I find it interesting how you're all interpreting Remy and, well, Rogue differently currently – some of you think she's in love, he's in love, he's just being a player, she's being a player, she's in denial, he's falling in love or she's falling in love. –devious grin- Well, wait and see. Ditto on why Remy was afraid – though the fact she'd just started absorbing without warning, I think, should be a self-evident reason.
Remember – I'm using comic cannon: that kissing Cody activated her mutation. It becomes important here.
Thanks for the reviews!! Sorry for the delay – the return to college was a bit trying. And you better appreciate this – it turned into a monster, even longer than the last chapter!! Probably 'cause I moved a scene from the next chapter to this one – didn't want to be evil and leave a cliffie. Stupid me. And, ugh, the next chapter's going to be just as long (approximately).
-Purple Kitsune Satsu, Caitlyn, blackrosedragon8, mistyxtc – write professionally? In the future…, Rogue181, dieCG – lol!, shweeps, Romy lover, Taco Bell 14, Alwaysright1, strawberrigashes, Katsu Kitsune – (cute & sexy, thanks! – returns glomp!), RogueFreak, GoldFox, hammycatra aka Catra, Peanutbutter1, SouthernLoner, ElizabethMarieBennett, Deathgirl997, Freak87, Captain Annie, Mercy P. Jones, Chica De Los Ojos Café, Remy'sRose - :), Conquistador Imp, BloodChildOfHate, PsychoTherapy, MidniteAngelGoth, musagirl15, cream tea, anyone?, Leash, On My Signal - Unleash Hell – love that name!!
Special reviewers:
killerkumquat – I love Remy and Rogue and the ramifications of her power are just begging to be considered. I'm glad I'm showing that consideration.
Some Scribbles – you reviewed!! Yay, yay! I, like, love your stuff!! –giddily twirls around- I loved how you described it: 'sensitivity and heat… comfortable inside their own skin'. That's what I'm trying to do.
HopelessRomantic84 – 'get busy already', little more patience please lol.
nuriiko: 3 reviews woah!, thanks for the motivation! The sleep beside issue I'll address later, yay re-reader! Ah and the fact there's nothing really blatantly sexual yet it triggers that thought – good! That's exactly what I'm going for – though I'll be becoming more descriptive in the near future for a time.
Mazdamiatta – Remy as a practice dummy – I know isn't it a great idea?!
And on to the next chapter!
It Takes Two...to Practice
by Silver Nitte iz
Try
(so much for progress)
It was 11 o'clock.
Rogue watched the clock from her position curled up in the corner of the common room couch. She was probably the last one downstairs. By ten o'clock, most people headed to their rooms, to occupy themselves there if not to go to sleep. Curfew was a somewhat casual affair. Logan did rounds to make sure no one was downstairs by 10:30, but there were always exceptions. If there was a project requiring a large table or the end of a movie or whatever, he was pretty cool about letting it go. But push midnight, and you would find yourself with an extra Danger Room exercise and a three steel-pronged helping hand to your room.
When he'd seen her on the couch, he'd grunted. As one of his few choice favorites, she knew he'd let her stay there. But she hadn't expected anything more.
"You okay Stripes?" He'd growled, the evident discomfort with asking the question revealing far more about his concern. His eyes had flicked to the fact she was once again in full gloves, long shirt, and jeans. It was the same look he'd given her that morning, when he'd first spotted her going straight for the coffee, needing the caffeine after a very restless sleep.
Actually, it wasn't the question that startled her. Logan had been one of the first X-Men she'd bonded with, a link only strengthened through the biking race-away, her psyche-possession fit, and lately through practice. It was through this last experience, the gradual assimilation of his psyche that she'd come to understand just how deeply he regarded her. She was neither friend nor sister nor daughter nor protégé, at least not as he consciously regarded her. Instead, there was a convoluted mass of protective, frustrated, amused, and affectionate emotions that all jumbled in his head when dealing with her. (Logan was not one keen on introspection; he didn't analyze his own feelings, he just reacted.)
On some level, she thought it was all because he recognized something fundamental: they were kindred spirits. Rogues with mottled pasts, survivors that wavered between rules and instincts, hard to trust, hard to know, too often treading the border of control and sanity. In helping her practice, he tried to give her a future, even as almost a measure to ensure his own.
It was also why, though she would never dare breathe a word to Logan, Remy got under his skin to an extent not even Scott could.
She resisted the urge to shake her head of the thought, knowing Logan would take it the wrong way.
"'m fine," she said shortly, holding herself a little more tightly. It wasn't a real answer, but it was a standard one Logan could appreciate. He'd given it even when with broken ribs and a cracked skull.
His brow became more ridged, furthering what exactly it was that bothered her. The expression he was wearing. The look like he was biting his tongue, like there was something he was dying to say, ask, something – and it bothered her because if there was one attribute that rarely described Wolverine, it was restrained. He threatened, he goaded, he snarled, he glowered, but he almost never held himself back.
The knowing look in his eyes made it worse. Like the reason he was restraining himself was because he already knew what her problem was. And that made her beyond edgy. He couldn't possibly know about Gambit – otherwise the other man wouldn't be breathing, let alone strolling around with his typical rooster impression.
"Right," he muttered. And then a conflict, obvious to her, but completely mystifying in nature. "Just be – if yah wanna – need to –," she blinked as his frustration mounted, what he intended to say twisting from word to word. Dang, this was really awkward. He frowned. "We're here for you Stripes, just remember that," he growled and then without even waiting to see her reaction, turned on his heel and stalked off.
And leaving her with the stunned thought she'd completely misread the whole subtext.
She sighed, like she didn't have enough on her mind as it was.
