Sorry for the completely late update – this semester has been insane and life was simply demanding attention! But, yay! Summer! And this chapter – oy, eat your hearts out!
And yes, I am already working on the next chapter! (Oh and would someone get Some Scribbles' butt in gear? I updated, now get her to!)
Getting compliments on Remy's depiction, yay! Now as a peek into Remy (only two more chapters 'til his part!) – In the last chapter, Remy was making her say he was more than just the convenient choice, basically more than just a body. Interesting that that concerns him, non? (Sorry for all those hoping for a full-blown Rogue/Remy relationship or that that was an admission of love, just have to sit there a whole lot more agonizing, scintillating scenes! –wink-)
And then at the end, she can't read his face – if he's being serious or not. The next phrases, 'Did she even want to?/She's wasn't sure anymore' could be interpreted as either: does she want to mean more? Or does she want to know whether or not she means more? (For Mazdamiatta)
Psychological comments – I love psychology and was going to minor for a while, but that fell through for International Studies yay! And well English Writing. But yes, so I am delving into those depths – Rogue is soo fascinating in that aspect. How much of how we are is simply the masks we put on so long ago to defend ourselves/protect others? And how do we develop new habits from those so long engrained? And intimacy is the most interactive field were this really comes out, especially when you bring in a player like Remy with a recluse like Rogue. The power conflict just makes it so much more poignant.
WretchedMuse (-big, BIG grin!- I love your conjecturing: "I absolutely adore the nuances of Rogue's powers here, especially because it creates a scenario where, instead of denying her a true emotional connection, they'll allow her to make an even deeper one than most people find. Of course, that should mean that she'll never really have a casual relationship, right? Anyone she chooses is in it for the long haul;-)" –wicked cackle- Wait and see!!
TrOuBLeDObSeSSioN – there will be NO detailed smut. This chapter I'll be treading the line, but please re-read the disclaimer on the first chapter. My main point is NOT sexual shenanigans – and people, please tell me how I'm doing!
Thanks to all my lovely reviewers – you definitely motivated me this to week to finish!!
Twice the rogue, Piper Of Locksley, drthmik (boo to quick fixes, yay practice!), nuriiko, Lady Starlight Serenity ("très steamy entre ces deux!" Oui, oui!), marion macguffin (as to Remy getting hotter, -smirk-), Gwise, rubic-cube, Amanda, Mercuriancat (LOL!! Hope the fam. stuff worked out okay), CajunBella91, coldqueen (cool!), Snowchild, vinh, dieCG, Oni Isis, RogueStudent (um, not to real relationship, but…), Thriller (woah, LOL! Thanks so much!!), Nocturnalwitch (oh yay, hope you're still reading despite, er, delays…), Encuentrame, grande bouche (lol with the name!), nuriiko (bwhaha, meant for you to wonder about that), Rogue14, thesupernugget (yes, I'm a missy :)), mistyxtc (OY!), Remy'sRose, gambit-rogue (sorry!), HopelessRomantic84 (lol), RogueFreak, Retrimesuroth, X-Storm (yay, finally someone likes Wolvie's incorporation), Miss Maia, Peanutbutter1, Shweeps, SouthernLoner, Katsu Kitsune (the bees' knees? LOL!), Aiyami Sakura, Remy's Bride, Rogue87 (couldn't agree more, sorry but the updating…), BloodChildOfHate, Catra, Secret Agent Smut Girl, cream tea, anyone? (yay, -someone- appreciated the boxers!), Rogue181, Danielle Britton, Iku, MidniteAngelGoth, ElizabethMarieBennett, GoldFox, Captain Annie (thanks!!), musagirl15, Chica De Los Ojos Cafe, warrior zoe, ishandahalf.
It takes Two…to Practice
by A Rogue in Rouge
…Try…
"Are you sure you're up for this Rogue?"
Rogue blew out a breath, wishing desperately she was wearing her gloves so she could fiddle with them. But that would defeat the whole point.
She settled for a shrug. "Now's as good ah tahme as any." Scott seemed to take this as a positive sign and smiled at her reassuringly.
She avoided Xavier's intent look, knowing what he was flashing to their conversation just the other day. But he didn't say anything. If there was anything she appreciated the most about Xavier, it was his finely honed sense of discretion. It was her business and he would not remark on it unless she brought it up. The others might find the reticence irritating, but she, she had enough secrets to really appreciate it.
Scott held out his hand.
The bareness offered to her seemed almost obscene. How long had she longed to take that hand? And now, now that it was possible, the enthusiasm still felt so, so foreign. Unbidden, an image of Remy's hand overlaid Scott's, a decoration of life's pain against Scott's clean slate. She shook the image away.
And with more confidence than perhaps warranted, she put her hand on his.
She was aware that the others were intently watching her, Professor Xavier, Mr. McCoy, Kitty, Kurt, and Scott, but that was all far from her. She was touching – Scott. It was a novelty, a wish, a hope once abandoned, once denied.
