I better get major reviews for this puppy! I almost freakin' hit 40 pages in Word!! (There will be no more chapters this long EVER AGAIN – but hey! I'm officially half-way through the story.) Of course, major flash-back alert. Hold your horses for the next one though, I'm just about tapped out for now. It'll only have two more flashbacks and we'll finally really move ahead with the plot. Remy's goin' on a miss-ion...
But Wolverine, well, he'll be explained this chapter and next.
And sorry y'all, no more Rogue p.o.v. for at least four more chapters!!
Thanks to all my lovely reviewers!!: saucydeviant ("I haven't really considered it before but a person's psychological condition is greatly affected by their physical one also." Heck yeah! The link between mind-body is still puzzled over, but very real!), gambit-rogue (anything in particular?), Rogue181 (uh-huh), Remy'sRose, X-Storm (-evil chuckle- Remy in denial, what a thought…), flaming-mod (some qs about Logan definitely answered here and honestly, their feelings already have been showing in public), mistyxtc (I love that! "reasonably warped emotionally"), animefan135 (OY!), cream tea anyone (-Big- grin!), Sbgchan, Wanda W ("She is definitely not the only one stepping outside her comfort zone with no safety net in sight. Remy is way out of his league on this one." Absolutely!), Coldqueen (lol, um but what is FRAK?), Stacey, ishandahalf ("how unlike him, her touch wasn't a means to an end..." – that's huge for him. "remy seems to be very clear on his initial motives, but rather in the dark about the turn his feelings have taken. delightfully ironic, considering he's an empath" (-big, Big grin-:)), SouthernLoner, ashez2ashes (erm, that was a really long time ago, pre-different alerts), Chica De Los Ojos Café (totally agree about love & logic unmixy unfortunately)
Mazdamiatta (No I am not a guy, but thanks for the compliment! "I would never date him now that I know his mentality but than again he's not called Gambit for nothing." Lol! "Statistically guys have a harder time getting over hurt than girls. That's why most of them become players and whores." (double huh, what statistic is this?) Cool song, but well, oh stay tuned…
Sassy18 – "She ends their "association" before they get more attached to eachother" (huh) I think it's also because she does love him – she can't bear to just 'play' anymore. But she doesn't think a real relationship is something he'd be interested or possibly would even work. Getting 'along' sexually vs. relationally are two different things, even if they really are intertwined. "Loved that you had Rogue try to open up and tell him her name but Remy stops her (a la the original X-Men comics)..." (Yes! Someone caught that!) "he cases her like any other job, until he understands..." – I don't completely believe in automatic uncontrollable attraction, especially not in this case, so I wanted to give a broader basis of his interest. "Loved that Remy couldn't stand her touching him just to touch another person, not just him...Really made that scene better, made Remy more human..." Oh yeah…
Best quotes:
Saucydeviant: "Rogue is just a basketcase." LOL!
And!!
Chica De Los Ojos Café: "They're so screwed in so many ways." LOL!
Oh, and song belongs to The Fray: "Over My Head (Cable Car)."
It Takes Two...to Practice
12) Without Strings
Or
Them's the breaks
Three and a half weeks.
23 days.
X hours. (He wasn't so sad as to know that. But how even to count it? Just the nights or the days as well? It occurred to him that he usually liked math. D- her.)
And yet they all simply vanished as if they had never happened in the first place.
"Evening ladies," he said to the room at large. Jubilee and the younger girls giggled from where they were picking up platters. He walked further into the room and she was there.
Their eyes met and – nothing.
His grin stayed static and coolly, Rogue simply looked away.
She grabbed napkins and headed to the dining room. "'s about time to eat, people!"
He didn't watch her leave. He didn't, even if his eyes did face that direction…
Pride demanded he play the whole thing off. Prove to her it all meant nothing. Her rej-refusal to continue was fine with him. Less fun, but he'd had his. He'd had her, in more ways than one, and, and that was enough. He'd gambled, beaten the odds and swept the table – there was no reason to be re-examining the bets, questioning if it'd been worth it.
That night he found himself turning to the window, hand on the sash before reality coldly asserted itself. He didn't have to use that exit because that destination no longer existed.
Not for him.
Not anymore.
He went to the door instead, running through his options. He had no desire to remain in his room, a tomcat restrained within four walls. No, the energy beating in his blood demanded an outlet and he'd been far too long without one. Not.
The club Inferno came first to mind, but – your girl – it was too far for him that night.
He just had to get out; it didn't matter where.
He refused to dwell on the fact it felt bizarre to be alone - without her.
Mixing with the crowd, winking at a pretty big blond with his brown eyes, knocking back a vodka on the rocks no bourbon, no Absolut, no Southern Comfort for him; he took another shot –
This was him.
And no femme could change that.
He was, after all, the Gambit. Giving up her (something inside knots at the thought but he ignores it) was a small thing for his freedom.
I never knew
I never knew that everything was falling through
That everyone I knew was waiting on a queue
To turn and run when all I needed was the truth
But that's how it's got to be
It's coming down to nothing more than apathy
I'd rather run the other way than stay and see
The smoke and who's still standing when it clears
"So if I'm gonna be a good girl for Jameson-" She was talking to Kitty, striding down the hall just radiating annoyance.
"Roguey, une bonne fille?" Theatrically, his hand went over his heart. "Never!"
She stopped walking to glare at him, the dark impression of her eye shadow seeming even darker than normal. "Swamp rat, butt outta mah business."
"Oh c'mon chérie," the title slipped out from habit and his throat tightened. But that wasn't such a new occurrence and he ignored it. "not a complaint." He grinned dazzlingly. "Remy like a girl up ta no good."
She stared at him for a second – and in that second, the faint loosening of her shoulders, he thought he actually saw – but then she sneered.
"'Course you do."
And he was left not knowing what he thought he'd saw.
Or even what he wished he'd seen.
But it wasn't the same.
Offended pride, however, demanded that acting normal wasn't enough. How dare she fold so early – walk away from the table while he was still ready to play? As if the stakes suddenly weren't worth it? And, he really had to cut back on the card game analogies.
He scrutinized his options again.
Ignore her. Pro: begin to pay attention to other areas too long neglected; return basically her own attitude towards him. Con: could be construed as him unable to deal with her; not paying attention to her would probably be a relief for her. His jaw tightened and he moved on.
Raze her. Pro: the thought gave him giddy head rushes of satisfaction; Rogue was never so inflamed as when she was aroused or angry. Given his current hands-off handicap… Con: could be interpreted as him angry at her, bringing up questions of why from outsiders; could signal Rogue that he was more affected by their whole affair than she was. Which he hadn't been. Even if she seemed completely unmoved by the experience now – his teeth gritted and he re-visited the pro position for a few more minutes.
Avoid her. Same issues at ignoring her.
Still flirt lightly with her – maintain the status quo.
It was the wisest course of action, that was plain, but – it was like picking a scab. He hadn't realized how much he'd come to relish the barbed playing along with his flirtations or at least, the half-smiling co-conspiracy of their ragging banter. It had been like sharing an inside joke, the knowledge it was all practically foreplay.