She still had no idea what had happened the night before. After her spectacular meltdown, Gambit had let her calm down before coaxing her back into her room. He'd been surprisingly sensitive, saying not a word when she changed into a sweatshirt and pajama pants as well as layering on gloves and socks. He did dare, after the ritual covering by her and himself, to tuck her into bed.
And then with painstaking care, he'd settled on her covers. Smoothing the surface, he'd then gently fitted himself against her, hand slipping with casual naturalness to curl around her hip, spooning with her back to him. She'd been stiffer than Scott at a rap concert, but too tired to fight him. Or at least that's what she told herself.
The fact he'd still been willing to get close, even with all the layers in the world, was enough to trigger more wetness pressing against her eyes.
They'd laid like that for what seemed like hours, her tension and rampant emotions, thwarted arousal and all, still racing through her system and refusing to let her rest. For a time, she thought he was going to break the sleepover rule, but eventually, with all the appearance of reluctance, he got up.
And finally, she slept.
She'd spent this next day trying to figure out what had happened – well, that and trying to ignore the shadowing, overwhelmingly physical sense of his presence.
Her mutation was supposed to operate as a defense mechanism. Once she'd deactivated it, so to speak, it was supposed to only turn back on if she became upset – defensive, tense, afraid, even nervousness could trigger it. But she'd gotten past that with Remy.
And she definitely hadn't been feeling any of those emotions during her latest practice with him. If anything, it had been in the opposite.
She hunched her shoulders further.
She'd tried talking to Xavier, questioning him on if there could possibly be more to the triggering of her mutation than mere defensiveness. If there was any possible significance to the fact it had first activated when she was kissing Cody (slightly embarrassing to admit) rather than as a defensive measure if she'd been man-handled or something. His brow had creased, hands steppling, but he'd begged off an immediate hypothesis, saying he needed more time to consider the idea. She hadn't pressed – how could she explain her insistence? It had been awkward enough approaching him in the first place.
Honestly though, she was glad for the reprieve. She hated not knowing what had happened, but she had a greater dread of knowing. Of having what she'd always feared be confirmed.
That she was just not made for touch.
For being with other people, especially just one person in particular.
That her skin was just as much defensive as offensive, a toxin that intended to take the life out of anyone who tried to get close.
11:11.
She watched another minute tick by.
She'd managed to avoid Remy all day. Assigned to a different team for Danger Room morning practice, she'd gotten Jean to go after him, forestalling a possible approach, then slipped out before he could catch up with her. After school, she'd claimed a headache and a need for the peace of Bayville library. That had sufficed 'til dinner, after which she'd managed to stick around the 'new' mutants, close enough to prevent his advance but far enough that she could have her own space. A space he'd finally apparently given her.
The number of frustrated glances he gave her made her aware her avoidance was blatantly obvious, but she didn't really care.
She didn't care if he was waiting for her in her room either.
Or if he wasn't.
She pressed her face down on her arms, closing her eyes and breathing deeply.
"Rogue?" Her name was faintly accented, a wavering question underlain with a concern she was only too familiar with. She picked her head up, wondering how long Kurt had been standing in the doorway, his eyes luminescent in the dim lighting of the room.
"Yeah, Kurt?" she asked, suddenly feeling exhausted. She'd only slept fitfully the previous night and she wasn't sure she was up for an awkward heart-to-heart with her frère. Brother, she corrected. D- Remy remnants infecting her mental processes.
He chewed his lip. "If, somezing iz wrong, you know you can talk to me, ja?" he said it with obvious hesitance and she felt like sighing. Kurt was always so perceptive around her, taking their 'siblingness' to heart, possibly even more now as he saw her as his last link to family. The pang of guilt was achingly familiar, but she pushed it away.
"Ah'm fahne," she said, working up a weary smile. His expression didn't ease and she had a feeling he was as unconvinced as Wolverine.
On those odd arched feet of his, he padded over to the couch, laying a three-fingered hand on the back. "Still experimenting?" he asked, unhappily glancing at her hands and arms. She actually followed his gaze to her full-gloves and long sleeves. Oops. She'd almost forgotten about that. After absorbing Remy the previous night for damn unknown reasons, she'd gotten a little paranoid. Thus the cover-up.
It was perhaps ironic that with the swamp rat running through her veins, the counter impulse to touch and get close to others had intensified. This time though, she didn't give into the urges.
"Not exactly," she mumbled, internally wincing at the irony. She played with the hem of her glove – and perhaps it the hour, perhaps it was the stress, perhaps it was just him with his brotherly concern, perhaps it was the exhaustion, perhaps it was the dim intimacy of the room, perhaps it was his influence – the question came out without prompting. "Waht if somethahng happens an' ah end up not bein' able tah touch?"
She didn't dare look at him, the sudden closing of her throat making her curse the fact she'd even voiced the treacherous thought. How could he know the depth of her fear?
"I zink you vill be able to," he said with that confident optimism that sometimes just drove her up the wall. "But iv not, it wou'n't change anything," she could feel his eyes on her face. "Nothing important. Ve'd still care and ve still vould want to be vith you."
With practiced deliberation, he laid a hand on her shoulder. Her spine prickled, but she didn't protest, instead let herself relish the touch. His honesty was equally sweet – the permanence of her 'hands-off'ness was unimportant to him.
"Just like you stick by me though I'm the fuzzy man," the weak joke coaxed a laugh from her, though she recognized the underlying seriousness. He had to forever hide who he was, knowing only a chosen few would ever accept him fully. He had to live with his mutation everyday and not make physical contact for fear of revealing it. Yeah, they had some in common. But he had Amanda – she wouldn't let herself go further with that thought.
When she let his response lie, his fang slipped over his lip again, but he didn't push further.
"Iv you need us, ve' here for you schweister. Don't give up," he reminded her, squeezing her shoulder lightly before releasing it. That got a more genuine smile. It seemed to be a popular refrain that night.
