: HOUSE OF CARDS :
PART TWO : CAPTIVITY
(6) - Stolen -
"Storm told me not to get involved wit' you."
She didn't have a time frame for this. It may have been nine months after she'd first met him, possibly ten. At any rate by that time they'd known one another long enough for this particular scenario to have been routine.
He had been sitting on the edge of her bed, toying with an unlit cigarette but dutifully abandoning all idea of lighting it because he knew how much she disapproved of his dirty little indulgence, one amongst many. She'd been lying on the bed behind him, staring up at the ceiling and thinking that this was inevitably going to lead to one disaster or another, because he was in her bedroom again, because three hours of sweet-talk had left her burning with a fire he couldn't quell, and because she was beginning to think that Storm had actually been right.
This was all a beautiful, lyrical mistake.
"Did she?" she'd asked nonchalantly, running a hand idly through her hair.
"Yup. But you wouldn't want me t' go away, would you."
It had been a statement, not a question. She'd stared at his back helplessly, unable to confess either way. The plain truth was, she had always been utterly unable to turn him away, and that night had been no exception. From the very moment he'd asked her out to dinner they'd been doomed. Doomed to flirting, doomed to empty promises, doomed to torrid romance, doomed to her taking him up here and doomed to him trying it on once again and failing abysmally.
It was a miracle she'd even bothered going through the motions.
When she hadn't answered he'd flipped the cigarette back into its packet and thrown it casually up onto the nightstand.
"'Ro's probably right," he'd muttered half to himself. The next moment he had been staring down at her, each hand pressed into the pillow at either side of her head, his eyes gazing down into hers with fiery intent. "But I'd be crazy if I didn't try t' pin you down."
He'd been talking in that way again, low, seductive, almost aggressive; aggressive because however much he pushed and shoved he'd never get her.
"But yah can't," she'd pointed out to him for about the hundredth time.
"Bullshit," he'd declared heatedly.
"Not unless yah wanted to end up in a coma or somethin'…"
"I don't need t' touch your skin."
The declaration had made her quiet. She'd stared at him. He'd smiled.
"Remy -"
"For de love of all dat's sacred, chere, I want you. Please don't tell me t' back off again."
"Remy -"
"You want me too, don't pretend you don't."
"Yeah, but it's just lust."
"So what? Why do we have to wait until we're in-love and it screws us over? Why don't you want anyt'ing less? Shit happens, chere. Get used to it."
"Remy -"
Her protest had been ineffectual, half-hearted - his hands had already been on her body, feeling her through the chiffon of her dress, and she'd closed her eyes, wanting it, wanting it more than anything, not caring if she hurt him, not caring if he hurt her and spoiled everything because she wanted to love him, because love was the only thing that could make her into the creature she wanted to be…
And she had let him, she had let him kiss her through the chiffon, kiss her breasts, her stomach, feeling the wet bloom open up inside her, feeling his hand on her thigh, snaking underneath her dress, his fingers on her panties, teasing against her softness… A moan escaping her lips as the fire exploded inside her…
Too much, too soon, too fast…
She'd pushed him off her, panting heavily, her mind spinning. It had been too close, too close, even for him…
"Stop it," she'd breathed.
"Fuck, chere, you want it." He'd been panting heavily too. "You want it so bad it's screamin' at me."
She'd dared to look at him. Fire, desire in those beautiful eyes…
"Ah don't," she'd protested breathlessly. "Not… not like this…"
"We can't have it any other way."
"Tomorrow you'll be with someone else…"
"I'll only be thinkin' of you."
Somehow that had made it worse.
"No you won't, shut up!"
She'd bolted upright, clutching her gloved arms about her, still shivering from the heat of his caresses.
Silence. She hadn't been able to look at him.
"What are you so scared of?" he'd asked quietly.
"You know what."
"Is it really dat, chere? Or are you just afraid of goin' de whole way?"
"You don't understand…"
"So tell me."
She still hadn't been able to look at him. She'd hugged herself tighter.
"Bein' with someone… with me, it's a matter of life and death, Remy. There's just too much to lose."
"So you'll only let me get close to you when there's nothing left to lose, right?"
She'd nodded. Silence. He'd touched her upper arm through her satin opera glove, as if reluctant to let her go; she'd still been shivering.
"You sure drive a hard bargain, p'tit," he'd murmured. "For yourself as well as for me."
He'd stood up; she'd closed her eyes, her breath still coming short and choppy, the imprint of his fingers still burning into the core of her…
"When there's nothing left for you to lose in dis crazy world, chere," he'd said, "you let me know. I'll be ready and waitin' for you."
He'd left.
Why, why, why had she been so stupid, why had she brought him up here, why had she pushed him away…?
She'd slumped back onto the bed, clutching herself tight, her cheeks, her entire body blazing.
"Remy…"
-oOo-
Remy.
She'd called his name a lot since then, in the darkness of her mind, where it was safe to do so. In bed at night, when she lay with her face pressed into her pillow hearing Irene's cane tapping outside her door with the screams of her ghosts still echoing about her.
