I don't own these characters nor will I pretend I do... but really, if I was born like 40 years ago, I might have had a chance of inventing all these characters before Stan Lee did... and I could have owned all these guys! But luck would have it that I'm too young to do such a thing and since time travel doesn't exists yet, I'll just say that these characters are Marvel's... and I'm just messing about with it!

Author's Note: This is going to be a four-part story that explores the intricate complexities of Rogue and Remy's relationship. It will be mostly A/U and it shall remain short. I'm stuck on my other stories... and this weird dark creative side of me wants out again...bear with me here. Oh yeah! Go check out those stories in my C2 Community! Got a few gems there! Enjoy everyone and review s'il vous plait!

On with the story...







The comforting light of the cigarette glows dimly in the dark smoky bar while he leans against the counter. Scanning the destitute room obsessively, he doesn't know what he expects to find but whatever it is, he knows he won't find it here. His wandering eyes accidentally lands on a pair of ice cold blue ones. She is surprised by the red-on-black eyes of his, but becomes immediately intrigued like they all do. The corners of her cherry lips curve up and he passes her a look of indifference before he turns around and sits down on the stool. She mistakes his nonchalant attitude as a sign of invitation and saunters over to him.

While he continues to smoke his cigarette, he feels the light but bold fingers of hers on his shoulder. He ignores it and signals the bartender for a refill. She doesn't give up and leans on the counter next him. He turns his head to his other side and away from her, and she still doesn't get the hint.

Finally, she whispers in a sultry voice, "Wanna play, handsome?"

He shrugs his shoulders and down his drink, taking his time with his reply. This insolent cocky attitude of his merely excites her even more. Eventually, he turns around to face her and she moves in closer to him, her breast almost at eye-level.

"C'mon, bad boy...show me how bad you can really be." She tempts him and he responds by pressing his lips against hers. There is no sensuality in the kiss. There is no softness. There is only a hardness that yearns for something she will never be able to give him. But he continues to kiss her deeper if not for anything but in vain.

She clasps her arms around his neck and pulls him deeper into her. He tastes as good as she has thought.

She only tastes bitter to him.

Violently, he pushes her off of him, causing her to yelp with surprise while she stables herself.

"What the fuck was that?" She screams at him.

"Sorry." He mumbles, not making any eye contact. She studies him for a while before she decides to try again. After all, it isn't every night that a gorgeous man has his tongue in her mouth. She latches on to him once more, and he pushes her off him again before she's even able to make her move.

"Just fuck off." He snaps at her, obviously angry at this point.

"What the fuck is wrong with you? You a fucking fruit or something? Shit! Just trying to do you a favour but you know what, you fuck off too!" She yells indignantly, with not an ounce of class in her 5 feet 4 inches frame dressed in a black bustier and a pair of cheap-looking stilettos.

Instead of causing a bigger scene, he throws some bills on the counter and walks out of the bar, not bothering to look back.

He never does.


Every night there is a different girl.

There are blondes, brunettes, redheads, and even a few dark-haired Asian ones. Blue eyes. Green eyes. Brown eyes. Hazel eyes. Tall. Small. Curvy. All of them different, yet, he won't be able to tell you a single thing about any of them.

To him, all they have is one thing in common; they offer him no relief from the reality he has made for himself.

For a man who is completely numb to every kind of raw emotions that exists, he yearns for something he has thrown away a long time ago. But being the stubborn man that he is, he won't go back for it. He can't go back for it. That isn't how he lives his life. As soon as he is done, he moves on. It doesn't matter that it's a mistake. It doesn't matter that it's the one thing that defines his life and gives it worth. None of it matters, because he doesn't look back. He only looks forward even if the future only appears bleak and meaningless. He can't look back.

Simply, he doesn't have the nerve to look back, let alone go back.

The mere idea of having to confront the one thing that has ever meant anything to him scares the hell out of him. He doesn't know what he can say to defend himself. He doesn't know what he can say to redeem himself. He has nothing to offer, not even a sorry-ass of an excuse.

Yet, there have been so many nights – too many nights perhaps of wandering in and out of towns, each night a different woman who is all the same to him and living a life of a drifter with no purpose whatsoever. It has been too long. He doesn't know it feels like to be alive anymore.

Sometimes he wonders if he even feels the contempt he has for himself.

The only thing he knows besides this deadening state of mind is that there is only one way out, and he isn't even sure that is what he wants. Yet, he knows his soul yearns for it more than anything it ever has.

Turning off the engine of his motorcycle, he hops off of it and walks up the stairs that leads to the second level of the motel. Once he approaches the room he knows so well, he enters it not through the door, but via the window. He slips in so softly that to the untrained ear, his presences will remain unknown.

But he won't be so lucky as she pounces on him unexpectedly with a knife in her hand. He falls back and she pins him to the ground with the use of her body. The blade is pressed against his neck and he can do nothing but smile at his attacker.

"It's been a long time, chere." He drawls slowly, testing his waters daringly while he looks directly into her hard green eyes, unafraid.

Too daringly it will seem, as she presses the knife deeper against his neck, drawing a drop of blood on the shiny blade.

"What the hell do ya think you're doing back here?"