But now she turned up her nose at him and left him out in the cold.
The need to get under her skin chafed his own.
"D'accord."
"O.K."
"Ah, don' pronounce the last 'd'. The French neva pronounce d'end, 'cept for 'c', 'r', 'f', an' 'l'."
"Is that why you cut off so many end consonants?"
"Bit." His shrug was careless.
"D'accor-"
"Bien."
"Fille."
"Girl."
"Garçon."
"Boy."
"De 'c', it's got a cedille – that fish-hook looking t'ing. Dat means de 'c' gets said soft, like 's' versus 'k'. D'accord?"
In all his life, Remy had never pictured himself in this position – 'teacher' for a half dozen wide-eyed high-schoolers. But then again, he'd done a lot of things he never would've anticipated since coming up North. This one however, had definitely not been his idea.
"D'accord!" It was a chorus this time.
"When you formally accepted my offer to dwell here Remy, we discussed the terms under which this arrangement would operate." Xavier paused and Remy, though his face remained nonchalant, felt stirrings of unease. He wasn't going to try to renegotiate, was he? "You are free to come and go, but will attend training sessions and be on call for missions of a sensitive nature. However, it has occurred to me that you may want more to do than simply being available."
"More to do?"
"Well yes. You have certain skills that could benefit the younger students. For instance, your knowledge of foreign languages and your own extensive physical conditioning regime."
He contemplated the idea.
"Femme."
"Oh that's easy," Jubilee jumped to answer. She fluttered her lashes a bit, smiling at Gambit. "Beautiful woman."
"Sorry petite." His grin was a tad sympathetic, even if he mentally had to restrain his exasperation. They were only practicing very basic words for the kids' first review test. And femme was practically a cognate.
"Small," chimed Tabby with a smirk, finally dropping her bored expression. She wasn't in the French class, but his little tutoring section for Rahne, Jaime, and Jubilee had somehow mushroomed into a gathering of all the New Mutants. The appeal seemed to be a mix of himself (Amara's blush would seem to indicate so), the language (Roberto at least seemed to be comparing it to Spanish), or just seeing their teammates humiliating themselves trying to communicate in it (undoubtedly the root of Tabby's presence).
"But that's what you always say!" Jubilee protested.
He spoke over her protest. "Bu' dat be belle femme."
"Belle – like the Disney movie?" Jaime asked.
"D'accord!" Rahne seemed pleased to be able to apply her new knowledge.
Remy winced. The butchering of his home language, or at least a variant, by sole-English speakers always made him cringe. "Actually, d'accord is to agree wit' a statement, not ansa a question. You want c'est vrai."
"What does that mean?"
"That's right."
"Huh?" And he had agreed to this why again?
"Whatcha up to swamp rat?"
"What about the older students?" It was a loaded question and Remy watched the telepath carefully for any signs the older man knew about the little offer he'd just received. Still, it couldn't hurt to fudge the issue. He splayed his hands and gave a cocky grin. "Sure I could teach Scotty something."
Xavier met his eyes evenly. "I leave that decision in their hands. They are old enough to make their own arrangements." He paused, peering over his steepled hands. "I'm sure you can work out those details with them personally."
Remy kept his face still.
Well, wasn't that interesting.
"Jus' being helpful." Immediately, his eyes hooded, peering at Rogue sideways. His fingers twitched.
"You?" Her tone was hostile and his jaw stiffened ever so slightly. "What, they payin' you off with chocolate cigarettes?" It was mild scorn and somehow, that just made it harder to swallow.
He scoffed, leaning back against his chair. "Like I'm dat cheap." He watched her carefully. And maybe…maybe he was attracted to pain.
"Xavier asked him to," Bobby sniped from his position leaning against a wall. His crossed arms now looked less casual and more restrained angry. Remy flicked his eyes over the audience, noting the keen gaze Tabby was looking between them both. But he didn't miss the startled, then assessing look of Rogue. He turned back to the small crowd.
"Bonus time." Grins spread over his study group, but his attention wasn't on them. He looked defiantly over at Rogue.
"Connasse."
Rogue's eyes narrowed. "I know that one."
"Imagine dat," he drawled.
She frowned. "You shouldn't be teachin' them swears."
He shrugged indolently. "'s important they know 'em. Make sure they don't insult someone accidentally."
"Of course not accidentally," she mocked, giving him a long look. Their eyes met rapier-sharp. Finally, she tossed her hair. "Then maybe ah cin help." She eyed him shrewdly before throwing it, like bloody bait to shark. "Bibette."
Remy's eyes narrowed this time. "Dat's Cajun," he said clipped.
Her eyes became mockingly large. "Imagine that."
"Rogue!"
She turned, registering Kitty's waving form. With only a single glance back, she turned on her heel.
"Guess I can't help further," the words trailed after and his fists clenched uncontrollably.
But he didn't follow her. Not again.
She fled from him.
His first instinct had been to take stock of his condition. He felt as if his skin had been laced with frostbite – or so he assumed frostbite must feel, though he'd never actually experienced it before. And he gasped in the light-headed evidence she had definitely drained him. Without him even f-ing realizing it.
His next panicked check had been his mental blocks. Ever since the beginning of his practice, he'd been perfecting maintaining his mental walls while still opening his empathetic senses. It had been difficult maintaining the paradox, but he'd been pleased with the results so far as he'd been able to tell. But this time – had he been so successful?
She fled from him.
He'd looked over at her, her eyes big, but not green – the red-on-black glared back at him and he felt his stomach twist. She had drawn him in deep this time and he felt fear of her absorption for the very first time.
But it wasn't what she could do to him.
No, it was what she could take from him.
She fled from him and it took him a minute to realize the real reason why. His empathy was still engaged, still entangled with her and – even fleeing down the hall, he could feel the echo, vibrating all the way to throb inside him. A Siren's call.
The acrid taste of her pain, her fear, her despair.
It was that, her despair that haunted him the most. He knew what being out of control felt like, the dizzying sinking sensation that the world has just spun completely from its axis and there's not a d- thing you can do to stop it or fix it; he couldn't bear to see her, her of all people, broken by it.
He couldn't not go to her.
Walking down the hall, well half-staggering, he pushed aside his own doubts, his own fears. This was about her, not him. Apparently she hadn't absorbed so much of his mind.
However, he told himself he could only go as far as she let him, not beyond –
"Let me in chérie."
"Jus' leave meh alone Remy! Ah-ah – Y' shou'n't be nea' meh!"
The quiver of her voice was unmistakable – as well as trill that went down his spine at her use of his name. Like now, now she knew him.
"Let me be the one to decide dat chérie."
– but as he picked the lock, he felt the depth of that lie.
"Ah ain't leavin' yah Rogue."
He could not turn away from her, not now, and he would use each and every advantage he had to get in – into her.
"We gonna get through dis Rogue."
The game's stakes had just been raised.
"Dat's a promise."
He ignored the voice inside that mocked him – what were his promises worth?