His hand was warm, pale, firm, uncalloused but for the very pads of his fingers – undoubtedly toughened from the usage of his visor.
She marveled and with a sudden swell of something like giddiness, she pushed forward and changed the grip to take his hand.
Holding hands.
It seemed so, so juvenile, innocent, and yet – how often had she longed for that simple pleasure?
And with Scott–
The surge came so quickly she barely dropped his hand in time. Ain't like visorboy is that great. Her head spun as intense – ugh, what was it? He could taste it like battery acid at the back of his – no her! – throat. No! She forced her personality forward, shouldering the other to the side. It bowed out without much of a fight.
No need to be so forceful, chérie.
Unbelievable. Remy? He was–
T'ought Gambit be de one to volunteer for all de han'-holdin'.
Jealous.
The mere thought of that made her head reel in a whole new direction. And technically, inanely, she informed the psyche she'd been the one who came to him.
Still yah bed-buddy.
The snide last comment before Remy's psyche slinked off to wherever it normally lodged was enough to jettison her back to reality. She couldn't have those thoughts running around her head with Xavier right there! Her eyes snapped open, only to realize she'd brought both her hands to her head in reflexive defense. She dropped them immediately.
"Rogue are you okay?" Scott was leaning far too close for her oversensitive nerves and she barely managed to restrain the impulse to stumble back. To her left, she could feel Kurt and Kitty hovering, maintaining enough distance not to crowd her – something not possible at the moment, but she managed a shaky upturning of her mouth.
"Ah'm fahne," she gritted out, realizing only too late her jaw had tightened. Scott frowned and the next moment he backed away to let Professor Xavier wheel up to her.
"Perhaps we should put off this practice for another day when you are better rested," he offered the excuse with only the minimal of furrowed eyebrow, though she could tell he really wanted to talk to her. She shrugged her shoulders.
"Ah'm fahne, jus' had a psyche move that didn't expect," it was the vaguest answer she could give. Besides it was true. Remy's psyche had never demanded such attention, usually just sidling up at the oddest moments to give his own little commentary on her day.
He'd, it, had never shown that much intense emotion. Why…
But the Professor's brows furrowed further at the answer, probably trying to figure out which psyche of the few she'd absorbed, and she had to keep talking, "It's fahne now. Behsides, gotta face this sometime, puttin' it off won't solve ahnything."
He was still frowning, but Scott was looking to him. He sighed and steepled his hands.
"If you feel assured that's the best course of action Rogue."
She nodded and fervently hoped her mental shields were performing at full strength.
Something, or someone, humphed deep down.
It wasn't going to ruin this for her though.
And yet…
Why didn't she feel satisfied when she held Scott's hand?
"So ah had practice today."
There was no easy way to bring up the subject so she just put it out there. Remy didn't respond, busy re-arranging them so that she was comfortably tucked against his chest. It was their awkward almost-but-not-quite pre-practice period, which was finally supplanting Remy's slight bad pouncing habit. She wondered but briefly at the change. The further they got, the more – settled he seemed to be becoming.
Nonetheless, she frowned at the lack of reaction to her announcement and stared at his face. The one thing Remy could never ignore was attention. And sure enough, he finally returned the gaze, his lips creasing into condescending amusement.
"Oui?"
"Yeah," she went on nonchalantly. "went okay 'cept a psyche acted up." He raised an eyebrow and under his polite interest, the words caught in her throat. She looked away. "Ah calmed it down," she said lamely. He smiled.
"Bien, dat means you're gettin' better, non?"
"Right."
Remy grinned further and leaned to her neck, layering it with the touch of his lips. "But we already knew dat, didn' we?" he murmured confidentially. She swallowed as an ungloved hand, rough with experience, slipped under her shirt, and nodded shakily.
Coward.
He backed away almost the second she felt the pull of her powers. He was getting quite good at discerning the change, she noted from far away, panting and more focused on the red range of his mouth.
"Un secret," he murmured, unwilling to move further than a few inches away.
It was a dangerous game they played. The more exposed she, he became, the more skin had to be carefully separated. Yet he pushed the bounds as she fingered the shirt he would then strip off, moving to slip off her pajama pants, sliding tantalizingly over her hips. She knew his were only a few days behind.
He nudged her head, burying his nose in her hair far too close to her bare face. "Un secret," he prompted again.
It came out before she could stop it, the upchuck of a churning mind. "I joined the X-Men because of Scott," she blurted out. Immediately her stomach turned over and she cringed.
She didn't want to discuss Scott with Remy – there was no reason to, her feelings or old feelings or whatever were her concern not his and why would they be his concern anyway? Jealous. It wasn't like he had any claim and it wasn't as if it even mattered what he, if he, felt anyway. They were, were just – bedbuddies the phrase mocked her from the depths of her mind and she clenched inside. Fuckbuddies, bedbuddies – what was the difference?
