So spasticatt challenged me to write some fluff for Christmas, and whilst this isn't exactly fluff (I am terrible at fluff!), this is the best I can do, so I apologise. I did try. It's set in the HoC universe, before the massacre at the mansion, the one and only Christmas Rogue and Gambit spent together (before the end of the series, anyhow!). You can read the flashback connected to this in Chapter 3 of HoC. Rogue and Gambit never got their rooftop scene in this AU, so I wrote this as a kind of alternate version of that. Anyway, I know it's a little bit late, but I'd like to dedicate it as a very special Christmas gift to all my wonderful readers and reviewers! Hope you have (had) a wonderful day, and a very happy New Year!
-Ludi x
One & Only Christmas
It was the familiar hustle and bustle of Christmas, the clatter of cutlery and the clinking of glasses, the babble of raised and happy voices, the muffled rise and fall of festive music in the background. Nothing, in other words, that he cared anything for.
Remy LeBeau gave a wry smile to himself and the reflection in the window smiled back.
As a rule he spent Christmases alone.
He'd never analysed why until this moment, standing right here, right now.
It was because Christmas was this – it was family, it was friends, it was laughter and smiles and happiness, and it reminded him of what he didn't have, and that was all of the above. What he lacked was his own childhood Christmases, the wild parties, the irreplaceable sense of Guild camaraderie, the warm hugs of Tante Mattie. Belle and her hidden kisses behind the little summer house. Every Christmas celebration tended to remind him of these irretrievable pieces of memory, and so he had avoided them at all costs. And whilst that wasn't exceptionally difficult since he'd spent the last few years technically on the streets, he could've cajoled his way into any party if he'd tried hard enough.
Or even not so hard.
Being here, now, at the Xavier mansion with all these light-hearted frivolities… It brought back memories. Painful ones.
Far better to stand here by the grand sash windows and stare out onto the dark, frosty night and pretend that none of this meant anything.
But it did.
It meant something and he hated it because what it meant was that he was beginning to care about being here when he was setting up everyone in this room for a fall, and it fucking sucked.
There was a glint, a momentary flash of crimson in the window and he saw Rachel in its reflection, the stars in her ears catching the light from the diamond chandeliers as she bent forward to talk to the Professor.
Remy turned away from his reflection and frowned.
Rachel was a kid, the teenage daughter of Scott Summers and Jean Grey, both of whom were conspicuous by their absence. Jean was long dead; Scott was a broken man, one who – like Remy – tended to avoid family affairs like this at all costs. It was Xavier who seemed to act as surrogate father to the young girl now, a girl who was sullen and withdrawn and awkward – almost as broken as the fractured family she came from.
She was also one of his marks, the reason Remy had come to this band of mutant do-gooders in the first place, and it didn't sit well with him at all.
Kids were usually off limits, but he hadn't much of a choice, not with the way things currently squared up between him and Essex.
And then there was his other mark.
Remy looked aside, slipped a hand into his front pocket and fingered the cigarette there, his stomach giving a horrible lurch of guilt and… what was it? Pain?
He'd consciously been trying not to analyse his feelings on that score either, but here they were, more insistent now than ever.
It was the first time he'd truly acknowledged to himself that he didn't like this, and he didn't like it at all. He didn't like being Essex's stooge, and he didn't like the idea that he was selling good people down the river.
Fuck it.
He needed the smoke.
He slid the cigarette out of his pocket and was just about to light it when he saw that the Professor was approaching him. Remy wasn't the type to automatically respect authority unless said authority earned it; but the Professor had managed to coax respect out of him without him even realising it. He'd come to suspect that it was something psionic, but even now, as the wheelchair-bound, unassuming man neared him, he couldn't help holding himself a little straighter, slipping the cigarette back into his pocket. Whatever Remy might think of the futility of the old man's dream of harmony between static and mutant, he respected Xavier for actually going out there and trying to make that dream a reality.