There had never been an answer, no matter how much she had yearned and prayed and wished him into existence, or begged a god she didn't believe in to bring him back to life and take her away from the intolerable agony of her life. In time, she had come to stop calling for him; she hadn't even whispered his name when she was alone anymore, because she had known he would never come.
And yet there he was when she had least expected him, standing in that dingy alleyway with the ash floating around him, gazing at her with that same small smile on his face, as if the world hadn't changed one iota when everything in it had changed inexorably and she couldn't get any of it back.
"Nice work back there," he greeted her casually, with just the smallest hint of congratulation in his eyes. "I guess you beat me t' de punch."
There was a short, split second where she had the faint impression that she had died, or was unconscious, and that this was a dream, or a nightmare, or a blocked memory replaying itself as her life flashed quietly before her eyes. Every fibre of her being told her that Gambit was, after all, dead. He had been dead for two years, killed by the military in the raid on the Xavier mansion that had slaughtered the X-Men. Mystique herself had told her that she had been the only survivor - there had been no other bodies, no other remains.
Yet this was no dream. She could smell, she could taste; and besides, dreams never held the quality of tiredness that she felt now, a tiredness of the soul and not merely of the body. And he was there. He was nearly close enough for her to smell him over the stench of burning - cigarettes, leather, and that unknown, spicy aftershave that she knew so well, that caused her memory to leap into conscious hyperactivity.
She said nothing. Despite the knowledge that he was solid and standing there right in front of her, she still couldn't quite believe her eyes. But there he was, looking so strong and supple and beautiful when most mutants now went around looking gaunt, emaciated and haunted. Words couldn't describe the feeling that sparked in her heart as she saw him standing there, and it was more than joy, or love, or passion.
It was hope.
"How long were you followin' me?" she found herself asking him instead, her tone one of forced neutrality, as if daring herself to believe that such a thing as hope could still exist. Even she was surprised by her own nonchalance.
"Since way back at de factory." He jabbed a thumb over his shoulder in the direction of the fireball she'd just run from. His voice was just as she remembered it - husky and sultry, insinuating itself into all her senses, drawing her in… Her heart trembled at the sound of it. She knew now, with certainty, that he was real. "Got so surprised t' see you, I went ahead and let you get de credit for blowin' up dat shithole. But, chere - while I thoroughly approve of de end result, I gotta tell y' you lack a whole lotta style."
She couldn't believe it. He was joking with her, bantering with her; it was as though not even a day had passed since their last encounter. To hear it, to hear him speak to her as if time and space had changed nothing between them made her heart blaze wildly - with rebelliousness and defiance more than anything else. As though the terrors of this world, of this mission, could have no hold over her.
The shadow of a smile began to curve on her lips. It was the first genuine smile that had crossed her face in years.
"Lucky Ah don't care for your brand of style then, Cajun," she retorted coolly, turning slightly to pack away her supplies. He said nothing, made no movement towards her. He merely watched her as she continued with her task - she knew this because she could feel his eyes on her back, on her neck, on her cheek; she could feel them enveloping every line and curve of her body with a voluptuous intensity. They hadn't been together in one another's company for more than three minutes, had barely exchanged more than a few words, and yet already the old tension was palpable between them. Rogue felt an involuntary blush creep up her cheeks. She had always felt like this, whenever he had scrutinised her; he had never made a secret of the fact that he found her attractive, and now was no exception. She found it almost surprising that despite the intervening years of pain, death and hardship, the chemistry still existed between them. Somehow, passion felt out of place in a world where anguish and sorrow were the daily norm.
When she'd finished, she turned round. He was still standing there, in exactly the same position, watching her. They stood there a long moment staring at one another through the rainfall of ash now flittering about them, not knowing what to say. There were so many questions, so many that neither of them liked to ask. Why was he here, what was he doing now, why was he still alive at all?
All these questions and many more flooded her mind so abruptly that she didn't even know where to begin. And so, she said nothing.
He was the one to break the silence first.
"Dat cut dere, on your arm…" He pointed to the wound she had just bandaged, his voice casual, matter-of-fact. "You go to a hospital, they'll ask too many questions." He paused, raised his eyes to hers again, added; "I can take you back to my place, fix it up for you if you like."
At the words, her heart throbbed painfully; the fire flared in her belly. She could just as easily go back to base and have Mystique fix it for her. But she'd known, from the first moment he'd appeared in that darkened alleyway, that she would refuse him nothing.
"Yah have your own place?" she asked him in that same strange, neutral tone that bewildered her even as she said it. His smile was lopsided, cocky, confident.
"A safe house o' sorts. Don't use it much. Too dangerous t' stay dere more den a day at a time."
She knew it. Whatever it was he had been doing, whatever it was that had brought him to the Sentinel parts factory that day, it had been as dangerous and illegal as what she had been doing. It didn't surprise her. He'd always been that way. Her heart sang with an odd kind of triumph.