When she covered herself in an overkill of layers, he could practically see the shields being raised one by one with each slide against her lovely, deadly skin. And as he tucked her to his side, trying to offer the comfort she refused to accept, he knew he would have to break her down and he would; this wasn't a game he or she could afford to lose.
He had just swung onto the roof when –
"What happened?"
The growl came out of nowhere and his feet slipped. Slippery-fingered, his hands scrabbled to the shingles – and Wolverine grabbed him. Hauling him fully unto the roof with one hand, he dropped the younger man ungracefully on the roof.
With slit, shrewd eyes, he asked again.
"What happened?"
Remy arranged himself into a lounging position, pulling out a cigarette at the same time to soothe his shot nerves. He kept his hands in shadow to cover the fact they were still a bit shaky. He'd forgotten why he waited down there, hoping to outstay the inevitable energy drain she inflicted. But he hadn't even sensed the other man up here. He took a drag of the cigarette. D-, she packed a punch.
He shrugged infuriatingly. "De chere an' Gambit jus' g' a bit carried away." He wanted to say something more vulgar, but – on the floor of the bathroom, she clutched herself shaking so hard, holding in the tears - he couldn't muster the energy. Besides Wolverine was liable to gut him for anything too crude. Knowing about the affair and abiding to the agreement to butt out, didn't make the guardian any happier about it happening.
Predictably, the other man's still sheathed fist clenched.
"I smelled her fear."
Remy tensed reflexively, his stomach clenching. He hadn't felt it though, suffocating her with every ragged breath. Too forcefully, he pitched his cigarette away. "It was nothing. I took care of it."
His voice was too tight and impatiently he didn't wait to see the response, just turned to go. His leg shifted off-balance on the first step and he barely caught himself in time. He ignored the fact Wolverine had shifted to catch him, just in case.
He felt Wolverine's eyes bore into his back as he slipped into the night.
It was only the next day, when he'd realized Rogue had somehow managed to sic the redhead on him, after she slipped out of the Danger Room without using the locker room and managed to get out of the house without him getting within fifty yards of her, that the fear of her absorption returned.
Just how much had she seen? Had she dreamed something? He'd overheard enough from Kitty and Kurt to know she could dream others' memories and nightmares. What could have made so afraid she couldn't stand to even see him?
Not knowing was like an itch infecting his brain. But he wasn't able to relieve it.
He'd just gotten to the kitchen door, already plotting how exactly he could get to the school first, grab Rogue before she entered school – or his mind whirled with possible excuses he could offer the school secretary for pulling her out of class for a few minutes.
Belatedly he recognized the form wheeling into the doorway.
D- it.
Xavier looked up at him and he stilled under the gaze.
"Remy, just who I wanted to talk to."
"Oh?" he asked, leaning against the door with a nonchalance he didn't feel. Distantly, he heard the sound of an engine start – and she moved further out of reach.
"I couldn't help notice this morning you seemed," he paused and Remy could fill in the blank. Uncoordinated. Awkward. Unable to perform usual tasks without difficulty. Jeannie should've been able to corner him so easily or effectively. She'd actually been able to eliminate him from the game – prior, he'd only ever been tagged by accident and he winced at the blemish to his reputation. Then again, there was also the fact he'd almost walked into a wall he hadn't anticipated… "Preoccupied," Xavier offered instead generously. "Is there anything you might wish to discuss with me?"
He resisted the urge to curl his hands, cursing Wolverine, f-ing tattletale. "It ain't nothing I can't handle," he dismissed, with a tad more firmness than he wished to convey. Xavier scanned his face carefully and out of old habit, Remy strengthened his mental blocks.
But Xavier just nodded. "I trust your judgment." Remy felt the unnerving impulse to shuffle his feet, but he stifled it. "Nonetheless, I would ask that you would see Hank, for my own peace of mind."
Remy's lips compressed, but he simply shrugged. "Sure, ain't like Gambit got anything betta t' do."
He cursed mentally, but in Cajun, just in case.
"I watched the video from today's Danger Room session. Perhaps you'd like to describe your difficulties?"
It wasn't the first time he'd been in this position. Before he began training the students, Xavier had tacked on the condition of regular check-ups. Remy had a known distaste for
doctors and anything associated with the Med Lab, but he also knew that others practicing with Rogue had a similar requirement. He acquiesced to the demand.
"It's a bit difficult t' concentrate and use all mah senses at once."
"All your senses?" Hank asked curiously. "Is this restricted to the base five or concentrated in your mutant capabilities?"
Remy shifted on the clothed seat. He hated medical offices and questions – almost as much as he minded probing telepaths.
"Mutant mostly, mais mah eyes ti'ed out."
Hank nodded comprehensively, writing on his notepad, his glasses slipping slightly down his furry nose.
"So your spatial sensory input is difficult to coordinate with your physical sensory input – do you feel the input itself has been compromised?"
Remy grimaced inwardly; he knew that wall was going to come back to haunt him.
He nodded however, hating the fact he had to answer the questions as fully as possible. Hank had given him that lecture the first time.
"To what degree?"
This was even harder to admit. "It's jus' beginnin' to come back now." Faintly, he could feel the vibration of the pencil brush against the notepad Hank held. It was a far cry from his normal perception.
"And your bio-kinetic abilities?"
"Takes longer t' charge an' don't think I cin charge as high as usual." This led to the inevitable hooking up to cables and tests to compare just how exactly his senses were functioning in comparison to his 'normal.' Up to this point, her effects had been manageable: a drag of time when trying to use his mutant abilities, being more tired out just about all the time, getting disoriented or even cold more easily, being unable to pursue as rigorous tasks as he was used to. But he'd adjusted.
The doctor never asked the obvious next question: why, the most obvious proof Remy had that Hank knew the answer. He was relieved not to speak of it; he didn't want to speak to anyone but Rogue about last night. Besides, they'd agreed not to speak of their arrangement outside. Remy wondered if Xavier had anticipated that.
But then Hank asked the question.
"Will I be seeing you again in the future?"
He stiffened reflexively. "'Course." Sliding off the table, he ignored Hank's intent look.
But he had to wonder if that would remain the answer. He stifled the thought, but her avoidance had stirred up shadows not easy to put away. She couldn't quit now; what could convince her to do so?
The worst thought was that he already knew exactly what.
He planned, he plotted - anything to avoid the nagging voice, the one that told him he did have much to fear - why the hell would she want to keep going with you Diable?
But he'd felt her desire – could his own desire have confused his own senses so? It seemed laughable, but…
Vixen.
He wasn't laughing.
Her continued avoidance and then the dark void of her room did nothing to allay such a voice. She'd always been there before, waiting for him, sometimes even impatiently. His knuckles whitened from the tension of his fists. As the minutes strung out, so did his nerves - but he hadn't brought his smokes, though he couldn't have lit up anyway. He wasn't going to give her any additional ammunition. Not when she surely didn't need it.
His eyes still flicked longingly to the balcony - and it occurred to him how simple it would be for him to simply walk out them. Cut his losses and run. But -
she was clutching herself so hard he could see the pressure mar her pure white skin
- he couldn't.
