Notes: FenellaG - Yes, they are both consumed without wanting to admit it! This will probably all come to a head soon! And I'm happy you felt Rogue became a glimmer of her old self! :) fidesdragon - Hi fides! Always happy to make you happy! :D

Enjoy! x

CITY OF LIGHTS

Chapter 14

Weeks slipped by, the darkness of winter giving way to more temperate climes. The frigid streets of occupied Paris began to thaw, slowly but surely, the slashes of red brought by the Nazi flags no longer the only splashes of colour evident throughout the city.

Remy stood at the bedroom window of L'Apartment, idly smoking a cigarette while he watched a patrol march past on the streets below. He cocked a scornful grimace to himself. Marching… all these German soldiers seemed to do was march… when they weren't enjoying the nightlife that was denied to ordinary Parisians, that was – their bars and their dance halls and their women. When they weren't marching, when they weren't killing, they were like any other men.

Remy stubbed out his cigarette and turned away from the window.

Rogue was lying on her stomach in bed, her skin like white silk against the wine-red sheets.

He'd given up counting the times they'd met like this, preferring not to pay too much attention to something that he had now firmly compartmentalised as pleasure. They met, they enjoyed one another's company, and they did not talk business. They talked about other things, to be sure – but only very little. He'd taken great pains to streamline their relationship, to keep it as uncomplicated as possible, and it was working well for him. Being a not inconsiderate man, despite everything, he hoped it was working well for her too.

Remy joined her on the bed, running the tips of his fingers down the length of her spine, up the smooth slope of her backside. He wanted more of her, and he wanted it now; but he knew their time together was drawing short, at least for tonight.

He leaned in towards her, putting his face in her hair and kissing the nape of her neck.

"Millicent is plannin' a party in honour of the general," he murmured, kissing his way towards her ear. "For Heroes' Memorial Day."

She stirred, her hand coming up to comb through his hair as he ran his tongue over the lobe of her ear.

"Oh?"

"Hmm-mmm." He suckled on the lobe briefly before surrendering it, twisting aside her thick, fragrant hair, and pressing his lips to her shoulder. "You're invited, o'course."

"Another party," she sighed. "Does your Madame Collins ever know when ta stop?"

He chuckled, busily lavishing the line of her shoulder with kisses.

"Woman was born a socialite. She'll die one, chere. The general enjoys it at least, I hope."

Rogue snorted sarcastically.

"He enjoys it too much, I think."

"Good," he murmured, propping his chin up on her shoulder and catching her eye. "It always makes me feel better to know I ain't the only one havin' fun."

His smile was so thoroughly self-congratulatory that Rogue was impelled to roll onto her back and push him away playfully.

"You're far too smug about this, Cajun," she pouted at him. "If it was up t'me, I wouldn't go to these silly parties at all!"

She made to slap him away again, but he caught her fist easily, laughed.

"Chere, you always used to love a good party. Don't pretend otherwise. Besides," he added with smouldering eyes, "it's always a pleasure to see you lookin' so fine. Dress yourself up pretty for me, won't you, cherie? Somethin' t'tease. Afterwards, I'll take you to an after party. One for only you and me. I'll make sure t' undress you nice and slow."

She glared at him, her expression some place between amusement and outrage.

"You're determined to have us found out, Remy."

"Pfft." He pressed a kiss inside her wrist. "What harm could it do for people to know Etienne Marceaux finds Anna Darkhölme sexy as all sin?"

She regarded him soberly as he trailed kisses slowly up her arm.

"Maybe people already do know," she murmured. He glanced at her, barely pausing in his tender ministrations.

"Oh yeah?"

"The general's already guessed about us."

He stopped with a laugh.

"Really?"

"Yeah. Etienne Marceaux pays Anna Darkhölme far too much attention."

He chuckled silkily, hooking her arm over his shoulder and lowering himself over her slowly.

"Your general is far more astute than I gave him credit for."

"Maybe. Or maybe you're just terrible at hidin' your desires."

He smirked, pressing his body against hers, flesh to warm, willing flesh once more.

"You're right. Here, now… I'm terrible at hidin' them."

They kissed, slow and luxuriant, her legs winding around him, both blissfully unaware of anything else but the other… until the grandfather clock began to sound in the adjoining room.

"Hm." Remy broke away from her with a frown. "Is it jes' me, or does time seem to move faster when we're here?"