"I take it family get-togethers aren't you're thing," the Professor remarked dryly as he came up to Remy. It was odd – his voice was just as soft and cultured as Essex's but the main difference was that whilst Sinister's voice was cold and filled with an inherent disdain for everyone and everything, Xavier's exuded a warmth and calm that Remy had rarely been accustomed to hearing.
"I like parties well enough," Remy answered with a self-deprecating smile. "It's de family bit I don't do so well."
Xavier gave a smile of his own, and a short nod of the head.
"Well, you wouldn't be the only one," he noted, inclining his head sideways. Remy followed the tilt of his gaze, his eyes coming to rest on the cosy triad of Logan, Storm and Rogue chatting earnestly to one side of the parquet dancefloor. At the sight of it he couldn't help a sudden and unrestrained surge of jealousy take him. Remy had rarely been bested in life, but somehow, despite the glaring disparities in their characters, Wolverine managed to challenge him in a way most men could not. It didn't help that Ororo was his only real friend in this place, and Rogue…
He looked aside again, his jaw set.
"He seems to fit in just fine," he muttered disingenuously, his fingers itching for the cigarette once more.
"Logan has had the benefit of many years here," Xavier rejoined soberly. "When he first arrived here things were different."
"Kept to the sidelines, eh?" Remy spoke sarcastically; and Xavier smiled.
"Actually, he usually spent the festive season causing havoc in town. I had a bail him out quite a few times." He slid a sly smile over in the younger man's direction. "You're not actually doing too badly."
"Shame," Remy drawled. "And here I was, t'inkin' I was impressin' you guys wit' my efforts."
He glanced over at the small group near the dancefloor again, his gaze drawn involuntarily to Rogue.
He'd spent a helluva lot of his time here looking at her – looking, but not touching, which was a novelty and one he didn't think he liked. He didn't like it because he always got what he wanted and he wanted her; and whilst every thief enjoyed the thrill of chasing down a prize that could never be caught, he wasn't sure the same thrill applied to women.
The chase was fun because of the inevitable conquest at the end.
But with Rogue there could never be a conquest, and whilst he still found the chase fun at times, at others he found it downright frustrating.
And yet here he was, coming dangerously close to the conclusion that the only reason he was here and not somewhere else like causing havoc in town was because of her and the fact that he'd been thinking of her more than just a little the last few weeks, and because she drew him to her like a moth to a flame and he was beginning to think he didn't want to resist.
"It's probably best to walk away from a battle that can't be won," Xavier commented gravely from the sidelines, breaking his train of thought.
"You readin' my mind, Prof?" he queried coldly, unconsciously going for the cigarette in his pocket again. Xavier said nothing but watched him a moment as he lit up with a brazen insouciance that was only meant to mask just how near the Professor had come to the mark. Xavier was not taken in by it, nor by the blatant insubordination of smoking indoors.
"In cases such as these," he answered grimly, "one doesn't always need to use one's powers to read a person's mind. Besides," he added wryly, "I'm quite unable to read yours. You mask your thoughts well by throwing up a kind of barrier – a wall of static that hides their flavour. And whilst I could quite easily penetrate it, I assume it is there for a reason – and at the very least it is not my business to go prying where I'm not wanted."
"Hmph," Remy sounded, blowing smoke. "Interestin'."
"Yes," Xavier returned, his gaze following Remy's to the three figures on the dancefloor. "I think it's probably part of your power set… possibly kinetic based." He paused, and after a moment continued in a low tone: "But I don't need to read your mind where Rogue is concerned. Your looks say enough."
"That transparent, am I?" Remy half-laughed; but the Professor ignored the comment.
"Be careful what you offer her, Remy," he said instead, with that casual familiarity that Remy found at once gratifying and yet disconcerting. "She's not ready yet. If you truly care about her… don't let her get hurt."
And with that he moved away, leaving Remy tongue-tied and not a little resentful at the unwanted advice.