She opened the door quietly and he felt the irrational urge to shove her into it. He let it pass.
"'s bout time you showed up. Beginin' to t'ink y' skipped ou' tanight."
"Yah shouldn't be here swamp rat."
So calm; the tension in him just coiled further.
"Told yah help y' get through dis. An' dat a locked door ain't gonna keep me out."
His stomach clenched just in memory of that moment of discovery. He walked forward, as if it could counteract the distance she was forcing between them.
"I don' know why ah absorbed yah Remy."
Remy. His name was jarring off her still painted lips, exquisite pain. Something released within him.
And suddenly there was hope.
"Ah can't –"
"So weh find out. I ain't throwin' 'way all our progress."
"I'm not afraid."
It was a lie.
"Yeah right–"
But not how she thought it was. He wasn't afraid of her touch, not physically.
So he touched her, fingers to chin, only gloved for her protection.
He wouldn't let her run and hide. If he couldn't - then neither could she.
"I was caught off guard Rogue. But I'm not afraid. Why are you?"
"You should be!"
She answered his question - and the irony was enough to make him reach for her.
"Damn it Remy, you should be! I'm poison- All of me – Can't you see?!"
Her pain, her fear, her despair...
You ain't nothing but mutant scum LeBeau.
Rejection was unbearably bitter - and so he reached for her, despite her pleas.
"Don't do this Remy. Ah-"
God help him, he never could resist a damsel in distress.
"You're not a monster."
He would know.
And finally, finally the Jericho walls came crashing down.
He finally released his empathy, throwing it out like a life raft, even to draw out every exquisite, heart-rending drop of pain. But -
Exactly four days before, Wolverine had managed to get in a blow right under his rib cage, with all the tempered dislike and thwarted disgust mixed into that single hit during their hand-to-hand 'practice'. It had knocked the breath of life right out of him, making his very senses all wink out like the lights at the Big Easy on an especially humid night. The disorienting vertigo -
It was like déjà vu and he nearly buckled, only her new strong grip and his own already wrapped arms keeping him in place.
It took him a full minute to realize what had happened. His empathy had rebounded.
His mind raced, matching it to his only ever other experience: when he'd inadvertently tried to charm a telepath with some empathic ability. Her shields had encompassed her emotions and openly repelled his attempt to manipulate them. It hadn't hurt that bad though, most likely because he usually asserted his empathy much more cautiously.
On auto-pilot, he held onto her, murmuring soothing statements, regardless of the water, salt, and makeup running to stain his shirt.
Apparently, she had absorbed quite a bit of him.
But…he couldn't fold now.
He'd lost an advantage, but it didn't mean the end of the game. His empathy was usually only a last resort, a strategic reserve. He'd become too entranced with using it, intoxicated with the emotions that consumed her for the very first time.
Actually, this was a helpful development. Without such access into her, he wouldn't get so lost in her. Not like the previous night. Not again.
So he kept playing. He was Gambit after all. There were a million ways to maneuver and he knew most of them. He cracked a joke, kept touching her, kept the atmosphere light, kept her close, read her body language, kept touching her, put into action the back-up plan he'd long ago considered, watched her, played glib, flirtatious, kept touching her, pushed her into more exposure like always, demanded her pants, her gloves off, kept touching her, coaxed her, reassured her, kept touching her –
He couldn't stop touching her…
She ducked her head beneath the sheet and he was amused by her shyness, especially considering the play of light and shadows was nothing to his eyes. And when he kissed her forehead, he knew that this touch was much more than desire, than the friction between two bodies.
But he couldn't stop touching her.
And finally she reached for him.
He hated the sheet in that moment, but he had to love her desire, the affirmation yes she did want him, she was just afraid – of herself. If he could just get her to focus on the touch, the pleasure… And she seemed receptive, skimming him even more boldly than she usually did.
And ever so tentatively, he sent out the tendrils of his empathy to creep around the barrier he could now tell was in place. It held firm, but didn't repel him as before – and as he brushed against it, he could feel the throbbing echoes of her delight. And he knew he would get in.
In a rush of relief-tinged euphoria, he flipped them over. Her sudden squeak made him want to laugh out loud.
"What de hell-"
"Jus' t'ought y' might wan'a switch i' up a li'l."
"'Kay."
She straddled him and he had to force himself not to rock against her, reminding his libido the importance of going slow. So he stayed still while she molded him through the fabric. With the light behind her, he could make her out quite well, only the exact expression of her face eluding him. But his empathy, still winding around her defenses, did pick up the moment something changed.
He reached for her, curling against her side, trying to discern what had happened.
"Rogue?"
With a shudder, she crashed down upon him, curling as close as the sheet would allow – and he cursed that he couldn't see her face, sense her.
"Ah want ta touch you."
He could hear the hint of tears and that was enough – Rogue was heart-breaking in her own.
And he couldn't deny her.
"I know."
"I hate this! Ah don' wanna be a prisona fa the rest of mah life! D- it!"
A prisoner to one's mutation, one's life. She did not rage alone.
"Oh chérie, y' will get dis. Je le sais."
This empathy had nothing to do with powers, but he reached out nonetheless, his echo enfolding her – and ever so gingerly, it crept beyond her walls.
"And how 'xactly do you know?"
"Yah too stubborn ta not to."
It was an honest sentiment, but an evasion.
And then she nailed him to the wall.
"Yah just sayin' that 'cuz you wan' ta sleep with me."
He just, reacted. There was no first rationalization, moment to think, to plan – the barb slipped straight in, feathered with the reassurance it was said completely honestly. And equally, his reaction was laced with the reality – it wasn't simply for that – and in that moment, he wished it was.
"Remy!"
He wanted to throw the sheet away, make her look at him as exposed as he was, but he gave it back, watching as she began to insulate herself again – from him.
"Dieu Rogue, dis ain't 'bout me. I t'ought, vraiment-"
He did want her, craved touching her too much.
But there was more.
"Dis be 'bout you Rogue, y' gettin' control. It ain't 'bout me an' what ah want!"
"Ah know that Gambit. Don' gotta be rude 'bout it."
She retreated behind frostiness and he realized he'd hurt her feelings. For all Rogue was, she was still just a girl in some ways. And she still wanted to be wanted, attractive, no matter how she denied it.
"Dat ain't what ah meant ta say."
He'd fumbled. Cursing, he tried to figure out the best way out of this mess. But he didn't know. He didn't know how to explain, to make it better.
So, for once in his life, he told the truth.
He took off his gloves.
"Yah wanna know why Remy wears gloves?"
And he held out a hand.
"Started wearin' gloves so de charge went dere first. Gave meh time ta le' go of stuff 'fore it started to charge. Din' always have 'nough time ta get de gloves off dough."
And showed his scars.
He knew what it was like to find yourself suddenly, unpredictably out of control. She didn't flinch or pity him, and it means more to him than he could possibly…
"Took meh nearly duex années ta get it totally under control. Took meh longer ta learn how ta reabsorb a charge. Kept da gloves dough, jus' in case."
