IMPORTANT NOTE:- . The latter part of this chapter contains content of a (graphic) sexual nature. If you are a minor, please read responsibly.
Rogue was now living in a rather nondescript block of apartments on the edge of London – to keep down the rent, she declared, to which he had asked her why she hadn't decided to live in a flat or a house with others. He had known already how she would answer – that she had never been comfortable living in close proximity to strangers, how she needed her own space, and how she needed to learn how to stand on her own two feet. It was hard, making ends meet – but she had got a job waitressing on her weekends and days off, and was feeling pretty satisfied with the way things were going.
The block of flats had looked grotty on the outside – on the inside though it was rather pleasant. Not impressive certainly, but comfortable. Rogue's apartment was on the third floor, and since the elevator seemed to be broken (a regular occurrence, as far as Rogue seemed to imply), they had had to take the stairs. Rogue's room, luckily, was near the stairwell, because by that time Remy thought he was going to drop.
"Well this is it," she proclaimed, searching her bag for her keys. "Home sweet home."
Just at that moment the next door down opened and out came a Japanese woman in a dark blue nurse's outfit. Like most Japanese women she was small and slim, long-bodied and short limbed, her face round and cute, jet-black hair cut into a 1920s style bob. She stopped when she saw Rogue fumbling with the keys, gaping openly at Remy. He grinned back. He was used to that kind of reaction from women.
"Well, well," the woman explained. "Anna, whatever are we going to do with you?"
She sidled over, a big sly smile on her face. At first Remy had thought that she would be the usual kind of Japanese woman he had met before – quiet, courteous, coquettish with an overall tendency to smile and laugh politely at anything anyone said to them. This woman though, he suspected had lived in England for several years. The grin, the intonation, the walk – all reminded him of the rather vampish Lila Cheney than Wolverine's ex-wife, Mariko Yoshida.
Rogue looked up.
"Hey, Akane. Going on the night-shift?"
"Uh-huh." She looked at Remy again, interest sparkling in her dark eyes. "Who's the stranger?"
"Oops," Rogue scratched her head, still nonplussed at the disappearance of her keys. "How rude o' me. Remy, this is Akane, next door neighbour and resident party-animal. Akane, this is Remy, an old – uh – friend."
"Remy?" She shook his hand in the formal British way. "French? Belgian…?"
"Cajun," he replied with a winning smile.
"Oh, so you're one of Anna's old friends from the States," Akane replied knowingly. "Nice to meet you at last."
He wondered just how much Rogue had mentioned of her 'old friends from the States'.
"Pleased t' meet you too, chere."
She chuckled. "Anna, you didn't mention this one was such a hunk." She turned back to Remy. "Are you single?"
Whoa! Were English girls always this forthright?
"Currently unspoken for, but you never know from one day t' de next wit' me."
"He got that right," Rogue spoke up rather acidly from the sidelines. "Dammit!"
"Something wrong, dearie?" Akane asked, seeing Rogue's frustration.
"Mah keys are missin'. Ah'm sure ah took them with me when ah left this mornin'."
"That's because you did," Akane remarked comically, digging into a certain pocket in Rogue's cardigan and producing the bunch of keys before wiggling them in front of her face. "Or did you forget that you put them there because you kept on losing them in your bag?"
"Akane, you're a life-saver!" Rogue cried, snatching the keys.
"Well, with that to distract you," she jabbed a thumb in Remy's direction. "I think I can safely let you off the hook."
"Well, there y' go, Remy," Rogue arched an eyebrow at him. "Ah do believe you've met your match."
"Y' know I only have eyes for you, chere," he replied just as playfully.
"Don't y' sass me none, Gam-, Remy," she shot back, eyes narrowing.
"Whoa guys," Akane interjected humorously. "I'm getting a whiff of way too many pheromones here!" She leaned in confederately to Rogue. "Is he the ex you were talking about?"
"Shut up!" Rogue replied hotly, turning away and stabbing the key into the door.
"He is, isn't he!" the Japanese woman exclaimed, grinning. "Don't worry Anna – my lips are sealed."
"It's no big deal," Remy put in, sticking up for Rogue and shrugging. "We broke up years back, no hard feelin's. Right, Anna?"
"Right," Rogue mumbled, not looking at him.
"In that case," Akane replied, smiling at him. "If you're free sometime…?"
