She catches him making counts and figures, scribbling on a piece of paper. He’s muttering aloud, completely engrossed in his work. Remy doesn’t get like this often. He doesn’t notice her as she slips behind him and looks at the worn sheet.

By now, Rogue recognizes the scientific formula denoting the Cure. She doesn’t understand the charts he’s drawn with time tables and dosage amounts.


Remy whirls around, blinking at her. He hands her the paper. She looks at it, confused. At the bottom circled are the words two years.

She stares.

Her wish. Two years. Two children.