"Ah know," she said equally softly.
"You should go to sleep, ja? Everyzing is better in the morning," he prodded her. She gave a faint nod, before flashing a humorless grin.
"Don' think I'd be gettin' too much sleep."
His eyes flicked over her face, perhaps innately sensing some subtext he didn't get. "Should still try." His subtext was easier to read. Don't give up.
And she knew, knew he wasn't referring to her practice, at least not to the one with Remy if in the slightest sense, but the words still sunk into her and she found herself nodding.
She rose from the couch and they looked at each other for a long moment. Then swallowing hard, she gave him a hug, "Thanks frère." There was a strange echo of feeling that she identified viscerally as another's memory, of closeness and longing and affection, but she ignored it.
She didn't notice the odd look he shot her when she started for her room.
11:23.
Rogue closed the door behind her softly, no longer so determined to face him. If he'd even stuck around. If he'd even come in the first place. But she wasn't a coward. She closed her eyes as her hands found the light switch. She wasn't.
The light only lit up the room partly, leaving the balcony and edge of the room in shadow, and her breath caught for the briefest moment. But sure enough, red flared.
"'s bout time you showed up," he emerged from the shadows, eyes afire. "Beginin' to t'ink y' skipped ou' tanight," the casualness of his voice belied the tense coil of his body and pointed gaze.
"Yah shouldn't be here swamp rat," she said calmly, refusing to acknowledge any relief that he had actually shown, not come to his senses overnight.
"Told yah help y' get through dis," he flexed his fingers, wryly indicating the balcony door with his shoulder. "An' dat a locked door ain't gonna keep me out." It had been a poor, but almost instinctive action when she'd awoken that morning.
He walked closer, but she was shaking her head. She refused to back up, even if the resolution was a bit useless anyway considering her back was already against the door.
"I don' know why ah absorbed yah Remy," she said firmly. Only after the name was out of her mouth did she realize the slip. He cocked his head, more tension than warranted leaving him. But it was too late to correct it and he was still walking toward her. "Ah can't –"
He brushed away the protest, already within a foot of her. The light at his back threw his face in shadow, but she could still read his expression, his eyes visually becoming brighter. "So weh find out. I ain't throwin' 'way all our progress." He was being frustratingly blasé, but he paused, eyes searing her, before going on in a soft tone. "I'm not afraid."
She scoffed, the bitterness welling up so fast it nearly choked her. "Yeah right –" She should know – she'd felt it for herself.
In a flash, his fingers went to her chin, the too-familiar texture causing a reflexive shiver down her spine. His eyes flared. "I was caught off guard Rogue. But I'm not afraid. Why are you?" She didn't quite hear the last question, as laced with strain as it was. His other arm had made to wrap around her, a move she implicitly anticipated and she jerked away, feeling the anger bubble higher. Why did he keep touching her?!
"You should be!" He stepped closer, his face set, and she backed up reflexively only to hit the door. There was nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. And suddenly all the unfairness fell on her. "Damn it Remy, you should be! I'm poison-" Her fury choked her and she couldn't contain it. Her hands went to the hem of her shirt and jerkily, she ripped it off. Her skin, pale from lack of sun exposure, gleamed in the faint light. All that skin, that he so dearly wanted to touch, kiss and caress – that at least she'd clearly received – there, ready and willing to send him into a coma or worse. "All of me – Can't you see?!" Denied tears brimmed frustrated in her eyes.
But when he reached, Rogue couldn't escape him. Nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. He crushed her to his chest and she fought him. She could take anger, frustration, rejection, antagonism, but tenderness… "Don't do this Remy," she pleaded thickly. "Ah-"
"You're not a monster."
Words as soft as the feathers of an angel.
And her breath choked in her throat.
And just like that, she shattered, stained glass window falling to a million shards.
The sobs ripped from her, dredged from the depths of her reserves, the buildup of years of frustration. Self-loathing. Anger. Bitterness. Thwarted longing.
Despair.
A million moments of too-close calls, near-misses, turns away, and draw backs. Each one another cut, another sting, another proof of what exactly she was.
And he held on through the cascade, whispering sentiments in French that she understood at that visceral level. Sweet nothings in her ear…
It slowed only gradually, the vehemence unwinding from her body. Finally, only a few dripped from her cheeks and her breathing had devolved to a watery hitching. There was silence, but not one awkward. Drawing soothing meaningless patterns against her back, Remy nuzzled her hair before finally breaking it, "Looks like ah got y' down to yah bra afta all."
It was dumb and stupid and just so corny, but she laughed anyway, half a hiccup. She felt loose, slack as if all the muscles in her body had suddenly atrophied. She'd never felt so lethargic around him.
"Had an idea f' tonight." Breathing into his chest, the movement of his mouth rustled against her ear. She didn't want to move, but still –
"Remy," she sighed, trying to dredge up resistance from corner of her body that wasn't glued to him. "Ah don't know why-"
"Shh," he pacified, his lips angling far too close to her neck. She shivered. "Ah know. Just gotta be a li'l creative." She could practically feel the smirk form on his face. "Not a problem f' Remy, vraiment." His fingers trailed against her spine, inciting more goosebumps, before he gently chided her, "Told yah, didn't want ta lose all our progress."
With utmost care, he detangled himself from her, keeping their fingers entangled. With a light tug, he led her to the bed. There, she noticed for the first time, rested a folded off-white mass. He picked it up and the neat mound unfolded.
"What's this?" she asked curiously, as he extended it towards her. She gingerly reached her gloved fingertips to the sheet, for a fleeting second wishing they were bare but all too aware of the over-expanse of her skin that was already showing.