He didn't add he'd made up for those two years ten-fold. Touch had become his conquest, his badge of victory – until…
He told the truth. Or at least part. But it was as much as he could give.
And she reached for him – but stopped to go for her gloves. He thwarted her like always, feeling vaguely unsettled by his own voluntary revelation.
The gamble, the gambit, would be worth it – for her bare touch.
And it paid off.
It wasn't until the next night –
"Ah think ah know why ah started ta absorb."
"N'ayez pas peur, hein?"
No fear – he wasn't sure who he'd been trying to reassure.
"Told yah ah'd get yah through this."
He hadn't realized how true those words were.
"I want, wanted- ta be closer ta yah. Ah was excited an' wan'ed more."
The flattering meaning, that she'd wanted him so much, paled in view of what it had incited.
"If ah knew more about yah. If we got closer, lahke friends, then mah mutation would be les' likely ta come on."
How much of him would she need to know to kill that desire?
"Secret for secret. Quid pro quo."
Impossible.
And yet…
He stopped her apology, her thanks, her good-bye. It should have been right, but…
She'd said Gambit.
Was that all he was?
"Y' really want ta go on practicin' wit' me?"
"If yah willin' ta go through-"
"No' de question. Do yah, Rogue, want meh, Remy?"
"Yes."
"Y' suhre yah wan' ta chance it wit' dis swamp rat?"
She had to be sure.
He had to be.
And he didn't give her time to regret it, pushing her again, plying her in the ways he was quickly learning drove her crazy, very, very carefully coaxing her new empathetic barrier into yielding open to him…
And finally, he pulled himself away, feeling the hum of her mutation adjoining the buzz of arousal and nip at his fingers – hungrily after his energy.
And finally, he asked for a secret. He could do this, he could control this exchange.
But – she amazed him. Like always.
"Ah've never felt this way before."
He had to look away, but the words burbled up despite him. How much closer could they get?, lingered in the back of his brain.
"I neva considered sayin' non."
-the next night that she raised the stakes and he realized even as she asked, he'd already bet it all.
He had to keep playing.
It only got harder.
"What makes yah think weh gonna want ta eat something from Cajun country?" She leaned against the counter, looking disinterested into the pot he was stirring.
"Some people like de spice," he clucked his tongue.
He poured more in defiantly.
"Not that much." She wrinkled up her nose.
"Well, a homme likes to enjoy de work of his hands." He ran his hot eyes over her and felt an almost vicious thrill when the tip of her cheeks tinted. But then Scott and Alex entered and she was normal, pale Rogue who barely even looked at him, walking out, and he was just the unlucky flunky who'd had his name picked to fix dinner.
His good mood soured and his fingers clutched the ladle too tightly.
How could she be so damn untouchable?
At the next general practice, he complained that he had more students to supervise than certain others.
"Gambit," her voice was like ice to him, "don't be such a child," her disdain poison.
"No child."
Had she so quickly forgotten?
The anger, it felt too raw and he covered it with a smirk, hooking his gloved thumb in his belt loop. But she just glared and the anger burned brighter.
The card sizzled in his hands, beginning the whine that told it was getting close to detonation, feeling the vibration ripple like a second sense. He clutched it tighter, not daring to remove his eyes from his target. Cyclops came around the divider cautiously, hand on his visor and he was out of time. He threw it – and only when the card went white, did he realize exactly what he'd done.
Most people considered red fire to be the hottest. Actually, the scale went from red to orange to yellow to white, each more intense than the next. And the supernova blew out white.
Cyclops hit it, just like Gambit had intended, and the resulting blast shook the entire room. Remy skidded back only to be stopped by a wall. Hard. Cyclops was luckier; he ducked behind the partition in time.
He coughed even as the burnt material of the session vaporized into nonexistence. Blinking rapidly, hoping to clear his eyes of the encompassing white that had blinded despite his eyes closing, he was shocked by the first voice he heard.
"Swamp rat havin' some trouble?"
He was aching, bruised, and had just underestimated his weapon. Her lack of concern was a match to dry kindling.
"None at all, river rat. Sometimes de power revs a bit too high, leaves a bit too much damage. Wouldn't know 'bout dat I suppose."
Her cheeks flushed, but not for any fun reason, and he'd knew he'd been too sharp…
"Least ah'm not losing out to 'visorboy,' Gambit," she returned in kind with deadly aim and it struck home.
"Are you okay Scott?" she turned to the other boy, who just nodded.
And she just walked away from him.
Wolverine, now arrived on the scene, looked at him almost –
He'd waited for the man to stop him, demand why he'd dropped her - the thought burned but he was sure that wouldn't be worse, wouldn't be worse than that one d- almost sympathetic look.
He didn't want to say it, but the fact Wolverine didn't even have to ask –
(Though he had a feeling there was something he was forgetting, something involving the unbelievable hangover he'd woken up with – in his bed though he didn't remember making it there – the day after he walked out of Rogue's room…)
He still wanted to thrash him.
But it was Cyclops that spoke up. "You're being reckless Gambit. You need to have more self-control."
The perfect little golden boy, model brother, he couldn't stand him, especially not now. Not after – "I joined the X-Men because…He was nice ta meh an' actually saw meh as ah person."
"Well, we can't all be perfect like de Fearless Leader, non?" he snapped. His fingers itched with a charge, but the session was over. He settled for a cigarette.
"You're not supposed to smoke in here."
"Oh?"
He flicked the cigarette, managing to give the finger at the same time. He could practically see Cyclops' finger twitch towards his visor.
"He's still wired," Wolverine pointed out unexpectedly.
Remy scowled at him, then quickly smoothed into a smirk. "Well, it ain't like Scooter is that much of a challenge."
But Cyclops was now looking at him with concern.
"Power and energy fluctuations," he murmured, as if to himself. "Maybe you should visit Dr. McCoy to-"
It was too much. He hadn't been to Hank since his last victorious check-up, unable to stand the silent unasked questions, the probing, the theories, the thought it was the last –
"No!" He stubbed the cigarette on the floor, refusing to acknowledge the volume of his voice. "I'm perfectly, f-ing fine!"
He strode out of the room, leaving behind a perplexed team leader and intent Wolverine.
But ever so slowly, he could not deny her effects.
His powers, his very energy, seemed to have become super-charged and his attention began to fragment from the pressure of holding them in check. Concentration became harder, frustration, confusion, anger swelling into a molten ball within him – and the tension was becoming unbearable. The riot she'd created in his body began to spill over, despite his own wishes. He became intolerant of the slightest irritant, pushing the New Mutants harder in the exercises he had charge of; his humor grew edgier and neither cards nor cigarettes could truly calm him.
Rogue herself was unaffected by his normal banter; it simply rolled off her impermeable armor of her made-up face. Before, her dismissiveness had been amusing, almost intriguing.
Now it was maddening.
His hands itched insanely, as if he was thirteen again, especially every time he spotted a certain streak, the curves, the shadow of her body. It wouldn't have been so bad if he didn't have to see her every f-ing day.