She stared at Remy – so close to her, he couldn't hide his expression in shadows and distracting motions. He was right there and, his eyes had flicked away. She waited for the feathery distraction of his fingers' stroke against her thigh, her ribs, her breast; he always touched her to break a sudden moment or, well, intensify it. But he was still.
"He was nice ta meh an' actually saw meh as ah person – not ah weapon, like ah found out Mystique did," that betrayal was still sore, enlarged by the shapeshifter's later games, but that wasn't the point of this little confession. "Weh ended up in dis really bad situation an' it was he and the X-Men who got us out." She was babbling, but couldn't he interrupt her?
Rogue opened her mouth to say, something, anything more, but he (finally) beat her to it. "You left Mysty because of Mr. Tighty-Whitey?" His tone was casual, amused – it itched worse than her mutation and she bumped him away. Besides, bringing up Scott's underwear when they were like this, it was obscene. And gross.
"Don't call him that."
He smirked, but it seemed razor-sharp. She shouldn't have brought him up. What answers were she looking for anyway? "And what would y' prefer? High and mighty leader? Boy scout? One eye?" She rolled her eyes when he grinned wider. Wonderful, now he was just being snide.
Remy never had liked Scott, though the feelings were more than mutual. Scott had a hard time getting past the whole worked-for-Magneto business, though he had come to value Piotr's presence. That probably had to do with the fact Piotr was really a sweetheart and had been practically blackmailed into following Magneto. Gambit? The cocky, loner thief had said something flippantly about a contract. Neither his background nor manner ingratiated him with the local team leader. It was like Lance all over again, except Lance was a leader and did believe in teamwork, at least in theory. There, at least, he and Scott had common ground. (Not to mention, mutual affection for a certain X-Men gal.) Gambit and Scott had no such middle ground. And while there were several good reasons for this division, they were usually simply juvenile about it – thus the little lecture at the flag football game and the name calling. Scott just stuck to Gambit, but Gambit would get rather creative depending on his mood.
Remy tilted his head and tapped his chin, mock-thoughtfully. "Hmm, how 'bout visorboy?" Rogue froze. Jealous. "Or there's always the old standby: Shades." Her heart beating a little too fast, she licked her lips.
"You wear shades too," she pointed out and the mocking faded from his expression, before he snorted.
"I can take 'em off." Their eyes locked and the ruby of his eyes began to glow. "Mais t'ink dat'd be preferred." His voice was carefully neutral.
It wasn't a question, was it?, but she was nodding before she could understand the implications and she had to break eye contact.
"Guys in shades," she said lightly, her voice too high for nonchalance. "The new fashion statement for girls to dig."
And there it was, the brush of his fingertips against the curve of her waist. "Hmm," he murmured, leaning back into her. "I wear 'em 'cuz de light's bit too bright. My eyes work bes' at night, good for business den. Besides," he revealed then paused, but she didn't need him to go on. Inside, the name reverberated: le Diable Blanc. It wasn't an affectionate name.
"Their loss," she mumbled and he looked up at her with those gorgeous eyes.
"Yeah," he breathed and then his mouth was on hers.
Secrets can be small.
Like not being able to sleep her first night in the mansion, wanting to go home for Mardi Gras, admitting she straightened her hair (Remy disapproved), or considering re-growing a certain goatee (Rogue disapproved of that).
Secrets can also be stupid.
Like hating cauliflower for its blandness, not being able to taste for two whole days after that first real taste of Cajun food, refusing to watch certain romantic movies because they actually did make her cry, or admitting he'd actually stuffed a still lit cigarette into one of his pockets because he knew he wasn't supposed to smoke in front of the 'kiddies.' (Though the last one just demonstrated Remy's stupidity in Rogue's mind.)
Certain secrets were slightly more involved. Such as when she'd disclosed a certain Siren experience.
"Let Remy get dis straight, you, Red, de kit-kat, de volcano and Big Bang," he ticked them off and she couldn't help shaking her head at the nicknames he came up with. She tried to think of someone he actually did call by name… "joined together an' put de bad guys in their place?" She nodded and he burst out laughing, a full body laugh that actually shook the bed.
She dove at him, clapping a hand over his mouth. "Will yah shut up?! Ah do have neighbors!"
He kept laughing and after a moment, she felt something cold and slimy against her palm. Did he just- "Eww," she hissed, wiping her palm on the bedspread. Mid-motion, she realized the inanity. Remy had licked exactly how much of her already? Her face burned.
While she was distracted, Remy hopped off the bed. "I'm guessin' vous didn' wear yaur X-Men outfits." (vous is plural you/'y'all' or a more formal form of 'you')
She shook her head, turning on the bed to sit cross-legged and watch him prowl the room. What was he up to? "No, weh came up with ahur own outfits. Well, Boom Boom's usin' her outfit as her X-Man uniform now."
"Oh?" he angled toward her.
Her next statement can only be attributed to the fact she was pleasantly distracted by the sight of certain sleek muscles flexing in the dim light as Remy stood in front of her closet. "Yeah, black leather an' all."