Care? He never cared. And yet…
It was at that moment that she met his gaze from across the room, green eyes locking onto his as though summoned by him. He did what he always did when a woman looked his way – looked back, no flinching. He blew smoke aside and she cast her eyes to the ground. It wasn't coquettishness – he'd only known her a few months, but he'd known her long enough to know that with her none of this was a feint – that all his attention and persistence both confused and flattered her, and that everything she gave him in return was sincere. And that in itself was troubling to him. Women were rarely sincere around him, not in a romantic sense – certainly not since Belle.
He'd expected her to turn away, to avoid him – but he was surprised when instead she actually raised her eyes back to his and walked his way.
He found himself holding his breath.
Every time he thought he had her figured she'd throw him this curveball, and he kind of liked that she could do that to him because he pretty much had every woman figured and it was boring, it was predictable, and he enjoyed the fact that with her there was never a dull moment.
Never a dull moment.
Definitely not in that red dress.
He tried to suppress a smile and wasn't sure that he had succeeded.
Rogue was never known for putting much effort into clothing – formless sweaters and baggy pants were her usual fare, every inch of skin covered and hidden away. But today she'd made an effort with a figure-hugging red dress and matching opera gloves, heels and hair done up all fancy like. It didn't even need a man like him to figure out that the look wasn't just for Christmas. Instinct told him, subconsciously, that it was all for him.
No need to impress me, chere, he thought to himself. I kinda like you de way you are.
Ugly sweaters, back-talking sass and all.
"Hey," she spoke as she came level with him.
"Hey," he replied.
There were a few moments of silence, neither awkward nor uncertain… but one of those rare, comfortable silences that often say more than words.
"Xavier ain't gonna like that," she noted after a moment, nodding at the cigarette sleeping in his hand. He gave a lop-sided smile, put it to his lips.
"Funny… he didn't say not'ing 'bout it when I was talkin' to him a second ago." He took a drag with false nonchalance. "Guess it must be some sorta Christmas concession. Festive spirit and all dat."
She raised an eyebrow at him.
"It don't look like you got much of the Christmas spirit, sugah."
"Well," he let the smoke curl around him slowly, "Christmas ain't never been too much to get excited about where I come from, chere," he lied.
Her only answer was to scoff and pull a face.
The entire effect was so comical that he couldn't help but laugh out loud, earning an even less impressed expression from her than before.
"If yah ain't enjoyin' yourself, sugah," she told him off archly (in a voice that nevertheless held a hint of playfulness), "then why don't you spend the holidays with your folks back home?"
He ran his gaze over her, smiled.
"I prefer de view here."
He loved that half-irked smirk she gave him, an expression of exasperation tempered with a genuine affection she couldn't quite hide.
"Seriously. Ain't there any loved ones back home yah can visit?"
He wasn't entirely sure how she managed it, but she somehow always managed to say something to check his vanity.
"Not anymore," he replied soberly. He hadn't meant to look or sound woebegone, but he must've done because when he raised his eyes to hers again there was something between concern and sympathy on her face, and the next moment she had reached out a gloved hand and placed it on his arm, warm, friendly.
"Then why don't yah come and join the rest of us?" she'd asked earnestly. "Storm's been askin' for yah…"
"No t'anks." He paused, saw a remnant of silly string stuck to her hair – he couldn't help reaching out and taking the offending article between his fingers. "I can't stand dese family affairs," he continued, flicking it away. "Too cute and gooey for de likes of me. I'm fine right here. As long as you're gonna stay here too, chere," he added as an honest afterthought.
There was that delicate eyebrow again, hitching upward into that sceptical arch he knew (and loved) so well.
"Remy, it's Christmas. Yah have to get into the spirit of things…"
She was in such earnest that he almost laughed aloud again.
"Well, since you put it dat way… I guess you're right." His eye caught out the mistletoe Betsy and Warren had been making judicious use of only a few minutes ago. "How about we go over dere and make out under de mistletoe?" he suggested slyly. "You could show me what exactly makes de Rogue's kiss so dynamite."
On reflection, what he liked most about her was the way she got when he teased her. The flush of her cheeks, the parting of those sweet lips, the way her eyebrows came together.
