God of Her Mind
By Nessie
Once, during their usual sessions of training her consciousness, the Professor had described Rogue's mind to her. But he had done so reluctantly, because that was who Charles is: a father to them all, trying to shield them from the sadness but not from the truth of life and all its terrifying possibilities.
"Your consciousness is not an organized place," he had said, his arms resting lightly on the arms of his wheelchair. "It is a web of others' experiences and memories. That is why we do this; so you shall not be overwhelmed the way you used to be. It is hard on you, I know." The Professor had smiled then. "But I am sure that a day will come when you will be able to control those strange forces all on your own, without my help."
Rogue wishes she was as sure as Xavier about that. Tonight, she sits out on the balcony reached through the third-floor library. Well, reached through it by people who walked. She had simply flown to it from her bedroom window minutes earlier, and the French doors leading into the manor were locked for the night.
It is a clear night, and stars shine like a billion pinpricks of light in a blanket of black. Dressed in only a long white T-shirt with her thick hair cascading wavy and soft over her shoulders, she reclines in one of the two deck chairs, a glass of mineral water nipped from the kitchen in hand.
It is September, the time when the days are hot but the nights cool down enough to sit comfortably. Down in Mississippi, Rogue would have had to wait at least another month for suck an event, but New York adheres to her wish for peace.
When he comes to her, he is nothing more than a part of the dark, clad all in black, but he clashes with the white marble of the balcony. That is Gambit. A perfect fit and disturbance to the night…all at once. Maybe that's why she lets grass-green eyes flick to his demonic ones so trustingly. Because he fits. Because he doesn't.
It is the same for the Gambit in her head.
He says nothing as he lowers himself from the roof above to the floor and then sits in the chair beside hers. She, too, has no words for him. And they stay that way, without conversation, as they watch the stars together. If he has never accomplished anything else, it is enough for Rogue that he knows when to let silence reign instead of witty remarks.
He rules her subtly, quietly, and that is the stronger control anyone can have. Her mind may be a mess, but Remy LeBeau is king there. He is the god of her mind.
A short, cool breeze makes her shiver, and he rubs gloved fingers over her bare arm.
Rogue does not mind letting him lead every now and then.
The End