Remy's eyes literally flared with interest and she realized exactly what she'd just let slip. "Uh, they weren' that impressive or anyt'ing-"
His smile went to Cheshire proportions. "Oh, let m' be de judge of dat."
Thus determined, he prodded her into finding the outfit, in whatever dark corner of her closet it was hidden, only the threat of him searching through all her drawers to find it actually convincing her. Triumphantly, she dug out of the box shoved all the way into the back of her high shelf, extremely aware of the fact he was surveying every scrap he could see.
"Dieu chere, got enough dark colors?"
She scoffed. "Ah'm a goth." Turning, she spotted him fingering the terrible orange mesh top she'd worn to the dance crashed by Kurt's transporting beasts. She snatched it out of his grip, but he only chuckled.
"Could use som' more risqué stuff too chérie."
"You want to see the costume or not?" she snapped, feeling a blush heat up her face. His next comment would most likely be how willing he was to help her with that. Ugh, when she going to stop blushing around him?
Moving back to the bed, she opened the box and pulled out the leather pants, tank top, bands, and bomber jacket. Considering the assortment for a second, she returned to the closet to root out the knee-high lace up boots. Remy whistled.
"When y' said leather, y' not jokin'." She shrugged self-consciously.
"Weh wan'ed ta look all bad ass." Grabbing the pants, she was about to ask him to look away when she realized the absurdity. She was already basically bared to him, in her little briefs and bra. And she was putting on clothes.
Still, as she slipped on the pants and top, she could feel the burning of his eyes trace her every motion – the sliding of leather up her inner knee, the buttoning up of her hip, the slithering of the tank top over her breasts, the draping of the jacket over her shoulders, the tug that secured the thick gloves. It felt surreal, dressing in front of him, and the touch of fabric was somehow magnified, clinging to her skin with intent that made her shiver with heat. It was only after she'd secured her gloves though, that she realized she'd forgotten to fasten the buckles first. But they weren't on the bed – Remy stepped into her back and she could see him twirling one of the studded bands.
"Laisse-moi," (Let me) he spoke into her ear and reached around her to wrap the first band around her left arm, buckling it with a thief's ease, but taking more time than necessary to let his fingers smooth her inner arm. She was trembling and she tried to stop, but the shallow breathing wasn't helping. He moved to the other arm, drawing her further back against him and she could feel him surround her. His fingers skimmed up her arm, trailing over the jacket sleeve, to trace the contours of her throat. Her eyes shuttered as he grazed her voice box. The leather strap felt thick and heavy against her neck and she tried to remember why she'd gotten it in the first place. To warn away others, show she was untouchable? Remy's fingers smoothed the ornament unnecessarily, sending frissons down her spine. She felt extremely touchable.
Catching her hip, he turned her towards him, taking in the whole ensemble. She didn't care to point out that if he actually took a step back, instead of being thigh-to-thigh, he'd have a better view. "Ah," she swallowed thickly. "The boots-"
Red sparked. "Maybe later," his voice rasped. "Oh I 'preciate dis very much." His iris was super-charged and she was ridiculously reminded of Magma. Except Remy made her hot in a completely different way… "Well, guess Remy knows why y' called y'selves Les Sirènes." He was trying to play off the effect she was having, but for perhaps the first time, he wasn't performing very well. She finally blushed, the blood rushing to her face as if long awaiting release. He leaned closer, tone coated in caramel. "Glad yah changed y' ways of catchin' t'ieves." A finger hovered over her cleavage. "Dough I'm sure dis was very," he stretched the word even as the finger ran down her top. "effective."
Rogue was dizzy, giddy, intoxicated. She licked her lips and smirked at him. "Who says ah changed 'em?" He stared before she finally let loose a deep throated chuckle. He joined in, but all too soon he was focused on stripping her out of that costume, feverishly ensuring he palmed every inch of her skin the outfit had covered for just that short period of time – throat and back and shoulders and arms and hips and thighs and calves and breasts.
When he touched her, she was electrified, as he pushed and finally undid those boundaries they'd set up as her bra fell to the floor. She reflexively covered herself, but he just leaned closer and intertwined their hands. "Du calme," he breathed and-
He touched her with all the care of Michelangelo, of, of – a lover, caressing with nimble fingers, skimming her with tongue and teeth he sunk to his knees and she couldn't stop trembling.
"Dieu, tu es belle."
It wasn't elegant, but it was honest and something inside her just kept expanding.
She gazed down at him. "Toi too."
(You are beautiful…You too.)
But slowly the secrets trickled out and began to saturate their time together. It became almost ritual – admitting something before practice and at odd points during, whenever Rogue felt dangerously close.
And sometimes, sometimes she caught herself just whispering – as if all she needed was the very act of telling him without any motivation. Those were the times she really became nervous.
And sometimes, those stupid, small secrets actually meant something.