"Egyptian silk, six cents thread. (600) Only de best for ma chérie." She could feel the heat of his eyes on her as she stroked the material for herself. It was a heat somehow more layered, more profound than one of pure desire. She didn't look at him though to see it, instead unable to keep from wondering about the quality. Had he really gone to so much trouble for her? Hah, it was probably just the sheets off his bed – she could see him refusing to sleep on anything so mundane as plain cotton sheets. Sheets from his bed…she swallowed, embarrassed by how much she wanted to stroke them.
"So what," she asked, trying to keep her tone borderline dismissive, "is it for mah bed or something?"
He chuckled, low and throaty. "Non chere, it be for practice." With a flick of his wrist, the sheet draped over his arm. "De texture 's fine – not too thick, not so see-through." His smirk was incendiary and she could feel its speculation. Her cheeks flushed, finally feeling self-conscious of her lack of shirt. "Not dat ah don' appreciate da view. Now strip." Her eyes shot open.
"What?"
He waggled the hand covered by the sheet, his smirk slipping in amusement. "Well, dis'll be all da barrier we need-" Her flush deepened.
"Now swamp rat-"
"Y' keep yah bra and culottes on, (panties)" he said, cutting the objection off. "jus' get rid of de pants." The cavalier way he spoke of her underwear should've wound her up, but his actual request was much more daunting.
By unspoken agreement, the waist and below had been hands off – well, with the exception of last practice. He'd never ventured fingers inside her waistband though and she had certainly not gone farther than he dared. The implications…
Except now his oh-so nimble fingers, after stripping off his shirt – so regardless of her exposed skin, were already popping the button of his dark jeans. It was only when they inched down far enough to expose the waistband of black boxers that she realized she'd caught her breath. She was going to look away, really she was, but – it was silk, it had to be, black silk with little flaming cards on it. Where the heck had he found those? "Din' know yah were waitin' on a strip tease." Her eyes flew up to meet dancing red irises and she wasn't sure she was capable of a deeper shade. "Dough if dat's waht yah want-"
She half-turned away, popping off her shoes and shimmying out of her pants hurriedly. She kept her socks on, a bizarre comfort and snatched up the sheet, wrapping it around herself under the power of his gaze. Feeling the length of her legs, her arms, her waist, her neck as she never had before, she cloaked herself in the sheet. He grinned as she fussed, but ignoring Remy only encouraged him. Before she knew it, he was behind her, tracing the curve of her spine.
"Mm, thought yah might return da favor," he said teasingly and her blush returned. "Dose white li'l briefs très mignonnes." (very cute) His finger brushed against the back strap of her bra. "Like de bra better." With a huff, she elbowed him and drew away. He chuckled and she tried to avoid staring at the absolutely lickable visual. "Now c'mere." He patted the bed and with some reluctance, she sat down, clutching the sheet closed around her. "And take de gloves off." She clutched the sheet tighter reflexively.
"Why?" The sheet was only superficially reassuring. Her gloves, on the other hand, were a comfort of a more enduring kind. Taking them off was always nerve-wracking. Practice had only dulled the edge a little.
His eyes gentled. "Calme amoureux. De sheet's enough wit'out de gloves." As she watched, he peeled off his gloves, exchanging them for a pair without fingers. The act made her shiver; his bare hands, for that moment uncovered, somehow more arousing than any sight prior. He let his bare fingers brush her back, the heat soaking into her skin even through the sheet.
Knowing the affect he was having on her must be obvious, she ducked her head. Hunching her shoulders, she held the sheet closed with one hand, using her teeth to pull off her gloves, one at a time. She was becoming more sensitive to him; she could feel the exact sweep of his fiery eyes, singeing with their intensity, resting alternating on her mouth, her exposed fingers, her face. "Why are yah keepin' on yaurs then?" she asked to perhaps deflect some of the attention. He shrugged.
"Got mah reasons."
The gloves fell in her lap and in a single fluid motion, he scooped them up and placed them on the nightstand. She wasn't sure if that was close enough, but she didn't have long as he nudged her.
"Lay back." Stiff and awkward, she yet let him guide her down onto the bed. He hung over her, bare armed, bare chested, bare legged, and she doubted the effectiveness of the sheet. As if reading her mind, "Chere, 'll be bon. Now," he tugged on the sheet and reflexively she gripped it tighter. He gave her a reassuring smile. "Jus' t'ink 'll work better if de sheet falls ov' all of yah." It took her a moment to realize what he meant, that his tug was in the direction of pulling the sheet further over her rather than away from her. She flushed and let him rearrange her cocoon. The heat of his hands permeated the cloth and made her sweat.
Smoothing the sheet over her, he murmured, "'member how I said, more ta touch than skin." His fingers ghosted the line of her hip, edging her rib cage, and she nodded spastically. His head dipped as he dropped a chaste kiss on her sheet-covered shoulder. Inhaling sharply, her eyes fluttered shut. "Dis be part of dat." She could feel the brush of his lips as they moved and heat uncurled like an awakening cat inside her.
Cowardly or not, she grabbed the sheet and covered her face. She heard him snort, but he didn't remark on it. Instead, she felt him press an almost consolatory kiss unto her forehead, surprisingly accurate.
She wasn't sure if it helped – not seeing him, like always, just made the reality of his presence so much more visceral and all-encompassing. His touch, his heat, his scent, his movement, his sounds – he was everywhere, pressing against her skin, herself, yet not sinking into it. Her mutation tingled wildly, but for once it didn't matter at all. At all. "C'mon chérie," the closeness of the voice to her ear almost made her jump. "Don' make Remy do all de work." He was amused and she knew, just knew, he said it to goad her into action, but somehow, it returned to her some of the composure she desperately needed.
