This was inspired by a conversation that I had with Lucia de Medici at the Gambit Guild a long time ago. We were discussing what it was about Rogue and Remy as a couple that just GOT to us. Why was it that we enjoyed it so much? I ended up saving some of what I said in a word document on my laptop, and after reading it over again I was inspired to write SOMETHING exploring the toxic nature of their relationship. Thusly, this was born.

Just so we're clear, I still don't own Marvel. Sigh.


Ring around the rosey . . .

They've played this game enough times before to know that it will follow a specific pattern. The details vary, but it always ends up the same no matter the situation.

They're so used to dancing around the issues and themselves and each other that it's not so much second nature as it is first. It's instinct. It's life. It's just what happens.

I love you, I loathe you. Lather, rinse, repeat as necessary.

Pocket full of posies . . .

It's a delicate balance they've struck.

They will fight.

Why do you do this to me?

I can explain.

How can you hurt me like this?

Why won't you LISTEN?

One of them will walk away, usually him.

I can't even look at you right now.

Yeah? Well, the feeling's mutual.

Get out of here.

I'm gone.

He'll come home with flowers in hand and sweet words on his tongue. She'll respond in kind, apologizing for being so stupid. They'll hold each other (carefully, carefully, oh so carefully – they're both fragile after all) and swear they'll try to make it work this time. They make silly little promises and say silly little nothings as though they mean something.

We're such idiots.

I know.

I'll do better, honestly.

I know. Me too.

I love you.

I love you too. God, you smell good.

Get your face out of my hair, boy.

They both know that words like "I'm sorry" and "I was wrong" are just bandages, but they slap them on anyway as the wounds beneath fester and infect.

Ashes, ashes . . .

They are broken, they are failing. They always come back for more.

It's a warm blanket lined with pins and needles, a cup of tea laced with cyanide. They shouldn't need it this much, shouldn't want it like they do. It's a sick cycle of the worst sort, but they cling to it regardless.

I love you, I loathe you. Lather, rinse, repeat as necessary.

. . . they all fall down.