Rogue said nothing, merely grunting as she wriggled out from under him. As always, the chime of the clock had brought an end to their heartfelt fumblings and torrid lovemaking.

Remy flopped over onto his back with a sigh, watching on as Rogue quickly and quietly got back into her clothes. There were rules they'd laid down, some unspoken, others not. While talking business was off the table, talking about what had passed between them eight years ago was even more so. She would leave in time to get back before curfew; he would let her.

"So," he asked the only question he could reasonably ask. "When are you next free?"

She slipped on her blouse, began doing up the buttons.

"Hm. Next Thursday. I have the evening off then."

"A'right."

A lengthy silence followed. As a rule he never interrogated such silences, but he did with her, because what went unsaid between them was always at the back of his mind. As a distraction he lit up a cigarette.

"You spendin' the night here?" she asked him unexpectedly.

He lifted an eyebrow at the question, but she wasn't looking at him, focused as she was on tucking her blouse into her skirt.

"Yeah," he replied. "Often do."

If she had any thoughts about that, he couldn't see them. After a moment she went to the dresser mirror to fix up her hair.

"I can understand why ya do," she replied at last. "It's a beautiful suite. And the sunsets from the balcony…!"

She sounded a little wistful; but when she was done, and had turned back to him, she was all stoic again.

"Well. I'll see ya next Thursday then."

He nodded.

"Yeah. See ya."

She walked to the door, opened it; then a thought took her, and she threw him a smile.

"Oh. And I'll make sure to buy a suitably titillating dress for Madame Collins' party."

He grinned.

"I look forward to bein' titillated then, chere."

She gave him a little smirk, and then she was gone.

Remy let out a long, slow breath. This was turning out to be quite the arrangement between them – not what he'd originally planned, but it was profitable, in more ways than one. Rogue had been quite successfully tamed – at least for now – and pretty soon he'd have Operation X figured out.

He got up and turned on the gramophone, needing something to fill the silence.

Someday soon he'd have his haul back, and he'd be able to leave this hell hole. He'd be back in the States, back home, and then… …

And then what?

He didn't know. Not anymore.

He didn't know.

-oOo-

Heroes' Memorial Day crept nearer, the occupiers dressing up the city with more flags and festoons in preparation for their favourite holiday. Unfortunately for the would-be revellers, the day of the holiday was marred by a heavy fog, which settled on the city, thick and impenetrable, and stubborn enough to linger through the day.

Madame Collins' household, however, was not to be put off by inclement weather. Early in the morning the staff were already bustling, busy preparing for the party being held in General Wagner's honour. Millicent, of course, had ulterior motives for arranging such a celebration, seeing as they were still woefully short of finding out where the heart of Operation X's set-up had been moved to. His relationship with Rogue now proving less productive in a business sense at least, Remy had been forced to work his professional magic in other areas. Frau Gruber was still receptive to his charms, fortunately, as were the one or two of the general's female staff; and the facility in the Verrière woods had been less thoroughly cleared out than its occupants had presumed. From various channels he'd managed to glean that the move was temporary… But where this temporary facility was had eluded him so far. And Millicent had begun to become impatient.

He was distracted. He knew it. He didn't like to admit it.

Having escaped the general hubbub of his kind benefactor's home, Remy took a leisurely stroll across the city to the Champs-Elysée, stopping in the shops on the elegant broadway to collect a fresh evening suit he'd had made up for the party. He was, after all, no slacker in the art of looking good, and he was as eager to please Rogue as he felt sure she was to please him.

He made his purchases and left.

As soon as he was on the foggy street again, he heard a familiar female voice call his name.

"Monsieur Etienne!"

He turned and saw Jeanne-Marie running across the busy street towards him. He waited for her, thinking that he had barely thought about her at all the past few days.

"Bonjour, Mademoiselle Jeanne," he greeted her with a smile. "How are you?"

"Quite well, thank you. But for this horrible fog!"

He laughed. Even in her chagrin, her exuberance was still contagious.

"Well, how have you been?" she asked. "I haven't really seen you since… well… that night."

That night. The night in the woods where so much had been turned upside down.

"I've been well. Working hard, as usual."

He gave her a wink, knowing she knew what he meant.

"Ah." She nodded. "Working one's charms is always hard work, no doubt. But I'm glad you're well. I've had a rougher time of it. Since learning about those…people… it has been hard for me to sleep."