"Ah've thought of dyin' my streak," her nose rested in the hollow between his chin and shoulder. "Ah love it but-" She could imagine his eyes, those fiery eyes, staring down at her. She was sure he'd understand though. Didn't he have an image inducer? Contacts?
"I like it," he mumbled, brushing a kiss on the top of her head, before bringing up a hand to comb the distinctive strip. "Gives yeh personality."
She laughed. "Yeah? Of who, Pepé Le Pew?" He clucked his tongue, but she got to the retort before he could, pushing lightly to get in a position to look down at him. "Wait, a relentless ladies' man who can' understand 'no' as ah real ahnswer an' speaks bastardized French," she tapped her chin, letting her other hand trail over his chest. Seeing him about to speak, she shushed him. "Hmm, still t'inkin', ah know it reminds me of someone!"
He rolled his eyes and then, without warning, rolled them both over. She couldn't bottle up her laughter. "Hit ah li'l too close ta home?" He cocked his head and she marveled at the fact it felt so, comfortable with him on top of her.
"Dat poor skunk is mal compris, comprends?"
"Ah'm suhre," she chuckled.
"Behsides, he always chasin' de cat, not a vrai skunk, like I got here." He tugged gently at her stripe and she winced in mock pain. The next thing she knew he had leaned to only an inch away, angling his face to match the contours of hers. His glowing eyes were the only brightness she could see, as he blocked the light above. "An' de femme always ran away."
And her breath caught at the sheer intensity of his gaze, but as always she wasn't quite sure what it was trying to convey. She swallowed at the unasked questions.
But all she could offer was – "Isn't it yah turn ta give a secret?" The glow of his eyes turned to a lighter shade of red and she was amazed she could tell. "Quid pro quo."
He leaned down and stretched his fingers fully under her breast. She caught her breath.
"I actually neva watched dat much T.V., too much t' do. Nah like dere's much on the streets an'way," he said casually and she could've hated him but for the touch of his hands.
It was only later that she wondered if that hadn't been the only real secret he'd given her.
(You have to check out wikipedia on Pepé Le Pew & Penelope – it's hilarious, especially in light of Rogue and Remy!)
And the French: mal compris – misunderstand; comprends – (you) understand; vrai - true
And the closer they became, she began to realize, the harder it was to play cool…
Rogue loved summer. It reminded, just faintly, of the usual weather of her hometown down South. Others might've whined over the sticky heat, high humidity and baking brightness, but Rogue, ah, she savored it. Of course, it'd always been difficult to enjoy such heat appropriately given her head-to-toe attire, but with the advent of her practice, it was a prospect that was becoming increasingly attainable.
And finally, on this, one of the last truly beautiful days of the Indian summer they'd been enjoying, she was going to enjoy it to the hilt.
Well, actually, that had been the combined effort of Kitty and the rest of the Manor girls, who were able to use the pretext of her practice to officially claim the Manor pool – and pull out the string bikinis. The boys were officially banned, leaving the girls to bask blithely by the water's edge.
At least, that was how it was supposed to work out.
"Nice day ain't it ladies."
The voice and sudden shadow interrupted Rogue's diligent act of sun adoration. Above her, the cocky swamp rat looked them all over obviously, to some of the younger girls' twitters, and she twitched. "Jus' belle," he caressed the word as if it'd been dipped in edible body paint.
He was blocking her sun; that was the only reason she got up, really.
"What do yah want swamp rat?" she snapped, rising to her feet. She poked him in the chest (his black high necked top reminded her a little too much of practice), feeling a slight rush of excitement at how openly bared she was to him. This risqué enough Gambit? She carefully tucked the emotion inside. "This is gal time ahn' yah ain't invited."
She could feel his eyes run down her and take inventory of the barely-there black string scrap Kitty had cajoled her into buying to celebrate the dawning control of her powers. The headiness turned to pure feminine satisfaction. "Oh let me count de ways..." he murmured, ignoring the last part of her comment. The heat rush his gaze inspired was thrilling, almost decadent.
Now she wasn't sure how, but the next moment she felt a finger fiddling with the dangling tie at her back, the very faintest brush of skin-to-skin contact (she could hardly mistake that sensation), assuring her it was bare.
She swiveled and caught his clothed wrist in a single, smooth motion. Her eyes lidded. "Sticky fingers." The accusation came out huskier than she intended and she felt the beginnings of a blush rise.
It only worsened when she could actually see the heated glint behind those stupid shades he wore. "Sticky skin," he mumbled right back, the rumble echoing her own as he tugged his arm back.
Something told her he totally didn't mind the stickiness he was suggesting and she shivered.
Releasing his arm, she turned and in a few short steps, perhaps with just a little sashaying, she dove into the pool. Really, he was simply too intense sometimes.
Popping up to the surface, she settled her crossed arms on the edge. She flicked her hair out of her face. "Get lost Cajun." She was proud of how steady it came out.
Staring at her for a second longer, he mockingly raised two fingers into a respectful salute. He twisted to face the others girls. "Have a bon jour girls." And with a melodramatic bow, he finally walked away.