Speaking more confidently than she was, she retorted lightly, "Wou'n't dream of it swamp rat." It took her longer to actually comply. She needed a minute to adjust to the play of shadow and light visible through the sheet – he'd been right; it wasn't see-through but she could distinguish him just enough.
And finally she reached for him.
She couldn't feel him through the cloth as she had become accustomed to, but the silk definitely beat any gloves she'd ever had. She could feel every indention, every groove – all coated in complete smoothness, and she explored him with sudden liberating curiosity. Always she worried about absorption, especially in practice. Last night, the first time she'd really let go of that worry, it had backfired spectacularly. But here, now, in that moment, she didn't have to worry or fear or despair. She hated the sheet for what it represented, but oh, why did he always have to be right?
Her exploration became bolder – chest, neck, arms, face – smoothing the sheet to a cast of his face. A Greek statue, she nearly giggled at the thought, feeling giddy. He responded in turn and she trembled under the familiar foray.
And then, without warning, he hooked his legs with hers, grabbing her hip, and flipped them over. She rocked unto his chest with a slightly embarrassing squeak, the sheet falling to cover him instead.
"What de hell-"
"Jus' t'ought y' might wan'a switch i' up a li'l." His voice was a bit muffled by the sheet, but even then she could tell the thickening of his accent. Perhaps he was as affected by this as she was – a surprising, if unexpected speculation.
Smiling a little to herself, she murmured a breathy 'kay. She adjusted her position into a straddle, a bit awkward for her, but she focused instead on the sheet swathed form beneath her.
It was odd looking down on him so, the sheet an odd shade of white that looked almost flesh colored in the dim light. The thought of Greek statues came back with more force as she smoothed the cloth against him. Under the probing of her fingers, the fine material revealed the exact contours of his abdomen, chest, shoulders, as if under a master sculptor's hands. And just what was she sculpting? Her ideal man as the Greeks had? She felt a tendril of unease curl around her stomach.
Her fingers wandered further up as she leaned, ghosting over his features to more fully expose them. And yet, it was but a blurry composite, the face of any man. The need to see his eyes hit her with alarming force, as if she was suddenly afraid of the stranger she had made out beneath her.
She nearly leapt off him when his hand reached for her, an almost ghostly apparition that overthrew the mold she had cast. He became even more amorphous. Her stomach rolled. Was this how he had seen her? A mere female body?
His fingers splayed against her ribs, then paused, as if he'd sensed her sudden mood change. "Rogue?"
At the familiarity, her breath hitched and she suddenly found herself sprawled against him, closing her eyes to remember, recognize the feel of him if not the look.
But she needed more. Not achingly close brushes under a sheet.
"Ah want ta touch you." The desperate admission was out before she realized. The hint of tears stung the edges of her eyes, hovering right above the cliff. D- it, why was she so emotional today? All his fault…
To his credit, he didn't answer flippantly, but rather in a matching hushed tone. "I know."
The sympathetic lilt was too much and she felt the tears press, but she wasn't about to break – not again, d- it! Anger was always the easier way.
"I hate this! Ah don' wanna be a prisona fa the rest of mah life! Damn it!" she swore, a fisted bare hand slamming into the bed near his head.
"Oh chérie, y' will get dis. Je le sais." (I know it)
"And how 'xactly do you know?" she snorted, but with less edge. Hmm, bayou boy had to be exercising those charm powers of his a lot tonight.
"Yah too stubborn ta not to." She snorted again, but had the feeling it was a frank sentiment.
"Yah just sayin' that 'cuz you wan' ta sleep with me," she lobbed back, reaching for the flirtatious, scornful commentary that was their standby. She wasn't prepared for his reaction.
Remy stiffened completely, before ripping down the top of the sheet and sitting up. She blinked at him, inordinately glad to finally see his eyes, before remembering her state of undress. "Remy!"
He shoved the sheet towards her with a hint of exasperation, his eyes throbbing in a way she knew wasn't good.
She started to wrap it around herself again, but he didn't wait. "Dieu Rogue, dis ain't 'bout me. I t'ought, vraiment," his fingers flexed before running through his hair in agitation and she recognized the sudden craving for a cigarette. "Dis be 'bout you Rogue, y' gettin' control. It ain't 'bout me an' what ah want!" The words came out harsh and she felt inexplicably hurt. She clutched the sheet tightly around her.
"Ah know that Gambit. Don' gotta be rude 'bout it," she said stiffly, despite the protest in the back of her head, that last night it sure hadn't felt that way. He looked at her and then sighed, cursing in French under his breath.
"Dat ain't what ah meant ta say," he mumbled. After a second and another sigh, he peeled off his gloves again. "Yah wanna know why Remy wears gloves?" It seemed completely off-topic so she just shrugged, even though she'd wondered more than once. He held out a hand to her. For a second, she assumed the mottled state of the skin was due to the play of light and shadows. Then she realized it was from scars. Dozens of them. Deep red, tannish wavering bands, thick jagged layerings, tightened splotches – it was a map of pain.
"Ah was onze ans when ah firs' charged somet'in'. (eleven years old) Din' know why de hell mah fingers hurt like de diable or why de rock ah was holdin' was glowin'. Found out pretty quick dough." His bangs fell over his eyes and she could only guess at the expression in them. "Din' take m' too long ta figure I had ta let go of whatever was glowin' when da pain came, but made t'ings a bit hard," his humorless smirk held both bitterness and self-deprecation. "Hard ta be a t'ief when yah blow up stuff wit'out much warnin'. Eatin', clothes, touchin' anythin' but mah own skin was almos' impossible f' awhile."
"But-" she murmured without really realizing, almost needing to point out he could still touch people. The only thing she really cared about. He shot her a look, before going on in the same tone.