But what really grated, was the layers he could see, sense, feel. The layers she'd let him remove stood now full, impregnable. He'd stripped her down to the bone and now he couldn't even get within a foot of her.
His retorts got sharper, his remarks lewder. And even if the flush was anger; he could at least pretend for a moment it was more.
She wasn't unaffected.
He didn't let himself ponder why that was so important.
Despite his better instincts, he finally started to avoid her, but no sooner did he succeed then he sought her out when the itch was too strong – and he wasn't sure who he was punishing.
The snippets of time he'd stolen with her, wrapped in each other, was he the only one they haunted – would not leave alone?
But how could she pretend so well, be so d- unaffected?
How could she: "I'm just using-" You. The ghost of the word she hadn't wanted to say. How was that different from before? Why was that enough to make her pull out? And why the hell did it want him want to spit nails?
It stung like papercuts on his eyelids every time he looked at her. Untouchable her.
And the need to get under her skin just grew.
"It's betta this way."
The hell it was.
Let's rearrange
I wish you were a stranger I could disengage
Just say that we agree and then never change
Soften a bit until we all just get along
But that's disregard
Find another friend and you discard
As you lose the argument in a cable car
Hanging above as the canyon comes between
It only got better.
Remy had loved spices since they'd rendered his taste buds inoperable way back when. They exploded in his mouth, firing up his mouth like the energy that would soon race through his very skin, scintillating, twisting around his senses until he felt like he could taste the whole world in that simple dish.
Rogue's secrets were like that – at once sweet, then laced with such heat it made his very throat ache. He'd once thought her decadent like the foreign chocolate so rich it's bitter to the mouth, but her like this – it was far more full-bodied than he'd imagined.
She was even more intoxicating, with her delicious little secrets, even if the ease of her admissions unnerved him. He guarded himself, taking all she gave knowingly or not and then tactfully giving, but sometimes, sometimes he wondered how well…
"I be t'inkin' of growin' back de goatee." It was an off-hand admission and he was hardly expecting her outburst.
"Yah not serious!"
"Quoi
Her mouth set stubbornly. "I don't like it." He blinked.
"Pourquoi?" She shrugged.
"It's too, ah dunno, tamed, regulated, ah dunno. It just ain't you – just like that bowl cut." She wrinkled her face, then with a mischievous look, reached up and messed with his hair. He might've protested if the move hadn't put him practically at eye level with her breasts. "Dis is much betta."
He stared at her. "Didn't know you cared chere."
She shrugged, not looking full at him. "Jus' thought about it."
And he is inordinately pleased. She's thought about it.
It was the first time she admitted any attraction, beside his eyes.
Remy had always considered himself a breast man. They were always right there out in front, just demanding attention, and he felt it downright discourteous to not lavish them with such attention.
But with Rogue, it wasn't her breasts he found himself becoming sticky fingered over. Not that they didn't have their merits; despite what others might say about bigger better, he rather liked how he could wrap his entire hands around hers and not be overwhelmed.
It was her hips.
"I t'ink you've made me inta a hips man."
He mumbled it into her neck, wrapping his hands around the swell of her hips, feathering over the hollows.
She made an indistinct noise as he stroked the inner expanse of bone covered by flesh. "Made you inta?" she got out, sounding amused.
He nodded, rubbing his nose against her.
"What, my breasts no' good 'nough?"
He blinked, finally raising his head. "Remy neva said that!" One of his hands trailed up to circle her right breast as if in defiance of the very idea.
She flashed an amused grin. "Well, can guess what yah usually." He snorted, not sure if he was pleased she'd guessed right.
"Coulda been an ass man," he grumbled good naturedly, his other hand slipping behind her.
She rolled her eyes. "Well, yah do seem ta be an all-round perv most of the time." The kiss she placed on his chest took any potential sting out of the words.
He pouted, but returned his hands to her hips.
"'m serious though; y' got abondant hips." (lush)
"Oh gee, what every girl wants to hear."
He kissed her then, her sarcasm and lidded eyes simply too appetizing.
But really, he wasn't sure what it was about her hips that persistently engaged his attention. It could be a mirror of her own habits – a hand on her cocked hip was one of her favorite positions. It could be how provocative he'd always found that little strip of skin she'd allowed exposed to the world, just begging to be touched. It could be simply how often he'd had to grip them just to keep himself from moving too fast for her. It could've even – but no, he had no need of such a possessive gesture, the hand, arm around the waist.
He just liked her hips.
The days and nights melted together: the day anticipation, the night gratification. Tantalizing appetizers that ended up with her beneath him, watching her face, her voice, her body become drunk on touch, on
him. Power. Pleasure. The line had blurred for him far too long ago.But this was new. Knowing her arching at his touch was for the first time, unconquered territory – virgin, the first to learn the secrets of her body. And it was all genuine as he felt the echo with his empathy, opening himself to her novel ecstasy. He slowly began to realize the real fun that lay in the process, not just the pay-off, but then again, it wasn't as if he'd ever delayed sex in a rel- with a woman he'd wanted for so long.
He felt too full.
It was dizzying, exhilarating, addicting
Bending her, molding her into the image of desire – and yet, he wasn't creating her or really shaping her. It occurred to him that this was merely revealing the Rogue without fear. They began to waver between having to be pushed and pulling in return; he wasn't sure anymore who was in control but she was too there, every night, he couldn't think about it.
And yet…
"Right, mon petite amie?
"Ah ain't yah petit anything."
He stiffened unnoticeably as she ducked from under his arm, skirting Jubilee and a prickly Evan. He stared at the wall and murmured under his breath, "I know."
It was stupid; he didn't even know why he'd even said it.
- cultural slang note: petite amie in France means girlfriend. -
"Is this like having a lover?"
She sounded puzzled and his brain momentarily froze.
"Quoi?"
She shrugged.
"It just seems weird, y'know. Ah mean, fa me and then for you."
She wavered.
"It's just weird thinkin' I'd have a lover."
He couldn't respond, but to press her even closer to him and seal her questions away with a bruising kiss.
The truth was too much for words.
It was a novelty dressing her, the fulfillment of an illusion - that this was his place. To not only to take apart, but put back together. To not only pull her down to the bed, but pick her up from it. To not only greet at the door, but to tuck in at night.
But as he slipped out the window, he knew it for what it was. Nothing but an illusion.
And one could only bet on one's own illusion.
Yet the illusion only deepened.
She'd so cheated, but he wouldn't call her on it. Seeing his grace in her moves had been heady for far too many reasons, the thought of him inside her, so strongly, too-
The flare faded and he was dazzled by the green of her eyes and that grin - she was so, happy.
But her hand neared and he focused on how much fun they could have in this position – he was busy on his second fantasy when she touched him. But there's no tug, no pull, no drawing out and even though he's used to that, there's still the fact she was expecting to absorb him and the dawning shock on her face is enough to throw him completely off-balance.
She didn't absorb him.
Even though she'd meant to.
And he is completely thrown by the moment of victory.
That shocking moment was enough to buoy him through his immediate impromptu check-up, murmuring over a heightened energy shield yet certainty the event was due to Rogue's control, complete with glowering Wolverine – obviously testy over the fact Rogue's impromptu control had come with her interaction with Remy, rather than himself or another.