He was hardly away when a whistle rang out. "Let me just fan myself for a moment." Tabitha slouched dramatically over the edge of her reclining pool chair. "Anyone else a little burned from that?"
"What?" Rogue, readying to submerge, stiffened. Witnesses, witnesses – why was he always able to get her to forget them?
Tabitha eyed her, tipping down her ridiculous sparkly oversized sunglasses. They clashed garishly with her gold sparked bronze bikini, but that was Boom Boom.
"That, my girl," she informed her, "was hot."
"Scorching," came a muttered assent from the peanut gallery and there was another round of giggling. Rogue's spine prickled.
"What y'all talkin' 'bout?" she asked warily, or so she hoped. Nervousness was never a good thing to show when discussing a guy around a pack of teenage girls. It was like waving a bloody steak and a pack of Cubans in front of Wolverine.
Tabitha snorted. "That boy wants the Rogue bad," she stressed the last word long and hard.
"Humph," Rogue let go of the ledge to fiddle with her hair. She tread water. "He flirts with anythahng that looks good in a bra an' thong." A cynical, if true statement.
"Not like that." Rogue nearly went under before remembering to keep treading. Jean?
Tabitha laughed, before slyly, "Should give him a ride."
"Tabitha!" Now that was more like Jean, Rogue thought, feeling the blush creep up her face as the other girls giggled self-consciously, a vicarious thrill of rebellion. For a fleeting instant, just that long, Rogue considered telling them. Cocking a hip, an eyebrow and shooting back, "What makes you think I'm not?" or some other phrase that would just knock them flat. Rebellion…
She submerged, coming up just in time to see the blond shrug. "He's one of the hottest guys in the mansion," the other girl was saying, "practically sex on legs," she talked over Jean's next protest, "and if Rogue's going to be the only one he showers with that particular brand of attention," the words sent an illicit thrill down Rogue's spine, "why shouldn't she?"
Rogue snorted, climbing out of the pool. "Maybe 'cuz ah don't wanta." Tabitha gave an assessing glance up at her and she suddenly felt chilled. Was the truth so evident? She hurriedly wrapped herself in her towel.
But before the Tabby could get in another sly word, Laura spoke up. "What do you mean by hot?"
All heads turned to X-23. Of all the girls there, she was the most unlikely – it'd taken Jubilee, Rahne, and Amara almost an hour to convince her to put on a bathing suit, and honestly, it might've never happened if Logan hadn't walked by and gruffly told the clone to 'go have fun.' Unsurprisingly, she picked a black body suit that reached to her neck. Surprisingly though, it turned out she actually was developing a shape, despite the stiff uniform she usually insisted on wearing.
"Hot?" Jean echoed.
Laura looked them over with her calculating eyes. "You use the term hot with males often. Why?" It was the most Rogue had ever heard her say and she had a feeling she wasn't alone in her surprise. Thus, it took a moment for her to realize exactly what the girl was asking.
Rahne cracked first, clapping a hand over her mouth. That set off Jubilee, Amara, Tabitha and the others went down like laughing dominos.
Laura frowned.
Still, she did get her question answered, prompting a rather amusing debate over the various assets of all mutant males either in or outside of the Manor. (It was particularly funny seeing Laura's expression when someone brought up Logan as attractive, if way old.) Rogue's breath really caught when they came to Remy, but she was reasonably sure her dismissals had been taken as honest, though teased as slightly in denial.
They didn't return to the issue of him liking Rogue.
(Um, could develop that little conversation into a ficlet, if anyone really wanted…)
It was only later, when they were packing up their stuff and the guys had invited the girls to play volleyball, that she finally asked Kitty.
"What the girls were saying before – they think Remy has a crush on me?" It was – preposterous.
Kitty looked startled at the question. "Well, duh," she peered at the other girl from under her bangs, "It's like totally obvious. You, you haven't noticed?" Rogue felt uneasy under the intense look – Kitty's Valley Girl accent always came out clearer when she was making a point – and simply shook his head.
"He jus' flirts with everyone," she deflected.
"Not the way he does with you." Rogue didn't dare meet her eyes for fear of betraying herself and after a moment Kitty went with a shrug. "Probably because you're like a challenge."
Rogue's stomach knotted. "Of course I am," she shot back a little too sharply and Kitty's eyes widened. "Sorry," she mumbled.
There was a call for the start of volleyball. "Just a minute!" Rogue called back. She eyed the heavy laden Kitty, who was balancing a canvas bag on the opposite shoulder from her cast-clad leg. "Are yah suhre yah don't need help?"
Kitty rolled her eyes, tightening her grip on her crutches. "I'm not an invalid Rogue. I can get inside without help."
Rogue glanced pointedly at her leg. "We all thought yah could showa on yah own too."
Kitty made a face. "Oh haha, like I haven't heard that joke a hundred times already." She lifted up a crutch and made a general wave in direction of the volleyball court. "Now go have fun."