"All right," she agreed, non-committal. She grabbed her bag of supplies, hoisted it onto her shoulder, peeled the gloves from her hands and stuffed them into her pockets, slowly, deliberately, just to let him see, just to let him know…
"No gloves?" he commented, eyebrow cocked.
"Ah can control my powers now," she informed him, her voice sounding even stranger than before, lighter, quicker, more breathless. "Ah can touch."
She didn't dare look into his face.
"Oh," was all he said.
-oOo-
There was no doubt as to what this all entailed. No allusion was made to it, but it was as explicit as the fact that day followed night, that the moon rose when the sun went down.
She went with it because this time she wanted it.
She followed him because ever since he'd appeared to her in that alley she'd been presented with an ungodly chance she was never going to get again, and she craved it more than she'd craved anything else in her life.
But most of all she did it because this time, there really was nothing left to lose.
Neither of them said a thing. Words were superfluous in the face of what they both knew would follow. There was no contract to sign, no bargain to be made, no agreement to reach. In many ways they had done all these things long ago, and this was the long overdue conclusion.
Neither hurried toward their destination. He led her silently and leisurely through the back streets to his Harley, which was parked in an abandoned alleyway the next block down. She clambered up behind him reluctantly - this was the closest they'd ever been, the closest she'd ever been to anybody, and that in itself unnerved her.
He looked back over his shoulder and smiled at her.
"Hold on tight, chere," he said.
She placed her hands gingerly on his hips, feeling awkward for infringing into his personal space. He smiled again, turned. Then they were off.
The journey was strangely exhilarating, not merely physically, but emotionally. With every minute that passed she found herself clinging to him harder and harder, her hands snaking further and further about him, until her fingers were clasped together about his waist. It seemed surreal. Here she was, with a man she hadn't seen in years; not more than fifteen minutes had passed since that first encounter in the alley, and yet she already felt connected to him in a way that she couldn't explain. The rest of the journey passed in a blur of streets and lights and traffic and voices. She heard nothing. She rested her head against the back of his trench coat, that old, familiar, leather smell, and closed her eyes.
She didn't open them again until they'd stopped.
It was a filthy old quadrant of filthy old apartment blocks that appeared to be falling apart at the seams. Light only poured out of a quarter of the windows; the rest were great, yawning chasms of black, disused rooms that had long ago been vacated for greener pastures. By now the pain in her arm had gone numb, and she could barely feel a thing in her extremities. The bandage on her wound was cold and moist, dark with blood.
Remy parked the bike in an alleyway between two of the buildings. He moved with a confidence that told her that he knew the place well. When she clambered off the back seat he joined her, taking her arm and looking first at the bandage, then at her. His gaze had been long and intense, making her blush, making her look away. He had always looked at her in this way, making her feel self-conscious and embarrassed. Perhaps what disconcerted her more was that she felt the same way about him.
In the silence, away from the sirens and the wails, away from the ash and the fire, he seemed different. Maybe it was because he was closer to her than he had been back in that dingy alley that he seemed more substantial, more real to her. She found a moment or two to study his face. He was still very beautiful, handsome in that wolfish, rugged sort of way. His face hadn't changed much, but there were lines under his eyes now; eyes soulful and hypnotic as they always had been, making her feel naked in every sense under his gaze. His entire body still exuded strength and grace, passion and cunning, danger and sex.
Standing there with him made her feel, for the first time in years, like a woman, pure and unadulterated. He made her feel vulnerable and sexy and timid and desirable; he confused and bewildered her completely, and yet she knew instinctively what he meant to ask her by pausing in this way, by looking at her.
Is this what you want?
She answered by returning his stare unflinchingly.
He dropped his gaze, and she knew she'd accepted the moment with both hands - there was no turning back. Her stomach churned with dread expectation.
He turned and began to walk round to the front of the nearest apartment block, casting her only a fleeting glance before saying: "C'mon." She followed.
Inside the building was little better than outside. Several of the hallway lamps had been blown out; there was litter strewn everywhere, mildew growing on the walls, cracks and chipped paint, and the elevators didn't work. A cold and uninviting stairwell had spiralled up forlornly towards a skylight that let no light in, for even in the darkness Rogue could tell it was caked in dirt and grime.
"We'll have t' take de stairs," he warned her. She nodded and followed him up the stairs, which resounded dangerously with every step they made; he ascended slowly enough for her to keep up, and it seemed that she climbed for a very long time without any progress.
At the fifth floor he stopped and turned off into a long, badly lit corridor. She couldn't be sure that anyone else lived in this part of the building, for everything was deathly silent, and there was the mouldy, fusty smell of uninhabitation. Remy ignored all this, walking down the passageway with the briskness of habit - he stopped about mid-way down the corridor, and she followed close behind.