He understood. She was so young, so idealistic, only coming into herself and her powers. To learn that their people, other mutants, were being abused, to face that fact in such a personal way… it had troubled him greatly too. It wasn't any surprise to him she'd fared worse.

"I'm sorry to hear that," he said. "I hope you're doing better now."

"Yes, yes," she replied, still looking distracted. "Much better. But what have you bought?" Her expression perked up again. "Those are Hermès handkerchiefs!"

He indulged her fondness for haute couture and high fashion, showing her the handkerchiefs and letting her coo over the fine silk, finer still with such shortages of expensive fabrics wracking Paris.

"Madame Collins is hosting another soiree for the general tonight," he explained away his extravagant purchase. "Gotta look nice for the ladies. Especially the ones I'm working on."

He couldn't tell whether the news pleased her or not. She simply raised her eyes to his and declared, almost longingly:

"Oh, to be rich! To see the general and all those pretty ladies in their finery, face to face!"

He gave a little laugh at her wistfulness.

"We have better parties at Le Chat Noir."

"Pfft. It's not possible!" Her expression dropped, and he saw that she really had had little sleep the past few days. There were dark circles under her eyes. "Well," she said. "I should go. They'll be expecting me back from lunch. Enjoy yourself tonight, Monsieur Marceaux. Tell me all about it another day."

"I will, Jeanne," he promised her. She smiled, cheerful once again. She took her leave of him, and he watched on as she hurried off into the fog.

-oOo-

The last half hour before the party found Madame Collins in her element, sweeping through rooms and corridors in her finery, giving out last minute orders to her staff, already playing the role of hostess to perfection.

She almost stopped as she passed Remy in the hallway, straightening his tie and fixing his cuffs.

"You're looking very dapper this evening, my dear," she greeted him dispassionately, as she headed towards the kitchens.

"Why, thank you," he smirked, falling easily into step with her. "Y'don't look too bad yourself, madame."

She scoffed.

"My dear, had you met me in my youth, you would not've been so flippant!"

"I don't doubt it," he smiled. "Alas, I was born at least 3 decades too late."

"You jest – but in March of 1911 I was newly married to my second husband, and I would surely not have given you a second glance." She stopped and turned to him, smoothing out his lapels affectionately. "He was the one I loved."

He said nothing. It was rare for Millicent to reminisce, let alone look as wistful as she did now.

"You must be on form tonight, LeBeau," she continued in a sterner tone. "No mooning after that Darkhölme woman."

He laughed, both a little amused and a little insulted.

"C'mon, give dis body some credit. I'm capable of compartmentalisin' business from pleasure."

"Hm." She looked disbelieving. "I used to think so. Now I'm not so sure."

She whirled away, not elaborating, preoccupied once more with refreshments.

"Make sure the drinks are all out, please, LeBeau," she ordered him peremptorily. "A good party will not get tongues wagging without them!"

The general, as always, was unfashionably punctual – not that Remy was inclined to complain, seeing as, for a few short minutes, he would have Rogue virtually all to himself. Dressed in a gown of champagne gold satin, she seemed to shimmer under the crystalline light of the chandeliers.

Remy eyed her as she made her entrance. She'd promised him a dress to titillate, and it seemed she had delivered. Cut as low in the front as decency would allow, and slashed far lower in the back, the gown was a reminder of the slinkier, clingier styles of the previous decade, daring concoctions that the war had thoroughly put out of fashion. To see her wear them, however, would make anyone think otherwise. Nothing she wore could look anything but glorious on her – and he longed with a passion for the moment, sometime later tonight, when he would unwrap her from that dress and have her all to himself.

By now it was a matter of course that he would kiss the back of her hand, that she would smile politely in return. Such a formal greeting, after all the sensual pleasures they had indulged in! Perhaps his lips lingered a little too long on her fingers; perhaps her eyes sparkled a little more as she smiled. Why pretend after all? There was not one of them of the four that did not know the true state of affairs – or at least, a part of it. It was only the sudden whirlwind of other guests arriving that reluctantly drew them apart.

Remy let himself be drawn away into the whirlwind, content – at least for a little while – to play his part. Eventually he found himself pulled into a conversation with a group of newly-arrived officers, men for whom this soiree was their first evening of decadence in Paris. Remy listened only partially, his eyes drawn every so often to seek out Rogue. He found her positioned by the refreshments table, a barely-touched champagne flute in her gloved hand. For a second she caught his eye, before pulling away again.

