all completely in shock at the sight before them.

                He does not hear them.

                A whirlwind of sirens, screams and crying ensues, minutes following the maid who witnesses the pitiful sight that is he and she in his arms.

                He does not hear them.

                All he listens for as he holds her pale naked body close to his is the sound of her heartbeat; the sound of life.

                She doesn't respond.

                He hears nothing.

                You took your coat off and stood in the rain

                You were always crazy like that

                And I watched from my window

                Always felt I was outside, looking in on you

                The full luscious lips of hers cup the rim of the mug gently as she sips the steamy hot coffee casually. She sits in an old wooden chair, elbows planted on the table, eyes focused on the open door before her. It has been two weeks; two weeks since she saves him; two weeks since they escape the past that will not stay behind.

                Two weeks since he has made a habit of standing out in the rain with nothing on but a t-shirt and a pair of jeans.

                She understands why he does it though. She knows he wants to feel, doesn't matter what it is just as long as he feels something. The rain never does anything for him though and he knows it just like she knows it. Yet, he still prefers the company of the cold hard-hitting rain as opposed to her, the supposed love of his life or perhaps that notion is a fabrication she has conjured up all those years ago. The very same premise for why she 'saves' him from the gates of heaven in the first place.

                But she doesn't want to believe it. She doesn't want to believe that it is a lie she has made up and that has cost him his one chance at redemption, at peace, at eternal happiness.

                It isn't supposed to be this way.

                She places the cup down, gets up and walks towards the open door. As she crosses the threshold with her bare feet and steps out onto the wet stone pavement, he doesn't give a sign that he hears her – that he feels her. She steps beside him and intuitively takes his hand into hers. He doesn't attempt to pull his hand away. Yet, he isn't grasping her hand like she does his. She doesn't care though, as long as she is able to touch him, to feel him no matter how hollow the sensation of it is, she doesn't care.

                Her head turns towards his, her hair already becoming damp from the rain, goose bumps running up and down her arms. "Ya're gonna catch a cold, sugah." She comments lightly and in a tone that only holds a fear of rejection.

                 "Doesn't matter." He simply replies while still unwilling to face her. The mere touch of her makes him cringe but he fights against showing it, and it works.

                "Please talk to me." She pleads softly, not bothering with going through the meaningless small talk and jumping straight into the real issue at hand.

                He lets go of her hand and refuses still to look at her for the tears in her eyes will be too much for him to handle. "Not now." He answers briskly with an indifference his voice tries hard to convey, and she believes it.

                "Then when?" She asks desperately and perhaps for the millionth time since the day she insists on bringing him back to life.

                He shrugs and that is the only answer he gives. The tears stream down her face as they intertwine with the rain that relentlessly falls. Her palm is pressed against her chest, the exact spot where the scar exists, the scar they share, the only remnant of the love they share – or at least the love she thinks they share.

                Unable to deal with the uncaring attitude of his, she turns around and walks back in but not before she says, "Ah'm here when ya need me."

                "I know." He simply replies but she finishes his sentence for him in her mind, 'but I don't care.'

                You were always brilliant in the morning

                Smoking your cigarettes, talking over coffee

                And you'd speak of your loved ones

                As I clumsily strummed my guitar


                Her long slender fingers strum the guitar as she stares blankly at the clock. Each chord she plays matches the tick and the tock of the hands. She waits like she always waits, and as if right on cue, he enters through the door with a cigarette between his fingers.

                She shifts her gaze to him; he looks away; her head drops.

                "Where've ya been?" She asks, though she already knows the answer.

                "Out." He responds curtly and takes a seat on the wooden chair, his back to her.

                She wants to tell him to look at her, to tell her what's wrong, to tell her that there's still something there – that there's still something between of them. But she says nothing like usual.

                He talks though. The same stories about his days when he was a young thief and the antics he went through with Henri and Lapin. He rambles on, not talking to her but fulfilling the need to cut the dead silence that hangs in their room, day in and day out.

                She bends her head closer to her guitar as she practically curls up in a ball on the bed. The tears fall again. When they do never fall, she wonders.

                He continues to fill the silence with memories of the days when he was young, when he was happy. That is why he tells the stories repeatedly not for her benefit but for his. He's trying to remember the feeling of happiness in life, trying to relive those moments, trying to find a reason to live and not having to dwell on what she has taken away from him.

                She doesn't mind the stories. She merely wishes that one of those stories can be about them, when they used to be happy, when they were enough of a reason for him. He never tells those stories though. He feels nothing for it. He feels nothing for her.

                Everything he doesn't feel, she does though. Each tear that falls from her eyes holds a different emotion. She loves him, yet, hates him for putting her through this. She yearns for him, yet, rejects the person he has become. She feels the joy of loving him, yet, feels the inevitable pain it has turned into.

                She lives for him.

                He dies for her.

                Excuse me, 'cause I've mistaken you for somebody else

                 Somebody who gave a damn

                 Somebody more like myself


                 The dark fills the room as she hugs the comforter closer to herself, but she continues to tremble. He hasn't returned yet, and she doesn't know when or if he will. But she waits for him, like she always does.

                Suddenly, she hears the click of the lock and it sends shivers of joy and fear down her spine. She's happy that he's back. She fears what he brings. Her fear outweighs her joy as she turns to her side, away from him. He doesn't notice that she's awake as he pulls his clothes off and stumbles to bed. He crawls in, careful not to touch her. He never does.

                He turns to his side as he tries to separate the tumultuous emotions that run in his head. He knows the feeling of love, hate, joy, grief, regret, remorse, guilt – there are so many he cannot keep count. He knows them. He sees them. But he doesn't feel them.

                The scent of liquor and cigarette smoke lingers in the air, but there is a new smell added to that mixture; vanilla and lilies. She picks up on this as her hands begin to tremble again. The scent of her on him becomes unbearable for her as she struggles to contain her emotions while feigning sleep. But the smell becomes more pungent, overpowering and painful.

                His desperation to experience any sort of sensation has caused him to touch someone else. Here she is, willing to be anything for him, to do anything for him and to make him feel, if only he will let her. But he rejects her and instead attempts to find comfort in a woman he undoubtedly doesn't know. He is willing to do anything to sense something, but he isn't willing to come to her for it.

                A silent sob escapes her as she tries greatly to understand his need to feel an emotion, any emotion that will simply remind him of the worth of life, but she can't. She can't understand because she knows that she is the one who is supposed to make him feel something, that she is his reason for life, that she is enough.

                He is all of that to her and she is all of that to him.

                At least, she used to be anyway. 

                These foolish games are tearing me apart

                Your thoughtless words are breaking my heart

                You're breaking my heart


                The rain is falling once more and he is standing in the middle of it once more. This time, she doesn't care. She doesn't want to feel the pain he brings her. She doesn't want to feel anything.

                Sitting in the tub, she stares down at the scar. She hates it because it is the reason why she saves him in the first place. She loves it because it is the last relic of their love – his love.

                Her desire for that love again aches in every part of her body. She waits for its return – for him to return but the longer she waits the harder reality tries to make her see.

                He isn't coming back.

                The love doesn't exist.

                She has no reason to live.

                She closes her eyes, not wanting to feel anymore, not wanting to love him anymore. Her body slowly slides beneath the water as she drives every emotion from her body.

                She doesn't want to feel. That is all he wants.

                It won't be long before they both get what they desire.

                You took your coat off and stood in the rain.

                You were always crazy like that.