Every time he has started or stopped worrying about her, it has always been a gradual thing. He cannot pin down the exact moments involved. This time is different, definable.

Three and a half weeks after Mercy's birth (and death). Almost nine o'clock in the evening. Rogue slides into his arms and tucks her head against his covered chest. She sighs softly, "It's worth it."

He tightens his grip on her, uncertain. "Rogue..."

"It's worth it, Remy," she murmurs, falling off into sleep.

Remy catches his breath at the sharp memory of her question that first day. He stops worrying.