"Who is that good-looking woman standing all by herself over there?" one of the officers declared loudly. Remy took a sip of his bourbon, not needing to look to see who he was talking about.

"That's Fraulein Darkhölme," he explained. "The general's companion."

He was only a little surprised to hear his new acquaintances exchange knowing laughs and low whistles.

"Ah!"

"So that is the famous Fraulein Darkhölme!"

"She's as fine as they say!"

Remy took another sip of his drink.

"You've heard of her," he spoke nonchalantly, though his senses were now razor sharp.

"Oh, naturally," one of the officers said with a laugh. "The general has never been known for his… prowess with women. The fact that he's suddenly fraternising with one so freely naturally has all of us curious."

"Especially a woman like that."

"She's a looker, all right."

"Yes, but I've heard some say she's a mutant…"

Remy raised an eyebrow.

"A woman like that, a mutant? Surely not."

The men laughed.

"Contrary to popular belief, not all mutants look like freaks. But you're right. I find it hard to believe the general would choose to consort with a filthy mutant."

Remy laughed; though inwardly his mood had soured. He wondered where these rumours of Rogue being a mutant had sprung from, and he wondered why the general didn't seem concerned about the fact that she was one.

He drifted away from the group, his eyes finding her again, just as hers found his, at the opposite end of the room. Why pretend? he thought again. Why pretend that they were not lovers? Would anyone else in this room be surprised to learn such a thing?

He refilled his empty glass, worked his way towards her.

A particularly popular tune started up on the gramophone, and he watched the couples form, half surprised and half amused to see one of the new officers approach her and ask to dance. He was more amazed when she didn't refuse, when she put down her glass and allowed herself to be led to the dancefloor. With unforced smiles she joined the other couples there, her hand in his, his arm around her waist.

A horrible sense of discomfort sank over Remy as he watched them dance, the closeness of their bodies, the voluptuous sway of her hips beneath the clinging satin of her dress. It seemed to him that she was doing everything she could to remind him of the more illicit dances their bodies had delighted in, of the near-perfect way they moved together. Desire for her flushed through him, all the more potent for the fact that he could now name the discomfort that had taken him – envy. He was jealous that any man should dare to possess even a little part of her, even when he knew he owned nothing of her and never had.

The song finished, and in the few seconds it took for the next to start, he moved towards her, eager to have her in his arms again, even for the span of a single song… But he felt a tug on his sleeve, and Frau Gruber caught up to him, her pretty face flushed with whatever Dutch courage the champagne had afforded her.

"Monsieur Marceaux, my husband will not dance with me. So I declare you must instead!"

She didn't wait for his assent, taking his hand and placing it on her waist, whisking them both into the dance before he could make even a sound of protest. Instead of Rogue, it was her body that pressed against his, her hand that rested upon his chest, over his heart. Her smiles, her movements, left him in no doubt of what she wanted from him, and perhaps for the first time he regretted his seduction of her. Where once it had been a means to an end, a practical decision he had made for the sake of the mission… now it seemed too cynical, and too much of a distraction from the thing he really wanted. He would have to disappoint her. He would have to make a potential enemy of her, and that could not be good. Millicent would scold him for it. He would scold him for it. But Rogue… …

Rogue watched on from the side lines, knowing that she had been his intended target before he had been waylaid by his current partner. Of course, accepting the previous dance had been a calculated move, one to let him know that she was willing to accept his offer if he were to make it. He'd taken the hint, but hadn't been quick enough to act on it. She gave a sigh, thinking that it had been a foolish impulse. She was here to work – and instead she was entertaining dancing with Remy LeBeau, just like she had the first night she'd met him. Back then, curiosity and desire had piqued her – Belladonna's memories hinting to her just how worthwhile the experience of dancing with him would be. Now it was like flying too close to the sun. A foolish notion, after all, with all these people watching and so much at stake.

She went to retrieve her glass, seeing the general chatting with some of his officers, and, with a slight smile, she headed back over to the refreshments table.

Madame Collins was there.

"You don't care to dance with the general?" she asked, seeing Rogue approach.

"The general doesn't care to dance at all," she replied.

"Well, that's not strictly true," Madame Collins replied with a laugh, sipping at her cocktail. "He's taken a turn or two with me."