"Sorry," he answered quickly. "I'm headin' back t' de States tomorrow."
"Aw, what a shame." She sighed, then looked at her watch. "Well, I'm already bloody late. You guys have fun, okay? Ah'll see you in the mornin', Anna. And," she held out her hand towards him. "Nice to meet you, Remy."
"You too," he nodded, shaking her hand vigorously.
"See ya," Rogue called, as Akane finally made off towards the stairwell. When she had disappeared down the steps Rogue let out a sigh of relief.
"High maintenance?" he asked. Her back was still to him. She had been facing the door ever since Akane had mentioned 'ex'.
"High maintenance," Rogue affirmed, pushing the door open and switching on the lights.
The interior was certainly Rogue-ish. It was the only way Remy could find to describe it. Not plain, but not frilly; serviceable but at the same time whimsical. Everything had been set out in a roomy and spacious order, clean, neat, tidy. And then Rogue had gone over it in her own southern fashion, splashing her own bits of messy colour in the form of cushions and curtains and throws and paintings. Books, CDs, magazines were strewn here, there and everywhere. On the walls were various posters, photographs and notes; on the mantelpiece were displayed a plethora of teddy bears.
Rogue was oddly silent as she entered into the room and removed her cardigan and scarf; odd because she had been chattering away most of the day without stopping. Remy slid into the room shutting the door quietly behind him. No doubt about it, this was Rogue's domain. Again that strange sense of comfort washed over him.
"Make yourself at home," she spoke, dumping her bag on the settee and moving towards the kitchen. "Want anything to drink?"
He moved to the nearest wall, where she had set up a display of movie posters, photos and sketches. The sketches were in pencil, very rough, but somehow attractive. Mostly they were random pictures of people and faces, trees and details of certain flowers. Intermingled between the drawings were several photos – Rogue with different people he did not recognise. None of them were of her friends amongst the X-Men. Go figure, he thought. There was one of her and Akane with several other girls he presumed were friends, having some sort of party. And another, of her with an arm about a brown-haired man. He could not help the shot of jealousy that streaked through him, inwardly scolding himself for feeling the way he did. Her life, her choice he said to himself. So what if she had been seeing another man? It should have been enough for him to see that in every one of those photographs, she was smiling with genuine happiness.
"Remy?" Her voice called him from the kitchen.
"Hmm?"
"What d'you want t' drink?"
"Uh…What've you got?"
"Tea, coffee, water, soda…Wine. Want some wine?"
"Fine by me," he replied, perusing the sketches again.
It was a moment before she re-entered, a bottle half-filled with Chardonnay and two glasses in her hands. She was smiling broadly again.
"Leftovers from the get-together me an' the gals had on Friday night," she explained, setting everything down on the coffee table. "I never knew Brit gals drank so much!" She paused, turning to look back at him when he did not answer. "Oh," she actually blushed. "Lookin' at mah sketches?"
"They're yours?" He looked up at her, surprised.
"Yeah," she bent over, uncorking the bottle and pouring the wine into the glasses. "Not half as good as Piotr's, ah know."
"Actually they're nice," he said, assessing them again. "They're…you. Didn't know you had dat kinda talent."
"Neither did ah," she replied, half-smiling. "Although ah don't think it's any kinda proper talent. Ah just like t' do it. S' hobby, ah guess."
"An' how did you discover dis new hobby, eh?"
"Oh, mah therapist suggested it. Ah liked the idea, so ah took an art minor in mah first year at college. It was fun." Her voice was pleasant, but somehow sad. "Whenever ah'm feelin' a little down, ah do a bit of drawin'. Makes me feel like ah'm puttin' mah emotions somewhere, y'know?"
"Yeah," he answered, not really knowing what to say. It had disconcerted him to hear her talk so suddenly of 'therapists', 'emotions' and 'feeling down', but it did not surprise him. These were the things, after all, that had first led her to leave the X-Men after their ordeal with Destiny had ended. In fact, when she had left she had been feeling more than just a little 'down'. It was one of the primary reasons as to their agreement to separate. Though the split-up had been amicable, Remy had always felt that if Destiny had not so manipulated Rogue then they would still have been together. He resented Destiny for hurting Rogue in the way she had, but there had been no point in brooding over it. Destiny was dead, and Rogue had made her decision. He had agreed it was best for the both of them to make a clean break. Rogue had needed to deal with her own wounds on her own terms and in her own time. He would only have gotten in the way.