"Remy, yah know Ah can't—"
"Yes, you can," he found himself saying before he could even compute a word. "I seen you kiss men before. Complete strangers at dat. Dey get so excited dey be keelin' over. And dis Cajun can get awful jealous, chere. He ain't gonna rest till he knows what all de big fuss is about."
He knew he'd pushed it just that little bit too far when she replied softly, bitterly, "Don't joke about it. If Ah kiss yah, Ah steal a little bit of you. Your memories become mine. Ah might even hurt yah."
He looked away and shrugged.
"Maybe I wouldn't mind so much," he answered with more honesty than he'd first intended. "Maybe I want someone t' understand me. Maybe I want someone to know all my innermost secrets. And if I can get a kiss from you thrown into de bargain, maybe it'd all be worth it." He halted, threw her a glance that he'd meant to be questioning but that somehow came out as something far more pointed, far more intense. "Am I bein' selfish yet, chere?" he drawled sexily.
She said nothing for a long moment, her silence telling him that she was tempted – actually tempted – by his proposition – at least by the idea of it. If she wasn't, he knew he could've expected any number of things from her – scowls, sass, even a slap in the face – but not that look. Green eyes on his with enough soul to save the damned. To his mind Belle had always been an angel, but Rogue was something else, and he couldn't quite say what but it made his chest burn.
"You're crazy," she muttered at last, like there wasn't anything else she could say.
"Chere," he assured her lazily, pressing the cigarette to his lips, "bein' around a femme as fine as you is enough to drive a man crazy. Bein' unable to touch her is enough to drive him certifiably insane."
There was that pause again and in the time it took to fill it he realised that it was another run of suggestive banter he'd pushed too far. He could see it in the downturn of her mouth, one she couldn't hide.
"Is that all you care about?" she muttered morosely. "Touchin'? Ah can't and you know it. Why do you haveta keep talkin' about it like it's possible?"
"De reason I keep talkin' about it, chere," he replied smoothly, stubbing out the cigarette in a pot plant on the windowsill, "is because even though we can't, I still like to think about it. Just like I know you do."
She almost snapped at him then. Almost.
"How do you know that?"
"Because, Rogue," he replied with all the insouciance of making an everyday, throwaway comment, "I pretty much know for a fact dat when you put on dat dress dis evening you were lookin' in de mirror and thinkin' exactly what it would be like for me to touch you while you're wearin' it."
He wasn't quite sure what was making him push it tonight.
Maybe it was the booze; maybe it was just the sight of her in that figure-hugging dress making him stupid and reckless and painfully needy.
Whatever the case it was too late for him to take back what he knew had been a mistake, even if it had been the truth.
She blinked, she stared; she opened her mouth, she closed it.
And after a moment she turned abruptly and walked away, leaving him to curse and kick himself by the windowsill.
-oOo-
Half an hour later and it had begun to snow, faint flakes sailing, pale and bleak, across the darkened pane of window.
Remy sat at the sill and brooded.
Every so often he would see her reflection in the window, follow her movements across the room, from person to person and group to group, her body always turned pointedly away from his.
He didn't like the way she made him feel.
He'd only known her four or five short months, and he'd been using that fact to berate himself for the ease with which she appeared to have ensnared him, but really, what did time have to do with any of it? He'd pretty much been drawn to Belle from the first moment he'd met her, and he knew from experience that if there was chemistry there was chemistry, it didn't matter whether that person was off limits or not, it was just there… You dealt with it. Somehow.
He didn't know how to deal with Rogue.
He'd been working on the premise that he would've found a way to seduce her or just ended up getting bored with her by now. Neither had happened, and he didn't like the idea of where this was leading – frankly, he hadn't for a while now. She was… intriguing to him. A thing of beauty, as alluring as the Siren, as unapproachable and unyielding as Galatea. She was the ultimate conquest, both irresistible and unattainable. She was the best and worst thing a man like him could encounter.
