I'm going to keep my head; I'm going to keep my cool.
Oh, I'm so in love with you.
It was dark by the time Gambit sauntered unevenly into the room he shared with Rogue. He tripped over his own shoelace as he entered, erupting into a small fit of drunken giggles. He waited slowly for both his giggles to subside and his vision to clear a path in the darkness. Slowly, the edge of the two beds came clear; there was already a bump in Rogue's, evidence she'd retired for the night earlier than he'd even bothered coming home from the bar. Debating within his own intoxicated mind, the Cajun debated whether or not to slip into Rogue's bed instead of his own. Last time he had tried that—equally drunk as this time—he'd walked around with a black eye for a good week as a show for his efforts. Deciding against the drunken idea, he traced his way to his own bed, flopping down upon it. Sinking the springs in the mattress, he started to pull the first of his shoes off his feet. Feeling groggy, but unmatchable light of mood Remy just flopped his body across the single mattress, not bothering with his pants or shirt which positively reeked of alcohol. Nuzzling into his pillow the Cajun was attempting to piece what of the night he remembered together. The gaping black spots made it inexplicably difficult.
In the least he remembered kicking it back a few several pints with Emma, as she sipped her vodka drinks, both of them equally drunk by the end of it. His companion of the adventure was concealing the drunkenness better than he. Other than a long talk and few flirtatious moments at the bar Remy could remember nothing, except for nearly crashing his bike a right smart amount of times before parking it haphazardly in between the yellow dictatorship of the lines.
Rogue wasn't sure if the reek of the Cajun or his lopsided walking had been welcomed into her senses first. For some reason she suspected the former. Her figure shuffled under the blankets, drawing her knees further inwards towards her breasts. She had been like that since the explanation of how Logan could kiss her had drawn to a close. The Southern Belle hadn't waited to find out why he did—she just needed to be alone. Alone in the uncomforting darkness did she lay, waiting for Remy to join her, as the clock rolled passed 2am, she was starting to doubt he'd bother coming back. As the thoughts spilled from her mind, there had been an audible whimper and twinge of guilt.
It was Rogue's fault he'd left to begin with.
As the man had settled into his bed, it took all the courage the skunk-striped X-femme could muster to address her teammate and lover without her voice cracking. "Yer late, Remy."
"Apologies, I didn' know y'd beh up, chère." Gambit was expecting to receive that talk he had been silently threatened about earlier, still, the drunken haze was too much to register the frailty and apprehension in her voice. Rogue wasn't going to be lecturing him on team friendships with him and Logan; as far as she was concerned she wanted to keep the conversation as far away from Wolverine as possible.
"Ah didn't know ya'd be gone so long." Rogue pushed her self up into a sitting position, Remy mirroring her movements, both of them near level from their separate beds. "Where'd ya go?"
Gambit shrugged, giving an airy laugh, "Jus' to de nearest bar wit' Fros'."
"Oh."
There was a small silence that enveloped the both of them, perhaps Gambit failed to notice the discomfort weaving through the atmosphere, but it was plaguing Rogue, with nothing at her disposal to stop it from doing so. Before her disheartened eyes, Gambit rose unsteadily from his mattress, ambled to the woman, smile armed against her doubts. "Y' ain't worried 'bout Gambit are y'?"
Rogue smiled weakly, attempting to reflect her lover's smile like a mirror. She succeeded in reflected that of which a cracked mirror would: distortion and corruption of a single smile. Flinching violently, Rogue brushed her wondrous gaze upwards towards Gambit's outstretched hand. She would have taken if there was no threat of harm. But Remy's skin glowed in the darkness, as did her own porcelain flesh, their combined presences mocking the absence of protection. "Remy, don't start this up again." She sighed heavily; rejecting the man's outstretched hand.
"Non, y' can' keep pushin' me away, Rogue. Y' can', i's no' gonna wor' f'evah."
"Ah don't wanna push you away, Remy, it's just…"
The woman's voice trailed off, giving reigning power to Gambit's displeased frown, "I's jus' y' don' trust Gambit."