It was with a sense of regret that he finally walked over to the settee to join her. He had figured it was long past the time where he should be wondering why their relationship had always ended up going wrong just when it was going right. It was easier to let go of things when they were apart. But being here with her now, things weren't so simple. He was beginning to think it was a mistake that he had come here after all.
"So," he began awkwardly, trying to quiet the turn of his thoughts. "Seems you've been havin' a fun time over here." He looked back over his shoulder at the photographs.
"Yeah," she half-smiled. "One thing ah gotta say 'bout London – there's never a dull moment."
I bet, he thought sourly, eyeing the picture of her and the brown-haired guy again. He wished he'd stop feeling so damn jealous. She followed his gaze, seeing the look on his face.
"That's Pete," she said, her tone quiet yet even.
"Oh," he answered, trying to sound nonchalant but not succeeding.
"We were an item – for a while," she continued honestly, though perhaps a little nervously. "But y'know…we were more friends than lovers, so it didn't work out. We still hang out though. Saw no reason not to remain friends."
"Makes sense," he replied, an inkling of emotion he could not tell in his voice.
"How 'bout you," she asked, "You meet anyone?"
He managed to look back at her. "No one serious," he admitted.
"Oh." It was her turn to look somewhat embarrassed. "Want anything to eat?" she changed the subject.
"I'm not hungry, t'anks."
"Drinkin' wine ain't good without somethin' to soak it down," she remarked, to which he couldn't help but laugh.
"You're turnin' so…European." He grinned. "I like it."
"Really?" she played along. "Ah thought you only liked the southern belle in me."
"Southern belle has its merits, chere," he returned, drinking the wine. "But so does European."
"What you mean as in vampy li'l black dresses an' unabashed seductiveness?"
"Exactly," he said, raising his glass. "De Parisian girls know how t' wear their li'l black dresses." He sighed whimsically.
"Kind of ironic that you're bringin' out the southern belle in me again, cajun," she grinned.
"You been away from de US too long, chere," he answered seriously.
"Ah'll be back soon enough."
"I'll hold you t' that."
Silence.
"So, you're leader of the Unified Guilds now," she spoke at last. "How's that?"
"Not bad, I s'ppose," he replied, looking into his glass before setting it down. "Not how I expected t'ings to turn out, but then again, I don't t'ink I ever expected anythin' outta dis life in de first place." He raised his head, smiled. "But, all t'ings considered, I'm pretty much happy."
"S'good to hear," she returned warmly. "An' how's Bel?"
"Same old Bel," he replied with a wry smile. "One o' dese days de fille's gonna frown herself t' death. Wish I could make her smile again, like she used to, in de old days. Y'know, I kinda feel dat everythin'…it's all my fault."
"Things turned out the way they did," she replied softly. "Bel understands that."
"She still loves me, Rogue," he sighed. "She knows it ain't gonna happen anymore, but she still keeps hopin'."
"Ah can understand that."
"Love be a complicated t'ing, chere."
"Yes."
"An' you?"
"Huh?"
"You happy?"
She smiled wanly. "Happier than ah was," she admitted, not liking to elaborate.
"You look happier. Happier than when you left, anyhow." He paused, seeing the look in her eyes. "I was worried 'bout you, Rogue. You were so upset when you left, I thought dat if you went out into de world alone it'd bury you over an' swallow you. God knows I woulda done anythin' to help you out, but I knew dat if I did…" He halted again. Dieu, what to say? "You needed to be alone." He finished, feeling that it somehow justified the guilt he felt at agreeing to leave her to fight her own battles.
"It was what ah wanted," she answered slowly, before staring at him fixedly. "You feelin' guilty, Remy? There's no need."
"I know, but…" He stopped, before looking up again. "If anythin' had happened t' you…"
"It wouldn't have been on your hands."
"Wouldn't have meant de hurtin' would stop."
"Ah know."
He caught it then, that whiff of the old Rogue, fragile, delicate, hiding from the world. He suddenly wanted to put his arms round her and hold her close.
"How was de therapy?" he asked, swallowing the emotion.