"I think he would only care to dance with you, Madame." She paused, looking over at Remy, dancing so elegantly with Frau Gruber. "You don't often dance with Monsieur Marceaux," she pointed out.

"Oh!" Madame Collins chuckled, her eyes following Rogue's gaze. "Would you deny a man like that what he desires?"

Rogue pursed her lips.

"That depends on what it is he desires."

"Exactly." She chuckled again. "And he does not desire to dance with an old woman such as me." Her eyes twinkled. "Although I suspect he would like to dance with you."

Rogue toyed with her glass, a distraction to hide the truth.

"No doubt he would. But I care for dancing as little as the general does."

Madame Collins looked her up and down, as if she didn't believe her.

"A shame. You're very skilled at it."

"As are you. I think you and Monsieur Marceaux make a handsome couple on the dancefloor, when you take it together."

"You flatter me, my dear. But these old bones are too weary for these fast-paced modern tunes. Far better to leave it to you young ones." She paused, smiled conspiratorially, and leaned in towards Rogue saying: "Fraulein Darkhölme, I know when a man and a woman desire one another. It was no different in my day. We just knew how to hide it better."

She winked and flitted away.

Rogue turned back to the canapes, her heart in her mouth. Was she so transparent? Could everyone see through her? To have anyone sense her attraction to Remy was dangerous. Was it a look that had given her away to the shrewd hostess? Or was it something more she had neglected to resist?

She almost jumped when she felt his arm suddenly slip in around her waist, a greedy touch that communicated so much, and she inhaled a sharp breath, twisted away from it.

"Remy," she shot at him in an undertone, fearful someone might have noticed.

"Etienne, if you please," he reminded her pointedly, looking her up and down. "Ma chere, you promised to titillate, and I am not disappointed. You look delicious enough to eat."

She bit her lip, certain he would eat her at some point that evening.

"You don't clean up too bad yourself, Cajun," she murmured, unable to help herself. It was no lie. Somehow a dress suit always brought out that long, lean body of his to best effect. And what an effect it was having on her! Even as they stood side by side, a sizeable gap between them, with their eyes on the crowd and not on one another, it was still as if they were the only ones in the room; and all she could think of was the things his long, lean body could do to her.

"I am hungry for you, Fraulein Darkhölme," he spoke in a fervent undertone only she could hear over the music. "I am hungry for you in ways I can't express in polite company."

She flushed, a breathless laugh coming from her mouth.

"You are always hungry, Monsieur Marceaux."

"So are you. Don't you know there are at least ten nooks or corners I can take you to in this house where we can feast on each other without any fear that a single soul will be looking."

"The walls have eyes, darling," she warned him, lifting the flute of champagne to her lips and watching the dance. "Ears too. Anywhere we go, you can be assured the servants will be speaking of it amongst themselves come the morning."

He chuckled, the joints of his fingers playing lightly down her bare spine, as he leaned in towards her to whisper in English:

"Chere, it's my goal in life to give the servants somethin' truly scandalous t'talk about. The sound of you screamin' my name would be bound t'give 'em plenty of gossip, neh?"

"And what if I was to scream out the wrong name?" she answered dourly, quickly moving off before he had time to answer.

She kept her eye on the general, who was one moment confabulating with Madame Collins, and the next with the guests. She was reassured when she saw Remy chatting with Lotte Gruber in a corner, about a minute or so later.

It was obvious to her that they were flirting, and her emotions vacillated between relief and jealousy. The past few nights they had spent in one another's company – carefree and unrestrained nights devoted solely to unbridled passion – had taught her something as dangerous as it was thrilling – possession. Some part of her felt that she now had a claim on Remy LeBeau, even if, realistically, she had none at all. Yet jealousy, at Frau Gruber's inviting smiles and careless touches, was exactly what she felt.

She moved to the corner of the room, where she had a better view of the entire room, and could perform her job more effectively. For the next half hour there were no disturbances, and she was content.

It was when the dancing had started up again, and she had drawn closer to the fringes of the dancefloor, that he suddenly turned up beside her once more.

"I simply must have you again," he murmured, barely audible over the music and the excited whoops of the dancing couples. "It's been three days!"

"Three days!" she echoed sarcastically.

"Let me take you somewhere. No one will notice."

"People will notice, Monsieur," she told him dryly.

"Fraulein, you torment me."