It was a red door - once it would have been a deep, dark red, but now it was cracked and peeling, bleached under years of summer sunlight. An old, quaint, gilt plaque had been nailed to the front - '554', it read. Remy said nothing, producing a key seemingly from out of nowhere, and stabbed it into a lock - not the original lock, but one that had been fitted more recently and that looked more high-tech. She didn't have the time or inclination to ponder on it. Her arm was now beginning to burn again and her legs were aching from the long climb upstairs. Her gut was gnawing painfully, her nerves were tingling with anticipation. It seemed to take him an age to unlock the door; when he did so, he opened the door with a flourish, and gestured for her to walk inside.
She did so, slowly, uncertainly; the room was dark and smelt overpoweringly musty, and she could tell it had not been used in a very long time. Behind her, Remy flipped a switch - the lights buzzed reluctantly into life, filling the room with a putrid, sickly glow.
It was very small. Into one room had been crammed a dresser, a stove, and a nightstand next to a double mattress laid out on the floor along with a meagre bedspread. There was only one small window located in a wall adjacent to the mattress; opposite this was a door that probably led to the bathroom. For a safe house, it was functional, even comfortable, but it was not attractive, and held no sense of personality or warmth. To an outsider, it could easily have been a squatter's domain.
She stood in the middle of the room, collecting her bearings only very slowly. She could hear Remy behind her, locking and bolting the door - there seemed to be a lot of locks and bolts. Though her arm pained her, and though her body was protesting, her heart was pounding with expectation and she felt sure he could hear it. There was only one thing she knew. Whatever was going to happen she wanted it, and she was ready.
She was ready.
He had finished locking the door, and the next moment she felt his hands grasp her shoulders, firm and reassuring.
"Take a seat," he murmured. "I'll be back in a minute."
She watched him sweep off to the adjoining bathroom, and when he was gone she walked uncertainly over to the mattress and sank down onto it. There was a tenseness in her as she heard him open and close the medicine cabinet, as she heard him wash his hands; she couldn't explain the tension in her, as if she were waiting on tenterhooks, as if she had been waiting all her life for something that was finally within arm's reach. She said nothing when he emerged from the bathroom, silent and efficient; he slipped the duster off his shoulders, slung it over the back of a moth-eaten old armchair, threw the first aid kit on the mattress next to her. For a moment their eyes met - he broke the glance first, rolled up his sleeves, and moved to sit beside her. She neither moved nor spoke when he removed the bandage, which was by now soaked with blood; she could feel the sticky dampness of it permeating the sleeve of her bodysuit, smell the metallic scent of it, strong and pungent, clinging to her.
Still she looked ahead of her; the tension was a palpable thing inside her now, making her jaw and throat tighten.
He touched her arm, gently, just below the elbow, murmured softly: "I'm just gonna undo dis a li'l bit… get your arm out so's I can deal with it." He reached out with an ungloved hand for the zipper at her neck, and her throat involuntarily tightened a little more. "Do you mind?" he asked in that same quiet tone.
She shook her head no.
He undid the zipper, down to her waist - he was still careful not to touch her when he pushed the bodysuit back from her shoulders and away from her arms. His whole demeanour was gentle, inoffensive, telling her he had no intention of hurting her, and she relaxed a little, helping him by shrugging the sleeves off her arms, though still unable to look him in the eye.
If he felt anything at all when she bared her skin to him, he said nothing; having undone the bodysuit, he leaned over, pulled the first aid kit towards him, unzipped it - she heard him unpacking the supplies behind her, and she shivered involuntarily as the cool air crept over her now goose-pimpled skin. To say she did not feel self-conscious, sitting there close to this man with only a bra on to cover her decency, would have been a lie. And yet when he addressed her again, it was only to say: "Dis might hurt a little."
She nodded yes.
But any pain she might have felt as he washed and disinfected her wound was lost in the gentle touch of his fingers as he tended her; her heart beat painfully within her breast, faster and faster with every minute he lingered there, so close, closer than she'd ever imagined possible. That first time when his bare skin touched hers was a moment like no other she'd felt before or since, something indescribable and intensely, inexpressibly emotional. He cleaned her wound, sealed, dressed it; and yet it was something far more - an awakening when she had not known she had slept. Until that moment her flesh had been asleep to touch, and when he had finished she was trembling, her body fighting against a dam that had been broken, that could never be plugged again.
And yet still she stared ahead and said nothing.
He too was silent as he packed away the supplies, and when this was done she felt the heat of his gaze fall on her cheek, searching the contours of her face, making her heart beat even faster, but she could not look at him, she was afraid to see that look in his eyes…
Touch me…
As if he'd heard her he reached out a hand, brushing her hair from her shoulder, revealing her neck to him; she froze instinctively. It was gentle, it was soft, but it was so incredibly alien to her that she couldn't help her own reaction. His hand did not leave her shoulder, stroking the soft curve with his fingers, trying to ease her, trying to make her relax, but if anything it made her freeze all the more; her stomach clamped with fear, with pleasure… The palm of his hand, warm, unfamiliarly so, trailing down her shoulder blade, following the curve of her spine to the small of her back, lingering there, imprinting her flesh with a pattern never again to be matched… It was then that a small, soft, tremulous sigh escaped her lips.