"Good," she half-smiled. "Ah needed to vent out. It was nice, t' talk t' someone who didn't know me, y'know? Who didn't have any idea of who ah was or where ah came from, who could listen to everythin' ah had t' say objectively. Just a regular stranger, no strings, no attachments. Ah needed to purge mahself of all those crazy things that when on in mah past. To start afresh, to start anew. S'funny," she lowered her voice. "During those sessions ah'd never cried so much in mah life – yet when ah left them and went out in the real world, ah never knew how much easier it was t' laugh."
"Laughin' be my speciality," he frowned. "Laugh too much, don' cry enough."
"Ah'm glad you came, Remy," she said, out of the blue.
"Yeah?"
"Yeah." She looked away, playing with a lock of her hair. "Y'know, ever since ah got here ah've been pushin' away the past. Ah rarely ever spoke 'bout you and the other guys. Ah…ah didn't want to. For some reason, it all hurt too much."
"I can understand that," he replied gently, looking at the photos on the wall again. "In all dose pictures there, you look so happy, so…carefree. Don't remember de last time I saw you look like dat. Makes me envious, really."
"Envious? Why?"
"Wish I'd been able to make you dat happy," he confessed.
"You did, Remy," she replied quietly, but he did not look back into her face as she spoke.
"Mebbe, for a li'l while. But whenever we started t' feel happy together, somethin' always came along to make us unhappy again. I don't blame you for wantin' to forget dat part of your life."
"Remy, ah don't want…Ah never have forgotten," she returned, looking down into her lap. "Ah just…after everythin' Irene did to me, to us, even to the others…ah needed to try and get over everythin', all the pain, all the guilt, all the suffering. But not t' forget the good times. An' we had some of the best times together, Remy."
"Too bad they couldn' last," he muttered, a little bitterly.
"Are you angry with me?" she asked softly.
"No," he shook his head. "Just feelin' cheated. From what could've been." He looked up at her. "Funny, chere. When you said you were gonna be mine for keeps, we both believed it so damn hard, an' yet look how t'ings turned out for us."
"Remy," she began, perfectly seriously. "Ah am yours."
"Don't play wit' me, Rogue," he frowned.
"Ah ain't. Remy, whatever you think, there's always gonna be somethin' b'tween us. Whatever happens that bond'll always be there."
"Den where does dat leave us now, chere?" he questioned.
"Ah'm not sure," she replied, averting her gaze as she drank some more wine. "All ah know is that… ah'm your friend. An' ah'll always be there for you. If'n you need me, that is."
Need her? Mon Dieu, did he need her right now! And he didn't really appreciate her talking about platonic relationships at the present moment. Especially when she was sitting there looking so damned beautiful right in front of him.
"Likewise," he answered after a moment.
"Thanks."
Silence again.
"Rogue," he suddenly broke out into the quiet. "Y'know…I still… care 'bout you, chere."
There was sudden uncertainty in her green eyes. "Ah care 'bout you too, Remy."
That wasn't what he meant. They both knew it. How to say it? Twelve hours left and he wanted to say it so bad. And there were her eyes, warning him, telling him that it wasn't right.
"Remy," she began again quietly, "Ah ain't the same woman you knew three years back. Ah've imprinted Irene's powers. That's why ah had to leave everythin' behind, even if it meant ah was running away. Ah was too scared the face the things ah'd seen for the two of us." Her voice fell and suddenly she couldn't look at him; her brow furrowed. "Didn't you get it, why ah left? Why ah came all the way over here? It wasn't only us, as we were then. It was our future."
"An' what did you see?" he asked softly.
Her eyes went suddenly dull; the sparkle died like the embers fading from a fire.
"Ah saw…nothin'," she said, after a short moment, her voice small. Then she lifted her glass to her lips and downed the rest of the wine, before setting the glass carefully on the table. "You know what the Diaires said. That you're the Witness. That one day, you're s'pposed to leave everythin' in this world an' this time, just like Bishop said you would. That's why ah saw nothin'. An' that's why ah had to let go."
She paused, silent, still, as if assessing her admission. He said nothing. He could not break her loneliness with words.
"But you waltz back into mah life again, Remy," she began again, quietly, not looking at him. "Why'd you have to do that? Why'd you have to come like this an' spoil everythin'? It ain't fair."