"No!" Rogue cried, her voice sounded feeble and defeated, as it always did when she knew Remy would win their argument without really winning. "A-ah don't trust mahself not t'hurt you. Gawd, Ah don' know what Ah'd do if Ah hurt you. It'd beh so unbearable!" The woman's pleas were just as brittle as her voice. Her lip trembled slightly, she was breaking down much more quickly this night…it was Logan, if Remy ever knew what had happened, that'd hurt him more than any kiss or rejection could. He'd be shattered; there was no way Rogue could do that to him. Not to Remy, he'd been the first of the X-men as to treat her as something half-decent; the others claimed to, but none of them, whether by intelligence or unwillingness, ever volunteered to touch her just for the sake of her isolation ending for a few disoriented moments. Even when he couldn't touch her, he remained just as loyal as Scott or Hank, occasionally looking, but never hounding after another girl.
Shame she couldn't say the same for herself.
"Je t'aime, Rogue."
The sincerity of the words draped over the twosome: Remy reached forwards once more, his hand stroking the woman's silky hair; the small waves lapping and curling about his fingers, fervent for the Cajun's contact as the whole of the woman. "I love you." He repeated softly in English.
"Ah love y-."
Her words were cut off by his lips on hers and almost as soon as his skin came in contact with hers she could feel the solidity of the kiss liquefy; the feel of broken glass and fire raced through the southern belle. Along with the familiar draining, images and flashed projected into her mind, the most recent of memories came first: flashes of Emma and Remy sitting at the bar filled to the brim with humans. The walls were wood, tainted with age and sun but spruced with the occasional themed picture and small statue off to the side. The bar table was an ebony granite and there sitting on identical stools sat both X-men, toasting to a wordless cry that sparked smiles upon their faces. Another image was of the both of them in the same bar, a darker corner, though. Occasionally Emma would reach over, her hand flitting safely across Gambit's skin, trailing down his arm. The bar-inhabiting twosome were laughing and flirting.
The finale was the undeniable rush of jealousy that was not her own: envy of Wolverine. Another picture faded to and from existence; the setting was familiar, the kitchen of the X-mansion, the only two people visible from Remy's perspective were Rogue and the Canadian. In Hollywood slow motion, Logan leant down, kissing her, lips grazing her cheeks, followed by another flash of jealousy.
Then, the images stopped.
Gambit's lips had pulled away from hers, leaving both southerners panting for air. Rogue trembled slightly, the remnant of envy and the giant flourish of guilt once more dictating the pulse of her heart. Her stolen crimson gaze locked onto Remy's, her eyes were searching for a clue to set her mouth into motion. The awkward silence that had befallen the two made Rogue extremely uneasy, she knew it was impossible for Remy to absorb some of her memories in return, but the suspicion alone was enough to make her ill.
The Cajun seemed to be the first of the two to regain the use of his tongue, "Y' didn' 'urt Gambit, chère." The drunken stupor still seemed in affect after the weightiness of their prior tête-à-tête. Despite herself, Rogue managed to crack a genuine smile.
"Non," she agreed, her voice infected with her lover's accent. Despite the surging pleasure within her chest she reminded cruelly for the moment's mood. "Don' y' beh tryin' again." Her words claimed one thing, her voice another. From any other woman it would have laid an enticing invitation to continue forward. If Gambit had been intent on stealing another kiss—which he was contemplating it—he would have been more than capable. Rogue's attention was reeling with the emotions that had ebbed away the edges of the guilt; it was pure pleasure and love. The feathery kiss had made her heart skip a beat; the rouge in her cheeks rose with hardly any effort or will. Even now, her heartbeat was only returning to its natural rhythm. Despite the earlier kiss hadn't included the agonizing slideshow, it hadn't been accompanied by such an emotion either.
It was clear in both her heart and mind who Rogue loved.
Remy LeBeau.
Once more in the darkness of the room did Remy push his lips against his lover's, this time the feathery touch of his maw pressed more zealously into the woman; craving and yearning fueling the motion. Rogue relished in the moment only to have it stripped away when there was a sudden jerk from the both of them: Gambit had had all he could handle. With a heavy thud the man's knees went out beneath him. Regardless, his face was littered with his trademark smile. "Y' didn' 'urt Gambit, chère. Y' didn', Remy promise." The promise was the last thing to leave the man's lips before the swell of unconsciousness fell upon him: darkness consuming his mind filling it slowly, bursting of adulterate dreams.
As if there was any other kind for the man.