A/N: Written in 2010 sometime and posted on LiveJournal for whipsy in 2011. I didn't realize I'd never crossposted it, so here y'all go.

:: Reprise ::

He cuts a startling figure on the snowy porch, darkness against gathering shadows of dusk. He wishes he had not come out to taste the cool, liquid flavor of the snow and drink that chill, harsh air down his throat. It reminds him of her.

Rogue had never liked the snow.

She would be laughing right now, shivering in his coat and wondering why he wouldn't give up smoking if it meant being out of the warmth inside. Never told her laughter didn't sit right and the only kind of home he knows is exile.

Should've known that wasn't about to change.

Remy tastes blood with his nicotine and realizes he's bit his mouth. He laughs, a ragged sound in the silent night.

Trust ain't a should, chère. It's a choice.

He chose, didn't he? He chose.

He flicks off the ash of his cigarette, stubs it out, then grinds it beneath his heel. He goes inside and waves absent greetings as he slips behind the laughing crowd on its outer edges, the bodies pressed warmly together, towards the kitchen. Logan slides his favorite down the counter. Bourbon.

The liquid warmth is welcome when he turns to see her beside the fire, not looking at him. He stares at her mouth and wonders that he never got to taste it.