"People get nervous 'bout bein' touched by someone who can blow t'ings up, 'specially t'ings on 'em." He flexed his fingers. "Started wearin' gloves so de charge went dere first. Gave meh time ta le' go of stuff 'fore it started to charge." He stared down at his hands. "Din' always have 'nough time ta get de gloves off dough."
The sympathy, empathy, whatever it was, hit her so hard she felt her throat choke.
"Took meh nearly duex années ta get it totally under control. (two years) Took meh longer ta learn how ta reabsorb a charge. Kept da gloves dough, jus' in case."
Dieu, she wanted to touch him, so badly. Had to feel him, touch his pain, the scars that echoed the ones inside. Entranced, her hand was halfway to him when she realized it was bare. Damn it. Shifting, she reached for her gloves. Remy saw the move though and without warning, swept them off the nightstand.
"What do you think-" she sputtered angrily.
"Y' wanna touch 'em, yah touch 'em bare handed." The undercurrent of emotion had exchanged for brusqueness. Her jaw just about dropped.
"Ah can't do that, yah know that!"
"Y' tried?" She stared at him, a little confused.
"Ah assume yah were there las' night," she snapped testily.
"Dat be last night. Yah tried today?" Her jaw snapped shut.
She really hated it when he had points. Still –
"Ah don't know why-"
He stuck his hand out. "Just try." She stared at the hand. "Do wha' yah do ta normally touch an' try. If yah start absorbin', yah can pull away." He was completely sincere. She could tell that, though why was beyond her fathoming, especially after the previous night.
Her hand extended again, slightly shaking. Breathe, she reminded herself. In and out. Natural. Controllable. Tentatively her fingers rested on his palm. He didn't tense, at all, and she marveled. And then marveled again when it worked. She wasn't absorbing. Not keen to press the fact, she still ran her fingertips over the scars, tracing the lines of healing and experience. And oddly, the thought struck her that Greek statues didn't have scars.
"Dis be what ah mean, chere," he said quietly, watching her. "Control takes time and plenty of practice. And I know y' can do it. If I could…" His hand wavered and she felt the press of memories in her head, teasing the edges of her mind with ear-ringing explosions, the acrid smell of smoke, and the choking cough of debris. She could delve into them, delve into him, but she didn't, didn't want to.
No, after what he'd just shared, she felt so – close to him.
And suddenly she knew.
The link between mind, body, and emotions is hardly as easy to discern as it is often treated. A change in brain chemistry can affect the mood, a broken heart can literally kill, being told the truth can lead to a vast array of emotions.
It should be little wonder then that the trigger of a genetic mutation is far more complex than the obvious, especially considering its nature. Ideally, a mutation should be to the benefit of its host, acting to defend or further the host's aims, notably in times of emotional stress. Unfortunately, there is never a guarantee, or even a clear cut probability, that either action will be successful in its intention.
Especially when other variables, particularly people, enter the equation.
Rogue was waiting for him on the bed the next night when he arrived, carrying the sheet. That was good – if her hypothesis didn't actually end up working, it was a good backup plan.
She'd thought long and hard after the revelation from the previous night. It had only been the germ of an idea, without any real rationale. She'd actually felt her mutation tingling last night and consciously turned it away. It had been at if she hadn't needed it.
It was the first time that had ever happened. Dr. McCoy and Professor Xavier had been trying to get her to that point – where she would not just get to a state where her mutation was off, but actually be able to turn it off or consciously prevent it from activating. She hadn't been able to exert that much control however. She could feel the difference between having her mutation on and off, having it off making her feel bare in a completely unphysical sense, but the actual transition had eluded her conscious control. Xavier had originally proposed that it had to do with the making of the defensive mechanism as default. The actual trigger in some sense had become divorced from the active state of the mutation.
But a defensive reaction no longer seemed to explain away its activation, not after its reaction to Remy. And it had never really explained Cody. She hadn't wanted a defense from Cody; she'd wanted to be closer. Close like she wanted to be with Remy, though she certainly hadn't felt anything nearly as intense for Cody – something she was trying not to dwell on. And closeness in a physical sense was oh-so easy to confuse with closeness in more nonphysical senses.
Xavier had confirmed her ponderings.
"I must admit, I had not considered that dimension. Mutations are most usually activated in times of emotional stress, usually from fear or panic. However, as I suppose you have realized, not all emotional stress is negative. In light of strong emotions, it is entirely possible your mutation activated in order to fulfill an internal desire to be," he paused, "closer."
Then of course, there'd come about ten minutes of discussion where he'd tried to delicately talk about sex, intimacy, and her mutation without actually specifying the first two. It had been mortifying and she'd escaped as quickly as she could, especially when he began to probe if there had been a recent incident that had caused her to begin thinking about this.
But it had served its purpose. She'd come up with a workable (she hoped) theory. Now all she had to do was explain it to Remy – and then see if he'd still practice with her.
He rested the folded fabric on the bed. "Bon, y' here. Hopin' wou'n't have a repeat of las' night," a note of light teasing took any potential sting out of the words.
She took a deep breath, the reminder of how he'd waited bolstering her courage, and patted the bed next to her. "We need ta talk."
To his credit, he snapped out of the typical male freeze at such a comment with remarkable speed. Raising an eyebrow, he settled beside her, closer than she'd indicated – predictably. "Oh, what dose de chérie wanna discuss?" he cocked his head. "'Cuz if it's suggestions on her conson I got some ideas." (underwear)
She knew he was speaking out of nerves, but she still flushed, registering his speculative gaze sweep over her body. "Don't make me regret strippin' yesterday Remy."
He flashed teeth surprisingly white considering his extracurricular habits. "Won' dream of it chérie. Wan' a repeat afta all."
She rolled her eyes and returned to the subject. "Ah think ah know why ah started ta absorb." His body language became more focused.