He felt it, heard it; his hand climbed again, this time to her other shoulder, stroking her, tender, so tender…
"You're so tense," he whispered.
He was a little behind her now; both his hands on her shoulders in a light yet firm grasp, kneading her flesh, undoing the knots in her muscles, slackening the tension within her… The massage was slow, sensuous, breaking her uncertainty, awakening that thing inside her with a flame so bright she could barely breathe. His breath in her hair…
Kiss me…
And then his lips were on her neck, feather-light, puckering against her skin…
She closed her eyes.
Her heart was pounding so painfully she thought she would die with it.
She couldn't remember the last time she'd wanted anything so badly.
And he was still kissing her, still touching her, pushing the curtain of hair away, his lips on the back of her neck, on her shoulder, on her upper arm, her shoulder blade… Each kiss deeper, more insistent than the last, the wetness of his tongue teasing her tingling skin, skin that now ached for more, skin that was now greedy, drunk with his touch…
His fingers slipped under the back of her bra, unhooked it, slid the straps off her shoulders; and she let him do it, shrugging the flimsy sliver of material off her arms herself because she wanted it…
As though invited, his arms slid round, his naked, roughened hands caressing her breasts, softly, slowly, drawing a gasp from her, making her arch against him, arch away from him… It was too much, too fast…
"Remy -" she breathed, sharp, pleading.
"Hmmm?" His breath paused on her throat, warm, tickling her senses.
"Ah-Ah…"
It was no use - there was vocabulary for this, no words she could find to describe this wholly new emotion, this flame now burning inside her, new and untamed.
"You want me t' stop?" he murmured into her ear.
"Ah… no… Ah just -"
"Dis is just your first time and you're scared," he finished for her in a low voice. She swallowed, nodded. She felt the warmth of his smile graze her left shoulder; his hands dropped from her breasts, leaving an aching, screaming gap inside her where this new-found emotion had awoken. Wordlessly he shifted round to face her, and this time there was no escaping his eyes - she was powerless to remove her gaze from his, the power and intensity with which they held her, with which they ran over every inch of exposed flesh, and she knew with a dread certainty that he desired her, that she desired him, and that they had both come to this place only for one thing.
And she would let him have it. She would let him because there was never going to be another chance for anything better, not anymore. Outside the war was raging, and this was always just going to be a little respite, a little comfort from the travails of the battlefield. Anything more would a falsehood, a frivolity, a pretence at something deeper.
And yet when he trailed a lazy forefinger over her collarbone, his eyes still holding hers, a flicker of a smile playing across his lips, she thought there was something too reverent in his touch, too worshipful in his voice as he said: "You're so beautiful…"
His fingers left her clavicle, climbed her neck, unhurried, deliberate; his thumb traced her jaw-line, back, forth, back forth, making her lids heavy… He leaned towards her, until their faces were only inches apart, his eyes burning red in the dimness, his voice drawling thickly: "I won't hurt you, chere… I'd never hurt you, not then, not now… Tell me you want dis and I promise I'll be gentle… I promise I'll take dis slow…"
She wanted it; her lips parted to tell him so, but no words would come out, there was nothing inside her that could be explained with mere words. But he understood, or she thought he did - for the next moment he had pressed his lips against her parted ones, his fingers in her hair, drawing her into his kiss. She had never felt anything so soft, so delicate as his mouth on hers, owning her, his tongue warm and rough, brushing against her own, coaxing her, encouraging her, speaking to her in a way words could not. For the first time she found herself reaching for him, instinctively; her hands on his back, holding on, holding onto this moment as if it could be shattered by a mere thought; her mouth responding to his kiss. And suddenly something was blooming, unfurling inside the core of her, and she whimpered; and as if he knew the meaning of that whimper his kiss deepened, his fingers twined tighter into her hair, drawing pain, drawing pleasure…
He nudged her back into the mattress and she made no protest. His hands untangled themselves from her hair, before she felt them on her bare skin again, on her breasts, making her shudder, making her melt into the unfamiliar weight of him.
He broke their kiss then, sat up, pulled his shirt over his head, threw it aside - she reached out without prompting, running her hands over his long, lean body, familiarising herself with the strangeness of him, her eyes ravenously searching every hard contour of him. He leant forwards again, kissed the underside of her mouth, said huskily: "If dere's anyt'ing you're uncomfortable wit', tell me when t' stop…"
She nodded her assent, and he dipped his head again, kissing her mouth passionately before trailing his lips downwards, lavishing her body with ardent kisses, brushing against her breasts, making her pant; all the while his fingers unzipping the rest of her body suit, pushing it downward over her thighs, taking her panties with it…
She was wet already, burning with an inner fire he had stoked, and she choked, choked because she had never believed such a thing could happen to her, not ever. His kisses were so delicate, so worshipful… And at last she was naked, at last his lips were dangerously close to where that secret inner flame burned, and it was too passionate, too intimate, she wasn't ready…
"Remy…" she breathed and he heard her, obeyed , kissed his way back up her body, finding her lips again… While she was distracted by his mouth, he smoothed a hand over her stomach, her pelvis, sliding a thumb inside her wet flesh, circling her clitoris while his middle finger delved lower, testing her flesh. She moaned, her pelvis bucking instinctively to welcome his sweet tortures.