"Rogue…" he began, reaching out instinctively to touch her face. It was the simplest, easiest, most natural thing to do. There was only momentary surprise in her eyes as he smoothed his fingers across her cheeks and back towards the soft spot behind her ear. For what seemed a long time they simply stared at one another in silence, and a calm fell over them, an understanding from which no words needed to be spoken. Always, always it was this way, without change, without fail. And, Remy thought, if their situation had been precarious before, now it was positively hazardous. With that one single touch it was as though all the time they had spent apart seemed to have slipped away, and suddenly she smiled.
"But you're here now," she began softly. "An' maybe it doesn't really matter anymore."
"Mebbe dis be what destiny intended," he replied, before realising his mistake. "I'm sorry," he apologised quickly.
"No," she answered quietly. "Maybe you're right."
She reached out with her left hand, tracing the line of his chin lightly with her fingers, opening her concession, awakening every sense of his to her. This was going from bad to worse and from good to better.
They both knew one another far too well.
Yet strangely, if there had been any inner battles for either to fight, neither showed any evidence of it. For Remy himself, the dilemma was only a trivial one because he knew that even though the spiral could only go downward, in her presence and with her skin against his, nothing else really mattered. It was hardly conscious that they inched towards one another, that his fingers wound further to nestle in her hair, that her own hand dropped from his jaw to his shoulder and grasped him lightly there, and that there was a memory in her touch. A memory that did not seem to be a memory at all, but a sign, a signal from a past that now merged into the present, making it all the more artless that she should raise her lips to his, and that he should bend forward to accept them.
But in that one seamless moment neither thought, knowing only to what end the sum of their words, their gazes, their touches could lead them. They kissed with a slowness and familiarity born of a reassurance that the past had already asserted their love; and that the future, for once, was certain. And it was that certainty that caused them both to resist, to pull apart, to begin to rationalize all over again.
"We shouldn' be doin' dis," he murmured, perusing her face lazily, smelling the heady aroma of her perfume. Only now did the danger that had lain concealed all day long show itself for what it was – the risk that they might find one another, and lose one another, and that there might never be a chance to begin the search all over again.
"Ah know," she half-whispered in agreement.
Again they gazed at one another, silent, assessing, their faces close, warm. If there was ever a moment they could have stepped back it was that one; yet in that solitary space in time, so close and yet so far apart, every motionless second conspired to draw them back together again. Looking into one another's eyes, both knew it; unable to help herself she raised a hand against his neck, fingers light yet not uncertain, moving upward softly, gently caressing the base of his jaw. Inexorably, in that one movement their fate was sealed. They kissed again, and this time the promise of the first unfolded in the second, compelling them away from reason, so that her hand went behind his neck, so that he reached out for her with both arms and pulled her to him, suddenly inflamed at the meaning of this, their embrace.
Nothing had changed. Nothing had been lost, or discarded, or thrown away. That was the meaning of it all. That against all the odds, against all the obstacles time and space had thrown against them, they still loved one another, and suddenly Remy was so certain, more certain of this and them than he ever had been in his life. He knew her, body, heart, mind, soul. Even if he had wanted to he could not unlearn the knowledge of her and all that she was. And now that knowledge intoxicated him, filled him with love and hope.
They shouldn't have been doing this.
It hardly mattered.
He released her mouth, gently kissing her chin, pausing to look into her eyes before moving down to the smooth line of her jaw, his hands gently rubbing the undulating arc of her back. The warmth of their contact spread through him like wildfire, kindling in him the familiarity and comfort that he found in her body. Three years, three years, he thought, and he still remembered, still remembered so vividly that at once he was awed and quieted, aroused and assuaged of all troubles. The years of their separation slipped from them like sand through their fingertips; gently she kissed his hair, letting him re-familiarize himself with the shape of her, the taste and scent of her, before realising that he had recalled all these things already, with a sharpness of clarity that left her breathless.
Unwilling he pulled away, still only inches from her face, gazing at her while he ran his hands through the silken length of her hair. For a while he was content to savor the comfort of their closeness, to take her in, to slacken the pace of his sudden desire to be with her in every way that had been denied him for so long.
"Dis crazy," he murmured after a moment, unable to tear his gaze from the brilliant green that so entrapped him.
"Maybe," she agreed, leaning in to press light kisses against his lips. "But ah never knew a crazy that felt so right."
"Me neither," he replied, gently stroking her leg, caressing her thigh, upward to the swell of her hip.