"Oui?"
She looked down at her hands. "Ah think –" she cleared her throat. She really hadn't expected this to be so hard. But like always, admitting something to Gambit was practically painful. A finger slid under her chin, compelling her to meet his rich red eyes.
"N'ayez pas peur, hein? (Don't be afraid (lit. have not fear)) Told yah ah'd get yah through this."
No fear, oh if only it was so easy. But she blew out her breath and tried again. "I want, wanted-" she quickly corrected, "ta be closer ta yah. Ah was," her cheeks tried to match his eye color without consent, "excited an' wan'ed more. Unfortunately-" she made an indistinct gesture, but he'd slipped into thoughtfulness.
"Yah mutation came on ta give yah mo'," he finished for her, musingly. "Huh." His finger slipped from her chin and she told herself it meant nothing. She nodded confirmation. "Guess fa once Remy left a femme wantin'." The joke was weak and it didn't make her feel better in the slightest. They slid in silence, his mind and eyes fixed somewhere she couldn't quite see. She couldn't take the distance. If he was going to run out, she wanted him to at least do it knowing everything – even if she didn't know why that would be better.
"Ah got a theory though." His attention fixed back on her and she resisted the urge to lean closer to him. "If ah-" He wasn't going to like this and she faltered, but his eyes urged her on. "Well if weh used anotha way fa meh ta feel close ta yah, ah could get my mutation ta back off." And the eyebrow returned to its upward position. She took a deep breath. "If ah knew more about yah," she finally said bluntly. "If we got closer, lahke friends," it struck her as odd to use that word in relation to Remy, after everything, but it was as far as she, they, would, could go, "then mah mutation would be les' likely ta come on."
She searched his expression for a trace of his thoughts – revulsion, fear, resignation, dread, resistance? Was it too much? To ask for his secrets? Did he not want to be that close to her? But his face had slipped into a poker game and she only saw a thoughtful milieu. Did that mean he was considering it?
"It'd go both ways," she added, her nerves getting to her. "Secret for secret," at the s-word, she swore she saw a flicker, echoed by a shadow vibration inside. She faltered, muttering, "Quid pro quo."
He still didn't say anything and she finally just nodded decisively. "'s okay Gambit. It's a lot to ask," she admitted. "- and completely not covered by our agreement," she was talking to his ear by now, a far easier target than his face, and one that made it easier for her to keep composure. "Ah'd lahke ta thank yah fa helpin' me this-"
"Dieu chere, yah really don' got that much patience." Her eyes shot to his face and she could feel some of her composure immediately fold. His face was still a schooled mask, but she could see the tell-tale flicker of his eyes in emotion. "Din' give a réponse now did I?"
She shook her head, rendered mute. He looked at her intently; his fingers twitching in a way that she knew meant he was dying for a smoke, or his cards in a pinch.
"Got a question f' you," he went on, instead of giving an answer. "Y' really want ta go on practicin' wit' me?"
She blinked. "If yah willin' ta go through-" she started. He waggled a finger.
"No' de question. Do yah, Rogue, want meh, Remy?" He made the obligatory matching pointing finger motions between them.
It was how he said. She flushed instinctively. He was forcing her to admit she wanted more than practice, more than touch, more than sex or affection. That she wanted him.
She swallowed. Hm, if he did agree to the practice, it'd probably work wonderfully. He could already extract the most unwilling truths from her. "Yes," she rasped reluctantly. Yet his expression did not transform into the arrogance she'd assumed.
"Y' suhre yah wan' ta chance it wit' dis swamp rat?" his tone was light, obviously striving to make her feel less pressured. But there was a shade, a strand of unease, that she suddenly discerned.
Chance it.
Chance what? Absorbing him? Was he afraid that she'd absorb– Her thoughts suddenly reversed. What she'd already absorbed. He was afraid of what she'd already absorbed, that she wouldn't really want to go on with him. But why? Sure she'd gotten more than one blurred sexual encounter in her head now – not exactly new considering how much she'd absorbed from Wolverine and oh, icky subject she really didn't like to think about.
Other than that, most she'd absorbed had revolved around her and his physicality. His desires reverberated in her, the desire for touch – for her. She'd had heightened sense of those in her proximity, something she'd actually thought she'd already perfected, as well as an echo of her emotions and motions – comments and ghost touches that slipped under her defenses with all the ease of the psyche's true owner. But truly, it was mostly only a blur.
Could he really be afraid there was something in his head that could actually make her not want him?
"Well, ah already chanced it wit' a guy whose codename's Gambit," she returned wryly.
"And that din' turn out that badly, righ'?" She let her lashes fall, letting her peer at him surreptitiously. She left the ball in his court, watching for his reaction. The thing she hated the most was his unreadibility. Even with his psyche in her, she only ever caught half his tells and was probably only interpreting a quarter of those correctly.
He smirked, but instead of agreeing – "Bet ah turn out even better," he bragged, returning the tease.
"See yah jus' as humble," she commented dryly and he gave her his special 'I really am God's gift, aren't I' grin. It transformed his face, returning it to the state of arrogance and insinuation that had seemed his norm for so long. It felt like a lifetime since she'd seen it. "Guess I betta get started then." He reached for her and she stiffened in surprise.
"What, practice now?!" she blurted out. For some reason, she hadn't thought he'd be quite so gung-ho. She wasn't sure exactly what she had been expecting, but – did he really have no reservations?
He shrugged his shoulders in an elegant roll of his shoulders. "Dat theory need testin', non? No time like de present." His hand rested against her back, stroking the bumps of her spine almost absently.