She was ready, oh Lord, she was ready…
He was more beautiful naked than he was clothed. Despite all the times she'd seen him like this in her fantasies, she had always half-feared the reality, feared to see what she did to him and what he did to her; but now, here, it was different somehow, so much more different than anything she had dreamed or imagined. And she was less certain about what she wanted, now that the moment had come - this wasn't how she'd ever imagined it, but there could be no other time, no other chance, not in this brave new world of theirs…
He settled against her, careful not to jar her injured arm, searching her face, seeing the hesitation inside her. His smile was calm, reassuring; his fingers were light as they caressed her cheek.
"Dis may hurt," he told her honestly.
She nodded.
"I'll be as gentle as I can."
She opened her mouth and for the first time words came out.
"Ah know," she whispered.
"Don't be afraid t' tell me t' stop," he murmured.
She nodded again.
And for a little while, nothing more was said.
-oOo-
At any other time, in any other place, perhaps it would have seemed strange, this silent agreement between them, this tacit understanding that this was nothing more than just sex.
And yet to them it was not strange - it was a given that there could be no deeper emotional connection between them. It was not some spontaneous decision both reached independently of one another - it was simply the rules of war, a code all revolutionary couples followed. It had less to do with emotions than it had to do with the survival instinct. To create an attachment was anathema, it was tantamount to suicide, and it was always going to get in the way. No one could deny pleasure, that was a given - but attachments had a stigma of their own and were best left untouched.
It was the reason why, for that night at least, most of their time together was spent in silence. Neither asked whom the other was working for; neither asked what they were really fighting for, nor did they ask for anything more personal than sex; and they certainly didn't talk about anything as dangerous as love. All were unnecessary risks.
In every essence that night had been a disaster, a wonderful, terrible mistake.
Even Rogue knew it, though she had no conscious comprehension it, outside of a strange and gnawing feeling in the pit of her stomach. She knew that in that one sexual act she had forged an unbreakable connection with him. She'd allowed herself to do it, because he was a remnant of her jettisoned past, because she was attracted to him, because in all her fantasies of this moment, he'd been the one that she'd shared it with. That night he'd taken her virginity and made her into a woman, and that was precisely what made this sudden sense of connection such a dangerous one.
She knew it was there. She knew because for the first time since she'd woken into this cold, dead world, she felt alive.
"Ah thought you were dead."
It was the first words either had spoken since their shared orgasm; she was still flushed with it, still flushed with the awareness of what now lay between them. As she lay there on the dusty mattress entwined with him, fingers splayed upon his breast, watching the rise and fall of his chest, he was closer to her than he'd ever been before, even though she knew less about the Remy of now than the Remy of yesteryear.
He lay on his back and stared at the ceiling, blew cigarette smoke at it.
"I thought you were dead too," he said, his voice oddly nonchalant, as if it wasn't unusual at all to suddenly find himself in bed with a ghost from the past. She simply watched his eyes and traced her finger down the long, thin tract of scar tissue that marred his breast. His body was covered with the faded remnants of old battle wounds; in a way they were beautiful, they told a story she'd never been able to touch before. Maybe he'd got these scars from that fateful day at the mansion. She wanted to ask him how he'd survived, but somehow she knew it was a question that was too personal and best left unasked. She knew he was thinking the same thing.
"Ah thought you were a dream," she murmured. "When Ah saw you in that alley, Ah thought you were a dream… Ah still can't believe it… you're real… and Ah'm here with you." Her voice lowered to nothing more than a whisper. "Ah'm here, touchin' you…"
His smile was wry as he reached out and stroked her cheek delicately. "You ain't de only one, chere. I can't believe it either. It's like my dream came true. We can touch." He paused, his smile fading, his eyes going thoughtful. "First moment I saw you in dat factory, I knew somet'ing was different about you. Guess dat's why I followed you." He reached out, flipped a lock of her hair between his fore and middle finger. "Merde, dis is so screwed," he muttered.
"What is?"
"Dis. We meet, we hardly say a word to each other, and half an hour later we're fuckin'. It's crazy." He grinned suddenly, both charming and mischievous. "But den, you always did whip all sense and reason outta dis Cajun. If I'd been able to touch you, I woulda been screwin' you within five minutes of first meetin' you."
She didn't know whether to laugh or sulk at that.
"Ah bet yah would have," she ended up pouting playfully. "And here Ah was thinkin' bein' with the X-Men woulda taught you some restraint."