Rogue smiled grudgingly. "Yes ma'am."
It was only as the skunk-striped girl walked away that Kitty realized she'd just missed the prime opportunity to grill Rogue on her own part in the 'Remy' flirtation.
"Dang it."
She hated having the bathroom down the hall. Especially at moments like these – after the volley ball game, she'd opted to be the last to shower. She liked the lack of rush that entitled her to, as well as the fact it was a lot less stress, given nude situations always made her a bit edgy. Besides, it'd still give her enough time to freshen up for Remy's arrival. Except, in a moment of stupidity, she'd only grabbed her night clothes – and not the underwear needed to complete the outfit. She'd made sure to wash the chlorine out of her bathing suit and there was no way she was slipping the soaking wet bikini back on. And baring going commando, that left one option:
A dash down the hall in only her towel.
Muttering under her breath, she cracked the door open. The hallway was still and quiet, dark as it was probably just about curfew. She ground her teeth. There was no way of knowing if someone was just going to pop up (why hadn't she been born a telepath?) and waiting promised no real assurance. Besides, she didn't have her straightener and her hair was a wreck, even after getting rid of that stiff chlorine residue.
Dash it was.
She took another careful look, deep breath, and raced down the hall. Slippery fingered, her door resisted her first pull, but opened under her second twist. She darted in and leaned back against the door, holding her clothes to her chest, wet bikini wrapped in the towel she used for her hair.
She hated mad dashes.
It wasn't until she took two steps into the room that she realized she wasn't alone. The clothes dropped to the ground, before her hands went to reflexively clutch her towel against her.
"Remy," she licked her suddenly dry lips, "yah early."
He nodded, moving closer from where he'd been hovering by her bed. It occurred to her, as his hungry gaze blazed over the contours highlighted by the thin towel, that she felt more naked before him in just the towel than in bra and panties. Perhaps it was the thought that in one single motion, that was exactly what she'd be.
"Afta tahday's little show, got a li'l impatient," his eyes lingered at the place her towel was tucked in and her grip tightened reflexively. His gaze finally lifted to her hair. He stepped closer and tugged on a loose slowly-drying ringlet. "Knew I'd love de curls," he said with a grin. She tried to smile, but it didn't serve to lighten the mood. Instead, his hand moved down to shadow the curve of her collarbone and then come to rest on the towel.
"Ah can dress in a minute if yah just-"
He laid a finger against her mouth. Projecting calm, he locked eyes with her. "Know dat y' ain't ready for all de way, but dere be more ta sex den the in an' out." She knew her eyes were impossibly wide, but she didn't resist when he tugged her to the bed.
Back to the bed, she stood before him. His hand came to rest on the fold of her towel and she desperately tamped her powers down. She had to breath. In – and out. In – and out. But that only served to remind her of his words and whatever he was planning…
He nudged her chin and abruptly she re-focused on him. "Trust m'." Something in his voice, the flicker of his eyes – was it a statement? A command? A plea? A question? She nodded helplessly.
Remy drew the crease of her towel free, with all the care of twenty-year unwrapping a gift whose packaging they very much liked. Her heart thundered in her ears as he slowly unwound it from her until, at last, she was nude before him. Glowing crimson ran down her body and she thought she saw him swallow. But with a steady hand, he stepped into her – she stiffened involuntarily – and spread the towel out on the bed behind her.
"Lay down," he whispered. Taking a deep breath, she shakily did so. He wasn't touching her yet which was good – she couldn't be positive her mutation was off with the potent mix of fear and anticipation swirling around inside her. It was only when she'd sprawled out that she realized he'd taken something out of his pockets. Gloves.
Her eyes widened. "Remy?"
"Shh, chere," he looked at her warmly and she could almost swear she could feel the reach of his empathy, soothing. Settling at her side, he dangled the gloves before her. They shone in the dull light, too glossy for silk. "Satin," – she couldn't be sure if the answer came from within or without, but she still stared at them without comprehension. "Ce soir, c'est tout pour moi." The night all for him? What was that supposed to mean? Her heart beat was quickening, in equal measures of dread and expectation. But he was slipping on the gloves and speaking again, "we gonna let y' have som' experience wit'out all de pressure, d'accord?" He brought a hand down to linger over her waist. She shivered, senses flaring back to hyperawareness. He met her eyes again. "Want y' ta try to start out keepin' yah mutation off, but I want y' t' let go ta waht yah feel."
"Bu-" His hand skimmed down to her hip and her mouth closed with a snap. Even gloved, his touch incited a rumba inside. And the feel of the satin – not even the silk had prepared her for this.
"Need y' ta know waht dis is all 'bout Rogue. Den weh can work on y' gettin' used to it," the shivers that seized her seemed directly linked with the pulsing of his eyes. Distantly, she was glad she wasn't the only being effected by the thought. "D'accord?"
She was ensnared in the red and black, the pure grace of his hands on her.