She licked her lips, suddenly nervous. This was her theory after all and she didn't want to absorb him or hurt him or- "What if ah'm wrong? An' ah start ta absorb yah an' can't stop or-"
A gloved finger pressed her lips into stopping. His eyes flicked in reassuring amusement. "Du calme Rogue," he soothed. "Jus' rehlax. 'll be watchin' for it. Weh gonna get ta dat point an' try yah secret idea. So don' get all tense when it happens."
She stared at the casual instruction. Not get tense? When her mutation triggered without warning? "But-"
His hand went to her shoulder and lightly pushed down as he spoke over her protest. "Yah just gonna lay back an' no' worry." Grudgingly, she let him press her down. But she knew her anxiety was obvious as he meet her eyes. Sighing, he leaned and tucked some loose hair behind her ear, with all the delicate care of a lover. She shivered. "Know yah can turn yah mutation off," he murmured lowly, and intimately their eyes locked. "'ll pull away as soon as it happens, d'accord? Lahke I said, 'll be watchin' for it. Even if yah so scin'illatin' jus' wanna get lost in yah," he breathed this into her hair, leaning down, the hint of a smile relieving the tension a little. She rolled her eyes, but was unable to restrain the pleased flush, not when she now knew it held more than a strand of sincerity.
They started slowly, moving her into a better position in the center of the bed. He kept above, letting her do her relaxation techniques before inviting her to touch him. Reaching up, mapping out his contours under the T-shirt he wore, grazing the cords of his biceps, before finally feathering over his bare throat. He swallowed and she watched entranced, feeling the bob advance and ebb. Trailing fingers over his face – brushing the bristles, getting airy kisses to her fingertips, sculpting his nose, ghosting over his gorgeous eyes. Still tentative, but he didn't press too hard, nuzzling her palm. He loomed over her, in the backwash of light only partly revealed, but she felt no fear.
And then he began to ply her. Her eyes fluttered shut as he leaned down, nuzzling the base of her neck before laying a gossamer kiss on it. The warmth of his lips sent chills down her spine and she stiffened. "Du calme," he breathed, half-bare fingers arcing over her ribcage. "N'ayez pas peur mon coeur." She took in a breath and exhaled. His hands reached higher and then his mouth came to hover over hers.
"Remy," she whispered, locking wide anxious eyes with him. He was impossibly tender.
"Jus' rehlax amoureux, I got yah."
And he kissed her.
It wasn't fireworks, the heat firing off inside her in cascading colors and formations. No, this was a more subtle seduction, coaxing and heady, luring her to match his smoldering intensity. Tugging lightly on her lips, urging her into opening, playing with her tongue, her teeth, her lips.
Her hands fisted, clutching his shirt.
He was persistent, but not insistent, drawing her out rather than pulling. She was supposed to remember, remember absorbing – calm, but she couldn't under him.
And moments meshed with seamless gasps and pants and hisses – she was heat and he was fire and his fingers slipped under her shirt and she let him draw it up.
Her mind was a blur, only barely registering the shirt coming over her head. Her skin was afire and Dieu, his hands were on her and that was all she cared – he was kissing her and she could just burst but his lips were leaving though his fingers were caressing and she wanted him so bad that it practically ached inside. Burned.
It took a moment to recognize his withdrawal. Still leaning over her, she blinked up at him. "Remy?" she murmured druggedily, feeling loose and feverish.
"How yah feel chérie?"
"Hot," she said without thinking and she felt his chuckle reverberate in her.
"Don' doubt dat, bu' anyt'ing else?"
She blinked again, the implications finally hitting her. "It's on?"
He nodded and her reaction was immediate. "Don' tense chere," he chided, "want yah ta 'member how it feels like." But it came too late. He clucked his tongue. "C'mon Rogue, need yah ta be at dat state. Not dat I mind getting' yah there 'gain." She felt the heat throb inside and she squirmed a little. At this rate, she wasn't going to get to the relaxed ground state anytime soon.
However, Remy obviously had different ideas as he stripped off a glove. The sight was as scintillating as it had been the night before and she swallowed hard. Propping himself beside her, he let the bare fingers just skim her from the waist up.
And there went the fireworks.
She shuddered practically from head to toe and he smiled down at her.
"Wanna tell a secret?"
Her head was muddled, flushed with desire she couldn't be sure was completely her own. She admitted the first thing she thought of. "Ah wore sex'er undawear tonigh'."
He actually laughed at her and this time she flushed visibly. "T'ink I noticed dat," he drawled, fiddling with the side strap of her black bra. "An' chérie," his still gloved palm came to rest against her stomach, the few bare fingers deliberately just barely brushing her flesh. "-told yah not ta tense."
She swallowed hard, finally actually feeling the new flare of her mutation. It felt a bit different from the normal activation, though most likely because of the whole host of other emotions that seemed tied with it. Raw desire, lust, longing, attraction, want, craving, aching.
She needed – a real secret.
And the words came unbidden. "Ah've never felt this way before." It was too much perhaps, but… His eyes met hers and she was surprised at the look in his eyes. Almost – awe?
He exhaled and bent down, hiding his face in her hair. After a moment, he nuzzled her ear before whispering his own. "I neva considered sayin' non." Something deep, deep down inside her loosened. The buzzing of her mutation smoothed into a quieter hum and when he moved to her mouth, she didn't hesitate to kiss him.
Running out of breath, they broke it and he looked down at her. "Look like tu as raison," (you are right) he intoned. "T'ink it need some more tests dough." He gave her a lascivious once over and she could only laugh at his blatancy, feeling a whole different tension uncoil from her.
"Guess yah havin' fun," she remarked. "Love challenges and all." She kept her tone neutral. This certainly was a challenge, wasn't it?
He fingered her bra strap. "Yah know yah mean more." Staring at his angled face, she couldn't read him.
Did she even want to?
She wasn't sure anymore.