But the bubble was burst with inevitable abruptness. News always spread fast in the Mansion and word of Rogue's assault and unintended absorption was on everyone's lips. He hung back, his emotions too volatile to voice.
He'd never wanted to destroy someone so badly, someone who made a woman he knew as strong as steel curl up into a ball and try to block out the rest of the world.
But the comparison to her state only a handful of days earlier was unavoidable – and he was reminded of his purpose. He had to help her gain control.
"Ain't y' fault Rogue."
"Mah mutation."
"Chere it was self-defense! Y' can't- Dat ain't de point anyway."
For her sake, at least.
But he couldn't just sit there as she suffered. He didn't totally understand her mutation, despite how he tried, and revealing secrets to her now, Sabertooth, Xavier, was simply, not possible. He couldn't help his curiosity, the lingering of the ever nagging fear – how much longer before she realizes just who you are Gambit?
"He might wonda 'bout the big Remy psyche in mah mind."
"It dat big?"
"It's big enough. It ain't that bad though; it jus' kinda hangs out in the back of mah mind. Like Logan, Kitty and Kurt; they all just kinda stay in the background, 'less they really got something ta say."
"Mine don' mouth off, do it?"
"Less than yah do."
– but that wasn't why he'd come. He'd known she wouldn't practice. And he couldn't just sit there as she suffered. Not if he could help it.
"Maybe je t'aide?"
Even as he spoke, he let his empathy unfurl, gently brushing by her barriers, crooning a surrender. It was odd to ask though. He'd never charmed someone with their knowledge, let alone permission; he wondered if that would make it easier or harder.
"I could get de psyches t' leave yah 'lone."
"Ah need ta do this on mah own, not depend–"
Resistance – he usually saw it as fun or a challenge, but this was hardly so.
"Chere, y' not read de X-Men handbook or somet'ing? Can't do everyt'ing on yah own amoureux
The nickname he'd never used before with a femme seemed to slip out around her, with all the casual ease of belonging.
"Everybody need help parfois." (sometimes) "No' dependence chérie
Of course not; the very thought was ludicrous. As if anyone could depend on Gambit – only someone wanting a theft dared do so.
"Yah need eye contact ta do this?"
She asked the question with completely guilelessness. She just wanted to know –
"Nah really, but it helps. Somet'ing 'bout de red an' black."
"They flare."
He tensed at the tell he'd never been aware of, underlain by the explanation – one no one had ever gotten close enough to tell.
"It's nice."
- and her innocent appraisal reached right into him and tugged. He breathed, then just shook his head.
"Y' one of a kind, Rogue. Now jus' – reahlax."
His empathy slipped through her barriers like it was simply the surface of a lake and he was enfolded in her. Almost immediately he could feel them – the formerly indistinct throb of rage and frustration emanating from her became swirls, knots of tumultuous emotions. He could feel her fatigue, her sadness (like the weeping willow bending to gravity), her pain all around, separate from the quick, sharp bursts of fury. He focused on them, throwing all the charm he had to lull, pacify, soothe them.
"Dose boys are gonna get ti'ed out and mind dere own business."
And then, there was an echo, a rippling of calm that spread even further out. He felt a knot he hadn't discerned, shimmer as a center of tranquility that intensified that which he was inducing – synchronizing.
Was it – could it be – was that his own psyche?
But he couldn't ask.
"Shhh…"
Bare shadows in the periphery, he felt layers form, distilling the raging furies into the barest of whispers. More psyches? But he didn't touch them, coming to appreciate the complexity of Rogue's mutation – and coping in a whole new way. Instead, he contracted within her, ruling his own emotions to solidify the peace of her mind – in sync with his own.
For dizzying moments, he couldn't tell where he ended and she began.
And finally, he broke away.
"Y' good chérie?"
"Yeah."
He was loathe to leave, still hooked on, in her. Once upon a time, he'd been unfamiliar with the feeling. Once upon a time.
"Thanks Remy."
The appeal to return to the bed was seductive, even as his fingers left the alarm clock.
"Don' mention it."
He still left.
He was getting in too deep –
And then she kissed him.
He'd been cursing his inability to immediately feel her out – but then she kissed him, for all the world to see – and just when he thought he could only want her so much, a whole new world opened up.
Sense told him to maintain his distance, but – she just kept drawing him in. He couldn't stop.
If only reality was so cooperative…
The man's fist would've clothes-lined him if he hadn't anticipated it. He flashed a grin he just knew irritated the other X-Man out of his skin, lounging against the wall.
"Wolvie, what can Gambit do for you?"
Wolverine scowled, eyes lighting on the remnants of Rogue's lipstick that lingered at the corner of his mouth.
"Gettin' sloppy Gumbo."
He smirked, bringing up a finger to brush at the incriminating mark. "In Remy's world, dis is considered gettin' lucky."
Wolverine's claws half-way extended before he could control it, forcing Remy against the wall. The smirk didn't flicker.
"She ain't one of your cards Cajun." It flickered infinitesimally; the feral man managed a grim smile. "She ain't yours at all. Remember that bub."
And when Wolverine turned on his heel, it went out.
He had to touch her, had to reassure himself: none of that mattered. She was his as much as either of them wanted and – it didn't matter anyway. But still, he proposed the club; still he didn't deny the desire to mark her as surely as she'd marked him.
When he arrived at her room, she wasn't ready.
"Jus' give me a minute," she mumbled into the mirror, rummaging through the items on her bureau. He nodded needlessly, settling on her bed from habit and eying her. He smirked when he realized she'd coordinated to his colors. She looked more beautiful than ever and he mused at how odd it was she could become more attractive to him.
"Take y' time," he said, watching her put on her makeup. It was interesting to observe, the dabbing on of the face a femme presented the world - but it was disconcerting to watch the face he'd grown accustomed to disappear under blush, eye shadow, and lipstick. "Just go easy on de makeup."
She gave an annoyed glance back, with a hint of defiance, lipstick poised. "Why?"
"'s gonna end up on Remy, non?"
Her flush under the already applied pale blush wasn't half as nice as it bare.
She finished with a snap, lips only marginally less plum, and they made their way to the balcony. She insisted on going down first, despite his protest. Sneaking her out made him feel like a teenager, luring the fair neighbor out to dance the humid streets of New Orleans. Lurking below though was the realization this was the first time he'd been able to take her along, the Rogue he knew, when he'd climbed out her window.
Riding on the bike, nodding to the bouncer arm around her waist, pulling her away to make out with her for the sheer fun of it – unable to maintain his distance in the face of her, her – just her, flirting in front of the bartender, the illusion returned, clouding his senses until…
"Your girl's a regular spitfire, isn't she?"
And suddenly he was back facing the man who knew too much.
"She ain't yours at all."
The words came out a bitter echo.
"She's not my girl."
His tone was too sharp, answer too quick, and he could see the bartender raise an eyebrow. He turned to the bar, focusing on the many colorful liquor bottles behind.