"Maybe it is fate."
"Mebbe it is."
Gotta stop rationalizing, he thought, we both know where dis be leadin' anyways.
"Mebbe we should…y'know…" he continued, nuzzling his cheek against her own.
"Hmm. Maybe we should."
There was no more absolute form of insanity, but for some reason it was entirely logical. She stood up quickly, taking his hand and pulling him to his feet, linking his fingers with her own, kissing his knuckles softly as she led him to the bedroom. Such warmth, such openness she showed him! Never at one single point in their shared past had she shown him how uncomplicated her love could be. Without shyness or aggression she guided him onward; and when the door was shut behind them she slid into his embrace with the uncontrived tenderness of one whose love, whose desire was unconditional.
They kissed, unclothing one another, drawing back only to look into one another's eyes, no lust, no desperation, no coercion. Nothing forgotten, only left behind, to be picked up where they had left it to remain. Naked he gazed over her, the silver smoothness of her flesh in the darkness, taking in her beauty, her softness, the exquisite simplicity of all that she was. In that one moment when they looked upon one another, that moment of unforced withdrawal and impulsive impulsion towards one another, the absurdity of their lengthy separation seemed laughable.
"Why did I let you go?" he murmured quietly, drawing his arms about her waist.
"For the same reason ah left," she answered softly, folding her own smooth arms about his neck. "An' the same reason why we're here now."
She kissed him softly, then released him and took him by the hands to lead him to the bed. Wordlessly she lay against the covers, inviting him with her eyes, and he followed her, acquiescing. There was nothing constrained, nothing to press or urge him to take her but the love he held for her, and in that there was no violence, no aggression. To be there with her was simply the way it had to be; to fit there so perfectly against her was to slip back into the place that had been made for him since their very first meeting. All the time that had passed and yet they came to one another as old lovers; all the times they had made love and yet now everything felt so new, so unique and untrammeled. He knelt before her, drinking in every curve of her, every detail of the body he knew so well. Whichever man laid claim to it, whoever would dare to call her his own, however momentary, it didn't matter. He would be her first, her last. She belonged to him, body and soul, just as he had given himself to her. Like a light she called to him, godly, ethereal, otherworldly. For this one short space in time, never to be recalled, he would worship her.
Leaning in he took her arm, kissing the length of it slowly, unhurried, wanting first to savour the shape and texture of her, to commit it to imperfect memory, crossing the soft cool skin of her bicep, the crook of her elbow, the small, thin wrist and the warm palm of her hand. Gently she curled her fingers about his cheek, bringing him towards her, pulling his face to hers and their mouths into a languid embrace. He felt her hands in his hair, then on his back, holding him closer, drawing him into her. But he resisted, sitting up, warning her with his eyes. She hung back, understanding, running her hands over his chest and stomach instead, marking him with her fingers as he sat for a moment, considering the neat flow of her throat and collarbone and her breasts, downward to slight arch of her stomach and the surge of her hips to the hidden folds of her warm center.
He would travel them, unhindered; he caught her eyes before leaning inward once more to kiss her, moving wordlessly to begin the journey of her body, kissing her throat and feeling the tremulous breaths that formed inside upon his lips. Slowly he skirted the line of her collarbone, the soft flesh near her armpit where the curve of her breast began, following the arc downward before lathing his tongue over the delicate crest of her nipple. She sighed, reaching out to hold him to her, rubbing her leg against his as he suckled gently on her while stroking her other breast lightly, before moving on to also claim it with his mouth. Dieu, but she was beautiful, so perfect, so fine, so rare. So let him show his devotion of her, his adoration. No other way was good enough. No other woman was so worthy. He would make love to her without consideration for his own pleasure; let her take from him selfishly. He did not care as he lavished kisses downward again, over the taut line of her stomach, the dip of her navel, the slight swell of her belly and further, to where his journey could only be drawn to its sweet conclusion. He paused there before her, scenting her aroma, recalling, eyes closed.
