A week had passed, and Rogue still had an elephant in her room.

If John had come to try and visit, he’d found the door locked. She didn’t want to unlock it yet. He’d taken his break; this was hers. It was toward the end of her transformation that she’d started to hurt. It wasn’t just blind rage and jealousy and taking on her new gender with bravado. She wasn’t laughing anymore about her black eye. It was a new feeling for her—typically, she was an expert at avoiding what she didn’t want to face, usually through running away; a habit she’d picked up as a young girl. Once she was back in her new form, she’d been pulled, against her will, back to face something incredibly difficult. It felt like the clouds had parted, but instead of a clear mind, Rogue was faced with a storm—and that storm was the truth.

( John had cheated on her. )

The spring rain is coming down in sheets when Rogue plants two feet on the woven welcome mat, its austere message hidden from view by her shoes. The porch is slick with water, and she slipped a little on the way up, long hair streaming rivulets down her back. She’d forgotten how squally Mississippi could be in the early spring.

Her knuckles turn white against the bone as she lifts the knocker again, pounding loudly. She can hear its echo through the house. Dimly, within the living room, a light flickers on, and a shadow passes by the window.

Little tremors still frame her body. She’s trying to bite back her shivers, stepping back at the metallic sound of a bolt sliding out of place. Rogue finds that even the most barely perceptible curve to her lips makes her stern aunt’s shoulders relax, and the deepening creases in her forehead smooth.

( 'I was in the neighborhood,' comes the simple explanation. )

Being back in the South felt kind of like liberation. New Orleans wasn't home--not in an exact sense, considering Rogue's actual stomping grounds were 80 miles away, but what the heck; it was good enough just feeling the mild temperatures on her face again, and hearing the occasional non-touristy drawl. Too bad the circumstances for visiting weren't partying. Team LeBeau had flown in in a matter of hours, caught a ride to the hotel on Bourbon Street where Sarah and Remy had been staying, then started looking immediately. It was almost like a Cajun version of Where's Waldo (Where's Dat Waldo?), except the Waldo in question was possibly in legitimate danger.

For her part, while Bobby skipped off into the bead-covered crowd to show people his stick figure masterpiece, Rogue had decided to hit the bars. Although she'd never gotten the impression that Remy was much of a drinker, bars attracted all kinds of people. People who might possibly know him, or at least know of him. ( Possibly, he had SOME kind of bad (or good) reputation around the place, if he was seen as kidnappable by blond women carrying guns. )