"Not even de X-Men coulda taught me restraint where you're concerned, chere," he answered comically. This time, she laughed, and he laughed with her. It felt good. It was only then that she realised that she hadn't truly laughed in months.
"Do you think…" she asked in a whisper, once their laughter had died down, "do you think any of the others survived as well? Not just us?"
He raised the cigarette to his lips, sucked on it and stared down at her.
"Y' mean you don't know?"
"Don't know what?" she asked.
"De X-Men…" He paused and she shook her head. He looked away momentarily, blowing smoke, frowning as he tapped ash into the ashtray that lay on the floor beside him. "Some of them survived de attack on de mansion. And there were others who were away from de mansion dat day, ones dat were captured later."
Rogue propped herself up on his chest and looked down at him, the animal hope he'd already sparked within her leaping, unbidden.
"You mean… they're still out there? Alive? Like us?"
His lips twisted into something wry, yet not without sympathy.
"Non, chere. Not like us. Destroyed, beaten, incarcerated. They ain't free."
"Neither are we," she murmured half to herself.
"True," he mused. "But at least we're free to blow up factories, destroy Sentinels, and come up here and fuck. From what I hear, de survivin' X-Men were put in secret internment camps dotted across de country." He took another drag, his gaze on hers, watchful. "They prob'ly bein' tortured… Or worse. Who knows."
She looked away, biting her lip, unable to contain this thing inside her. His words were the first and truest tokens of hope she'd been given in this bleak and unforgiving new world of theirs; for the first time there truly was something to fight for, there was a purpose in all this pain and misery; she was a true rebel, a true soldier in a real fight for freedom she'd never truly believed in, and now it seemed so fitting, so fateful that the two of them should have crossed paths once more, that perhaps they'd been brought together to fight together…
"Then we haveta save them," she began decidedly. "We can find them, free them, together… bring them back, be a family again…"
He was still staring at her with those dark, dark eyes, assessing the sudden fervour that had crossed her face. He merely brushed her hair from her shoulder and said nothing, making her frustrated and impatient.
"Remy, let's do it…"
His fingers lingered on her cheek, stroking her lightly, his gaze pensive. At last he smiled wanly and said: "Okay. We'll do it."
It was an illusion, a pretty fancy - even she knew it, but it strengthened her sense of triumph, that the two of them alone possessed the knowledge and the power to conquer the world. She burrowed into his warmth then, and he drew an arm about her shoulder, pressing her closer, his fingers teasing her skin with light, fleeting caresses. He was making her stupid and bold, making her want to ask things she shouldn't…
"Remy?" she found the word suddenly spilling from her mouth.
"Hmm?"
She paused, took a breath.
"You really believe in it then?"
"Believe in what?"
"In what Xavier taught us. That it makes a difference."
Somehow it seemed more important to her than anything else… His hand did not stop stroking her shoulder.
"I dunno. Maybe."
"Then why are you still fightin'?"
"Am I fighting?" She felt him lean over slightly to stub out his cigarette, and when this was done he put his other arm round her. "I dunno if it's fightin' dat I'm doin', chere. Just scrapin' by, maybe, but not exactly fightin'."
"But you were at the factory today," she protested. "You were gonna blow it up too…"
"Non. Dat wasn't my mission. Not entirely anyways." There was a pause, and she could tell he was calculating just how much he should tell her; when next he spoke his tone was measured, cautious. "De powers dat be tell me t' find mutants. Find them and break 'em loose. It's what I do. It's how I make my livin'. It pays well and it provides me wit' de ever-essential cheap thrills." She felt him grin to himself; it made her smile too. "Dat factory you were in today… There were some mutants in there; Trask's cronies were gonna test de new Sentinel prototypes on them." This time he didn't even attempt to hide the contempt from his voice. "I freed de prisoners and decided I'd torch de place afterwards, just to make 'em hurt a little more." He paused, continued in a helpless tone of voice: "Den you showed up."
She was silent a moment, weighing this information in her mind - she sensed it was as much as she was going to get from him. She didn't even know how much of it was the truth.
"Ah didn't know there were mutants in there," she said at last.
"Would you have saved them, if you'd known?" he quizzed her. She slid an arm round his waist, breathed in his scent, the heady aroma of cologne and tobacco.
"Yes," she said at last, her voice muffled in his chest.
"Hmm. Because you're a fighter, and you're passionate about what you do, huh?"
"It's what Ah do, sugah."
"Well, there's one t'ing I always knew about you, chere," he began teasingly, his left hand trailing down her arm and lightly tickling her waist. "And dat's dat you're passionate about just about everyt'ing you do."
She snorted.
"Ah was, back then. But life suckin' the way it does nowadays makes it kinda hard t' be passionate about anythin'."
"Non." His hand moved to tenderly tilt her chin so that he could gaze into her eyes. "You still are. For a virgin," he added with a wolfish grin.