"Remy…"
She spoke his name for the first time, a call, a warning, a plea. How could he refuse? Gently he wound his arms about her thighs, took her buttocks in his hands, lifted her to his face as a chalice to his lips. He kissed her lightly at first, reacquainting himself with the unique contours of her, her fragrance, her flavour. Then, familiar, he opened his mouth, tasting her with his tongue, and she moaned, long and low, unbidden. Heartened, he persisted, sampling her moist heat, the essence of the desire she felt for him. On one level this was pure and primal, inexplicable. On another it was both his atonement and his homage, both paid to her for the pain of their separation and her unaffected acceptance of his love. And when he felt the pressure of her hand in his hair, and the movement of her hips as she pushed to seek his kiss, that too was merely an acknowledgement of his worship. In three long years he had never felt so happy as in that singular moment.
And so he continued, wanting her to know first, to see the end and the other side of that grief she had called her own for far too long. With lips and tongue and mouth he milked it all away, that loneliness, that sorrow, replacing it with the comfort of pleasure, of the security he could give her. These paths he had travelled before – he knew, invariably, where each and every part of her led; but rarely had he taken a route so sweet. He heard the sudden raggedness of her breaths, the soft, shallow cries in her throat; her hand pressed him to her, the muscles in her thighs and buttocks tensed. But she held on, held on so fiercely, so unwillingly that he almost admired her for it, for the utter shamelessness of her greed. And then she surrendered, letting go yet holding onto him with her legs as he received her, and then it was over and she went limp, sinking back into the bed, panting.
He moved upward, drawing himself against her damp skin, somehow finding her lips and rejoining his mouth to hers. Her arms went about him, hungry yet tender, and he pulled back, for the first time realising his own arousal. In the darkness he could feel her eyes on his, the trust that emanated from her, the gratitude, the longing, the love. Gently her soft, smooth legs wound about his, welcoming him into her.
"Remy, please…" she begged, and he needed no other urging. He entered her slowly, carefully, feeling no need to hurry, not wanting for it to end. They both whimpered, lost to the world yet found by each other, needing no other reassurance. There was no incentive to hasten their union. For one thing it could be another three years before their next chance to love came around. For another thing it felt too damn good for the whole thing to be over in two seconds and to be wasted. Remy sank into her, pushing lightly at her as he lay cradled against her, kissing her cheek gently, caressing her hair.
"Hm, dis be nice, don' you t'ink?" he murmured, fondling the nape of her neck absently.
"S' always nice with you, Remy," she replied, somewhat breathlessly.
He shifted position slightly, tracing the backs of his fingers lightly against her breasts.
"Ditto." He paused as she pressed against him impatiently, folding a leg about his waist. "S' always so damned good," he continued again through gritted teeth. "I'm not goin' too slow for you am I, chere?"
"Not unless you're wantin' to drive me absolutely crazy," she answered candidly.
"Patience, femme," he breathed. "I'm experimentin'."
"So am ah."
He laughed softly, unable to help himself. This had to be the giddiest day of his life.
"What?" she asked, looking into his eyes again.
"Mon Dieu, but I love you," he murmured.
She half-smiled, pecking his lips affectionately. "Ah know," she returned, her tone trailing off, telling him in no uncertain terms that now was no longer the time to speak.
They fell silent, exploring one another, tentatively at first, finally eking out a rhythm to suit them both. With a continued slowness they played out the beat of their song, looking into one another's eyes, measuring each wordless pleasure they gave one another. For once neither of them wanted it to be over, finding something secure in the protective cocoon of their embrace. But no such thing could last; besides, he had waited for too long – how could he prolong his desire any longer? With a sweet deliciousness he too abandoned himself to the inevitable, pouring himself into her with soft cries of gratitude. A moment later she followed him, moaning quietly, rocking against him and cradling him in her arms, pressing her damp cheek to his.
For a long while after no words were spoken, and all that pervaded was the darkness, and their embrace.
One age-old ritual had been finished; one day had ended, and one night; so too had the cycle of years that had drawn them apart.
***********
NB: - In an ideal world, this fic would have ended here. But this ain't an ideal world, and as always, I felt the need to add a conclusion that I'd originally intended to be ambiguous. Somehow my fanfics always go from gritty to gooey. Like some soft-centered candy – you just end up getting the goo stuck to your teeth when you get to the inside. Well, I hope I did right by everyone's expectations anyhoo. I did try not to make it too crass…Whether I succeeded or not is another thing :/
If you'd like to keep the conclusion up to your imagination, I suggest you stop here.
If you'd like to find out what happens the next morning, you can read on in Chapter Three!
-Ludi