But he had come to accept – solely in the past few minutes – that he was probably the worst thing a woman like her could encounter, and it made him feel like a poor kind of man when he thought about the ways he'd tried to tempt her with something she couldn't have. He didn't know what exactly he felt for her, but he knew he cared about her enough not to want to see her hurt.
He caught her later when she was alone at the punch bowl.
The smooth planes and ridges of her shoulder blades were peeking out the low-cut back of her red dress, and it was all he could do to keep his hands from sliding over them as he neared her.
"I'm sorry," he said instead of a greeting.
She started and half turned towards him before remembering she was supposed to be angry at him.
"Are yah?" she asked him pointedly, busying herself with more punch.
"Yes," he answered simply. "I'm an asshole. I know it. I don't mean to be round you, chere."
"So why are yah?" she snapped back at him, and he shrugged, replied:
"I guess I always get what I want. But wit' you, I can't."
There was a lone lock of cinnamon-coloured hair dangling delicately from the back of her fancy chignon, and he had the terrible urge to tug it all loose and let it all spill out over her shoulders, but he resisted the compulsion with an effort.
"Can't yah just be content to look?" she snapped, but there was an unintended softness to her voice that suggested she was thawing to him.
"I can look and look at you the way you're lookin' tonight, chere, but I don't t'ink I could ever just be 'content' wit' it," he told her helplessly, and she fixed him with that stare again, confused and beguiling, prompting him to continue quietly: "You're beautiful, Rogue. If you wore dat dress to impress me, it worked. But you should know you don't need to. I kinda like you de way you are."
That was when she paused for thought. She stared at him with her teeth tugging at her lower lip and said suddenly:
"Ah did."
"You did what?"
"Wear this to impress you. And," she added in a furious rush, her cheeks colouring, "Ah did wonder what it would be like for you to touch me when Ah put it on. Or how much you'd like to touch me when you saw me in it."
The words had come out so fast that she almost seemed surprised when there were no more left to be said; she stopped abruptly, turned away, and walked over to the nearby window – but there was a certain something in her movements that invited him to follow and he did so, without thinking.
He joined her as she looked out at the paltry shower of snow, his back to the window as he concluded in a low voice: "So you'd like me to touch you…"
"Remy," she spoke with just a hint of sarcasm, "do you haveta ask? After all the games, all the back-and-forth we've played?" She passed him a sidelong glance. "Yes, Ah'd like to touch you. Ah think Ah'd kill to know what it's like to hold your hand."
The image was such a ridiculously disproportionate one that he almost laughed but he restrained himself at the last minute. Instead he leaned a little towards her and carefully hooked the strap of her dress, tugged it lightly and said: "Seems like dis is de worst kinda torture for de both of us…"
She gave him a slant of a smile, sardonic yet sad.
"Guess Ah wanted you to know what it's like to want somethin' yah can't have…" she admitted softly; he did laugh then, quietly, regretfully, took back his hand.
"Believe me, chere, when I say I know exactly what dat feels like…"
She looked at him full on then.
"Yah can't have me, Remy," she told him seriously.
"I know," he nodded.
And her eyebrows came together again.
"Then why d'you keep tryin'?"
And he was painfully aware that it was the question he'd been asking himself the past few weeks without ever finding a satisfactory answer…
"Because I can't help it," he finally replied, and that at least was the honest to God truth. He couldn't. Just like he couldn't help asking her what he did next. "So lemme ask you a question, Rogue. If I can't help tryin', why do you keep lettin' me?"
"Lettin' you?" She shot him an evil look. "Are yah deaf, Remy LeBeau? Or have yah just forgotten all the times Ah've told you to back off?"
"Fine," he answered, a slight smile twitching on his lips. "You want me gone, Rogue, I'll go away right now, if'n you really want me to."
She let out an exasperated noise, fixing her eyes on the window once more.
"All right! Ah let you because Ah like it! And Ah like you, Remy LeBeau. So how about that?!"
He'd never been one for propriety, but he knew instinctively that to show any triumph or to gloat over her admission would have been the worst possible course of action, knowing her the way he did.