"Ah ain't a virgin anymore, thanks to you. And besides, virgin's can be sexy too, swamp snake," she drawled with a wealth of meaning.
"Really?" He cocked a playful eyebrow. "I always wondered what de old, untouchable Rogue got up to in her fantasies. It was enough to keep me awake all night."
"Ah just bet it was," she sniffed.
"Aw, come now, chere," he bantered back lazily. "Didn't I keep you awake at night too?"
She couldn't help it. She blushed. For the first time, he laughed loud and deep.
"No wonder real-life sex wit' you is so good," he joked seductively. "De Rogue's had practice." Her blush grew even deeper, and from his expression she could tell he enjoyed getting under her skin. "So," he asked cajolingly, his eyes dancing, "does de reality measure up to de fantasy den, p'tit?"
"And then some," she murmured, refusing to give him the benefit of seeing her further embarrassed. He chuckled.
"I'm always glad t' be of service t' such a beautiful femme." He captured her lips in a passionate kiss before she had time to reflect on the implication of his words. By the time they'd broken apart, she didn't have the heart to question him anymore.
"It's a good t'ing though," he muttered half to himself, his eyes back on the ceiling.
"What is?" she asked, yawning.
"Dat you can touch. Always thought it was a waste. God couldn't have made a body dat soft and beautiful for not'ing."
It's all for you, Remy… she wanted to say. It's all for you…
He touched her cheek again and she nestled against him, knowing that tomorrow they would part, that all these pretty words meant nothing. And yet she could not allow herself to regret. She could never allow that. She had come here accepting that one single fact, and yet now, as sleep enveloped her, as she held him to her as naturally as if they'd always been together, she allowed herself to believe that maybe, just maybe, this was one connection that would not break… …
-oOo-
Once the morning came, she knew she had been foolish to think so.
She woke to sunlight, pale and shimmering through the dusty windowpane, colouring her face with a watery yellow. Her wounded arm was aching dully and she rolled onto her side, reaching for him with her uninjured arm; but he was gone. The charade was over. Whatever they had said the night before had been banished; it was as if it had never happened.
It was cruel, crueller than she'd thought it would be.
She opened her eyes.
He was fully dressed and leaning on the windowsill, smoking, looking out of the open pane with a small frown on his face. Outside the air was still thick with the stench of fire; the faint sound of sirens still drifted over the horizon.
"We should both be gettin' back," he murmured. "They'll be wonderin' where we are."
No other clarification was needed. She knew what he meant - that if she stayed with him, if they ran away, they would be chased to the ends of the earth. And Mystique… Mystique would never let her go, not for a man, and especially not for a man who would never have her. Especially not for him.
She didn't care. She didn't want to go back, not ever. She was prepared to leave it all behind in an instant - all he had to do was say the word. But even then, in her naïveté and her innocence, somehow she knew he would not. She wasn't enough for him to change; she never had been.
She wanted to weep and wail and cry against the betrayal, the loss. Because he had changed her; he had made her into something new and different, he had opened her eyes and somehow she knew she would never get the old her back. He'd stolen what innocence remained in her, thrown it back in her face. But she could not blame him for this - she had walked into this room knowing it would never be anything more intimate than sex. It was for this reason that she swallowed back her agony, the ugly fist now clenched about her heart. Wrapping the grubby comforter round her, she stood, crossed the room and went to him. He hadn't looked at her when she put her arms round him. His body was tense and unfeeling as bamboo.
You've got to accept me, Remy, she thought desperately to herself, you've got to accept the creature you've turned me into…
Somehow, he felt her unspoken call. His arm slipped round her shoulder, squeezed it in weary and half-hearted reassurance. It wasn't nearly enough but it was the most she could expect, and she was grateful.
"When will Ah see you again?" she finally found the courage to whisper.
He was silent for a long moment.
"I don't know," he replied at last.
She knew what he meant to say. There won't be another time. She wanted him to say it. She wanted him to take responsibility for the terrible thing he'd done to her, for him to apologise and tell her it had all been a mistake. She wanted him to say he'd used her, that she meant nothing, that he had no intention of there ever being anything between them.
She wanted to hear it so that this could be easier, that she could look back on this moment without wishing him back every last day of her life.
Instead he turned and took her by the shoulders, staring into her eyes for a long while, brows creased, that small frown still touching his lips. It was as though he was searching for something in her face and could not find it.
"I haveta go," he finally said in a stern tone, as if daring her to challenge that fact. His fingers were hard on her bare shoulders.
"Ah know," she merely replied.
There was a long, awkward interval where nothing was said or done; she stood, uncertain, not knowing how this should end or what he wanted. At last he lent forward and she thought he would kiss her forehead, but instead she felt his cheek in her hair, his breath against her ear in a clumsy caress. She closed her eyes and waited for something more that she knew would never come.
It was finally over.
He stepped back, half-smiled, picked up his pack from the floor beside him.
"Bye, Rogue," he said.
"Bye," she whispered.
She was still standing at the window when she heard him go.
-oOo-