"Oui." He stared at her for a long second, then leaning, pressed a kiss against her forehead.
"Bien," his voice sounded a little hoarse, but she had hardly on time to think as his lips began to trail down her face, baptizing her eyelids, her nose, her cheeks, her lips, her chin… And his hands, like a fine violinist, began to ply her body – sweeping up the curve of her thigh, her hips, dipping in and out of her navel, caressing her waist, her breasts… The satin wasn't textured, instead layering her in slickness, mapping her in polished appreciation. He spanned the flat expanses, fingered the curves, explored the imperfections with all the single-minded absorption of Magellan. And his lips echoed his search, sampling her skin as if laced with ambrosia.
She tried to hang on, she did, but the buzzing of her blood in her ears rang too loudly and she was laid out open before him and she could only burn under his skilled onslaught. Her breath was too short and she grabbed his shirt, digging her fingers into the fabric as if to anchor her to earth. He tisked in her ear.
"Ahaha, don' be greedy," his gloved fingers stroked her hips, the breath of his mouth brushing now over her shoulder. "Dite-moi un secret." It was a plea, a command, the crooked finger of a flirt, the piping of a snake charmer. (Tell me a secret)
Her eyes were on the ceiling, but she was beyond seeing it. She swallowed. "Ah had a dream las' night," her voice was wobbly, but at least she was speaking. It proceeded in a string of spurts as she fought the commotion of her mind and body. "It was stupid, bu' it was tu et moi, weh were walkin' ta school an' then the road turned into a boxca an' we were goin' South ta Mardi Gras."
"To la Belle Orléans?" His fingers were wandering over her pelvis and the buzzing in her ears increased in pitch.
"Yeah," she said shakily.
"An' how was it?" The nonchalance was unnerving as she began to throb. He paused to drum his fingers on her and she hazily realized he was waiting for an answer.
"Good," she swallowed again. "Mais we end'd up in de bayou somehow. That's all ah rememba."
"Hmm, not 'xactly de wet I have in mind." And without warning, he slipped within her.
Her eyes flew back. "Listen ta meh chérie," his voice was low and intimate, fighting back the buzzing that had now reached into her mind. "Don' tense, jus' rehlax. I got yah." His other hand came to stroke her side reassuringly, but she was still shaking.
She could feel him – inside of her and it felt – bizarre. But then he nudged, something, and she felt the reverberations throughout her entire body. Her grasp of his shirt became a death grip.
He was talking.
"Mon favori t'ing 'bout Mardi Gras was eatin' de King's Cake while watchin' de floats, mais," he was leaning towards her and pushing harder and she felt something tightening in her, almost to the point of pain. "Never vraiment had quelqu'un to enjoy it wit'." (Never truly had someone to enjoy it with.)
They locked eyes and she couldn't understand the intensity they burned with. "Nex' time," he promised and his mouth was on hers and she was taking him in and she was unraveling as the world shifted and he was as moved as she was. Swallowing her – scream? – he unlocked to let her take deep, gasping breaths.
She was shaking. Had she stopped? Her mind was a mess of color and sensation.
And then she felt limp, as if he'd ignited all the energy inside only for it to detonate and disappear.
He brought her down slowly and all she could do was pant like she'd run a marathon. His other hand was still stroking her side.
"Jus' breathe."
She was in awe.
He'd done it all for her. Want y' to know what all de fuss 's 'bout ma chérie. He buoyed her.
Finally, he withdrew his fingers and she felt oddly emptied by the motion. "Y' doin' okay, chere?" There was no lewdness in his face and she could've cried.
She nodded, only now regaining her breath. Considering for a moment, he reached around her and grasped the towel. Still terrifyingly, delectably, close, he urged her into a sitting position, held against him. She rested there, nose to his shoulder, his fingers absently traveling up and down her spine. She pulled her legs up to curl up next to him and he tucked her in closer. She felt like telling him he could really touch her again, that she was calm again, but she felt too at peace to disturb it.
Rogue wasn't sure how long they remained there, before she finally shyly ducked her head. But she just couldn't talk about what they'd just done – it was still too bright within her – and instead addressed him.
"Do you – I mean, I can –" Despite everything, she could still feel her face flushing, her tongue tying at her attempt to say the words. She gave up for an awkward gesture to the hardness at his waist she could visibly see.
He smiled and almost absently grabbed the hand to press her inner wrist to his mouth. "Dat's sweet amoureux, but don' wan' more of a mess, hein?"
It took her a second to realize he was saying no. No? What guy in his right mind turned down a handjob?
But he held firm – instead setting her up for another dash for the bathroom and then, bizarrely enough, helping her dress for bed. She wondered at his placidness, but simply didn't have the energy to really question it.
Drowsing on her bed, she told him about the conversation he missed by the pool. He laughed and in the aftermath, she knew what she should tell him next. She should tell him about what Kitty said, about being obvious, about their impressions and laying low and making tongues wag…
She doesn't and he doesn't let her ponder why.