"Really? Dat's nice, cos I kinda like you too, Rogue."
The glare she passed him was as sharp as daggers.
"If yah really liked me, you'd stop playin' games, sugah."
And somehow he found himself saying: "You t'ink dis is just a game, chere?"
The statement shut her mouth. She searched his face for what seemed a long while, looking for any traces of deception and apparently not finding any – hardly difficult, because for once he was being sincere.
"Yah don't care," she scoffed at him, but there was doubt in her voice and he heard it.
"Chere," he answered softly, "if I had de luxury of not carin', I wouldn't. And believe me, I've tried. But somet'ing inside won't let me. It won't let me hurt you, not for real. I've tried to make dis a game, but you know what? Wit' stakes as high as these I should've folded by now. And I can't."
Her eyes locked onto his, smoky green and knowing.
"The higher the risk, the bigger the thrill, Remy. Especially for someone like you. Don't think Ah don't know it."
"Non." He shook his head with certainty. "A man knows when to quit. A thief knows when de prize ain't worth de risk."
"Meanin' Ah am?" she questioned, her eyes never leaving his, and he held a breath, a single breath that hitched without him even realising it. He couldn't even begin to understand what she did to him, the way she made him want to match her sincerity with his own.
"Rogue," he began, reaching out almost involuntarily and tugging that single loose lock of her hair gently; she didn't resist him. "I don't even know your name. I can't touch you, and I sure as hell can't kiss you – much as I'd love to try." He half-smiled, eased the silky strands of hair through his fingers, feeling the elaborate tucks and curls work free under his tender grasp. "But I'm still here. In a room full of gorgeous, sexy women, talkin' to you. Wishin' you were de gorgeous, sexy woman who'd let me get to know her." Her hair had half come undone, and he frowned, continued slowly: "Fuck, chere. I don't even get it myself. You and I both know what sort of a man I am. De only game I can play is fast and loose. So tell me why I'm here, chere. Tell me why I can't walk away from you. If it ain't because I care, I don't know what it is and I can't explain it."
Another lock of hair fell loose and she ignored it, fixing him with that earnest, honest gaze that left him in knots.
"It's the thrill of wantin' the one thing yah can't have, Remy… That's all."
Was it?
He paused, his fingers still twined in her cinnamon locks, locks that almost held a shade of coppery red in the lamplight.
"Is dat how it is for you, Rogue?" he asked her quietly. "Am I just a thing you want dat you can't have?"
And her smile was both the saddest, most beautiful thing he'd ever seen…
"You're the thing Ah want most in this world that Ah can't ever have, Remy LeBeau."
It was the admission to send him running a mile – fight or flight, self-preservation, whatever the hell it was they called it – he was supposed to be feeling it now.
But he wasn't.
What he felt was this thing that he could've called covetousness or greed or selfishness or avarice, and maybe it was all of those things because she made him feel something and he wanted more of it, he wanted what it was she gave him like it was an addiction, and he sensed the danger of it, but…
But instead he gently tugged those last locks of hair free, let them tumble artlessly over her shoulders; and there she was, just Rogue, just herself and nothing more, the first woman he'd come to sincerely admire since Belle, a woman who couldn't help giving even when it was impossible for her to give him the one thing they both knew they wanted.
"De way you feel about me is de way I feel about you," he told her in a low tone – honest words, he thought – perhaps the first honest words since Belle, since the life he'd walked away from. He pulled her into an embrace, pressed his lips to her hair; and he felt her breath warm on his chest as she asked him quietly, plaintively, "Really?"
"Yes," was his reply, his only reply – and if he'd known that this was the one and only Christmas they would share for several dark and lonely years, perhaps he would've prettied it up and given it to her as a gift; but for the here, the now, that one moment in time – if simplicity and sincerity could be gifts, he had given her one to cherish.
And what gift could she give him in return?
The most fitting thing she could find was to put her arms round him and hold him tight, and it was the best gift he had received for a long time, and would be for many long years to come.
-END-