"Straight-up bourbon." A bit stiff, but it was a reflexive order, alcohol to get rid of that f-ing voice in the back of his skull.
What the hell did he know?
Relationships were a hassle, too much work, too much aggravation, for too little pay-off. He'd unofficially sworn them off since – her baby blue eyes reflected new hatred, new disgust – and he'd been perfectly fine. He didn't want a relationship, fun was just fine.
And Rogue seemed to have the same attitude – "If ah'm eva gonna have a boyfriend…" – at least for now, and as long as that matched with his attitude, everything would be just fine.
He glanced back at her. Besides, it wasn't like he was to her taste in that way anyway – and she was hardly to his.
His hands itched; the bartender had to call his name twice before he turned back to collect their drinks.
She knew how to play pool and he shouldn't have been disappointed, but d- teaching her had all sorts of fun possibilities. He shook the fantasy...out of his mind.
But he could tell something was off, even as they flirted, even as they drove home, even as they fell onto her bed intertwined. Her walls fended off his attempts to learn, understand the dissonance he sensed by intuition. Unable to read her, he knew how to fix that, finger edging the emerald panties he'd peaked on the way back up - and then she was there with him, "Remy." That breathy gasp was enough to make him hard as hell.
And yet…
"Y' sure yah ready chere?"
"'m sure it's easia ta keep focus when ah ain't the one goin' over the edge. Trust meh."
He stared as those two little words came out of her mouth.
And he did.
He refused to examine it more.
And finally, finally her calculation gave way, until at last there was something genuine and she smiled down at him. It hadn't been practiced (too timid, then too much varying pressure) or polished (too jerky) or the best he'd ever had, but she'd done it – and that seemed to make it mean more. Once it was over, her eyes seemed different and she kissed him and his humor faded but she just smiled.
"Better get cleaned up," and she slipped away from him.
And he is left wondering why he is left wondering.
They had been accelerating the entire time, speeding forward to the inexorable close. But now it was she pushing the pace. He tried to slow down, enjoy feeling each other out all the way (oral had never really been his thing, but with her…), but now she resisted him anew.
With a thief's sense, he could tell something had been lost, but he didn't dare ask. They're getting too close and losing out this close, would be intolerable. She still gave out her secrets, with that ease that could terrify him –
"Mah name-"
He couldn't let her say it. Not that bit of knowledge that she guarded so closely. He is a thief, but even he knows there are some things he should not take. Especially when so 'freely' offered.
"It not be important, hein?
He could not wager on that illusion.
– and she still let him drape his fingers, his mouth, himself all over her, even returning the favor. What more could he truly ask for?
He would hold the bluff that much longer.
That night, he planned to return to the club. Perhaps he even thought, in some far recess of his mind, that somehow he could recapture whatever had slipped away that other night.
"Chere, thought we could go back to de club. An' unless y' comfortable-"
"I'm ready."
She wouldn't meet his eyes and he'd felt a tendril of unease.
"Re'lly? Now I know femme fashion is strange, but-"
"No, Remy. Ah'm ready."
"Oh."
His mind had raced and he'd shocked by the fact he'd stopped anticipating this night.
"D'accord."
He'd been about to suggest he'd come back, sneak into her room like usual when she'd taken his hand. It was the first time they're holding hands and all he can think inanely is he's never come into her room from the front door, instead of slipping in like – like a thief.
He had stop fantasizing about the sex. It had been all that'd been on his mind the first few practices, but slowly, slowly it had drained away, to be replaced with her nervousness, his plans to coax her, ways to get comfortable and pleasure at the same time. The idea he'd forgotten about the culmination of the practice was laughable, but he'd become focused on what they were doing, focusing on each individual night as if it was all there was.
Yet somehow, there they were, unwrapping each other in sharp contrast to the usual haphazard stripping off of a simple dance of desire. The feeling of exposure rattled against his nerves, but he merely focused on her, gripping her hips to anchor him to earth and, and –
She was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen. And he wondered at the fact he is just now noticing.
And then she kissed him. They came together without barriers and he can the blood in his veins accelerating as he covers her with himself. His empathy, unasked, reaches for her as well, to embrace and cradle her emotions as closely as he is to her body. And that is why he feels the prickle of her mutation reach in return, only to be turned aside.
"Rogue?"
He rested his forehead against hers, wondering if he can ask, wondering if she'll give that as her secret.
But as always, she amazes him.
"Ah've never thought of doing this with anyone else."
And he can not hold himself back. He drew her closer, both of them unto the bed, trying to be everything, touch, coat every single cell of her that he can possibly reach. And he allowed the secret of his own fascination pass through his lips.
"When I first saw yah, thought it was a tragedy de fille couldn't touch. Co'n't be touched." In so many different ways. "An' I told myself, if dere was anything ah could eva do, aide-toi I'd do it."
"Ah'm reahdy."
And then, and then he kept his promise.
He wanted it to be perfect for her, but reality made so impossible – and she resisted his attempts, straining to move rather than adjust, but he still strokes down to make sure he's not alone when the moment comes and he's staring into her gorgeous green eyes and he never wants to look away, but she kisses him and he can't keep looking as the heavens part…
He hadn't been ready.
He thinks he should've been over-ready, but – he wasn't ready, not ready for it to be over. But it wasn't was it? He had so much more to teach, to do with her…no it won't be over, not by a long shot. So he stays that night – he can't leave, can't be that cruel for the morning after. Not to her. He gets dressed, knowing he'll still have to make a quick escape, preferably before dawn for discretion's sake. But this, it won't be over.
It can't be – and he thinks she knows that.
And so, he awaits the dawn.
But then the final call – 'time's up' – slapped him in the face.
Remy lounged outside the doorway of Kitty's temporary room. He'd volunteered to help her move, but he'd only lasted so long with Rogue in the room. He'd begged off for a cigarette break. Masochist or not, there was only so much of her venom he could take. But he lingered by the door –
"Did you two have a fight or something?"
"No. Why would you think that?"
He closed his eyes, imagining the slender X-girl shrug. "Well, you two seemed to be, like, getting along. And now-"
Rogue's harsh voice cut her off. "He's just an ass – and ah'm a bitch. Ain't nothing changed." Her tone was flatly resigned.
He couldn't stay.
And he didn't see Kitty bite her lip as Rogue tiredly swung one of her bags over her shoulder, a withdrawn look on her face.
She is just a femme, like innumerable others in his life.
Just a femme.
And he, he's Gambit.
That hitch of her voice, "Remy."
His fist slammed into the mirror.
And he stared at the cracks that formed.
He was.
And suddenly I become a part of your past
I'm becoming the part that don't last
I'm losing you and it's effortless
Without a sound we lose sight of the ground
In the throw around
Never thought that you wanted to bring it down
I won't let it go down till we torch it ourselves
Except he hadn't really thought either her or his 'freedom' had been on the bargaining table – and he's beginning to realize the game he'd thought he was playing wasn't a game at all.
Everyone knows I'm in
Over my head
Over my head
With eight seconds left in overtime
She's on your mind
She's on your mind