"Monsieur, don't be dramatic. Any woman here will do. Frau Gruber is longing for you to commit adultery with her."

"Frau Gruber!" he exclaimed disparagingly.

"She is a very pretty young lady."

"She ain't you," he hissed in English.

She was almost flattered. She glanced over her shoulder at him with a shadow of a smile. The look was enough to elicit something like a growl from him.

"You're determined to torture me."

"Torture? Monsieur Marceaux, stop pretending you can't practice some restraint. I know you. The idea of making love to me with all these people around excites you."

"And it don't excite you?" he whispered directly into her ear. Rogue chewed on the inside of her cheek and tried not to react to his insinuation. She was of a mind to try anything with him anywhere… but not anytime. And certainly not now.

"Absolutely not," she responded. "Not while I'm working."

"Fine. Then after work, I take you somewhere. Wherever you like. I provide the wine. You provide the first-class flight."

She almost laughed.

"This ain't '32 no more, Cajun," she scolded him, "but I'll think about it."

That seemed to satisfy him. With the promise of a more appetising evening in store, he was happy to go back to the blander charms of Frau Lotte Gruber.

The evening was pleasant, the general enjoying himself to a greater degree than she'd ever seen him. There was one thing she was glad of – since coming to Paris his more taciturn moods had abated, and he seemed to have more zest for life. There were things Rogue felt about him, and many of them were not very pleasant – but despite herself she had developed a certain fondness for him, begrudging yet genuine. It pleased her to see him happy. It pleased her even more that he relied on her less because of it.

At last the festivities began to naturally draw to a close, and people began to filter out, disappearing to this or that home. As was more and more the custom these days, the general was one of the last to begin to bid his leave. Rogue glanced anxiously at the grandfather clock ticking staidly away by the wall. It was half eleven already – and she calculated the time she would have to return to her room, freshen up, make sure the general was asleep, and leave to meet Remy. The hunger she'd previously tamped down on began to make itself known again, and she was anxious to be away and back in his arms. The following morning she had an early start to make, as the general was to make an inspection of the new labs, and her presence was essential.

She scanned the room for Remy, intending to suggest some place nearby for their rendezvous; but he was nowhere in sight. As they moved to the hallway and bid their goodbyes, there was still no Remy in sight, and she began to grow anxious. If they did not arrange a meeting place, there would be no night of pleasure, and that would be that. The entire evening would have been wasted for her.

Perhaps he'd arranged another assignation. Perhaps he was having one right now.

Jealousy surged through her again, and she fought it perfunctorily. She couldn't allow herself to be disappointed, not over something so dangerous!

Where once the general had always been the first to leave, now he was the last. With old-fashioned gallantry he kissed the hand of his hostess and formally bid her goodnight. Ensconced now in her fur wrap, Rogue bid Madame Collins goodbye, and allowed the butler to usher them out.

Still no Remy. And as they finally went down the steps and onto the street, the door quietly shut on whatever stolen moments they would've shared for the remainder of the evening.

Rogue sighed.

"Another pleasant evening!" the general exclaimed happily, as they stood waiting for their car. Rogue slipped off the nullifying bracelet, and thankfully let the awful headache recede. She opened up her purse and looked for her gloves.

They weren't there.

With increasing worry she searched the small space of her bag over and over, knowing they were not there.

"My dear, what is it?" the general asked, seeing her agitation.

"My gloves," she muttered. "I must have misplaced them." She snapped the bracelet back onto her wrist and turned back towards the house. "I won't be a moment, general."

The household was already busy winding down for the night, and in the end it was a harried maid who opened the door for her before scuttling off again to complete her duties. Rogue went into the cloakroom and searched for her gloves.

They were nowhere to be found.

Panic began to take her. It was but a short journey to the general's apartments, but… the idea of being without protection was a well-worn fear, deeply ingrained, one she could barely abide. She was being irrational. She could safely return home without them – it would only be a few minutes. Hardly any time at all.

She swung round to leave – and Remy was standing by the door.

"Lookin' for these?"

He held up her gloves, wiggled them tantalisingly in front of her.

She gaped.

"You stole them!"

She made to snatch them back, but he deftly moved them just outside her reach.

"Merely borrowed them, chere."

"Give them back!"

"You'll get 'em back. Don't worry."

He stuffed them in his jacket pocket, pausing only to reach behind him with a small smile and draw the bolt on the door.

"Cherie, I told you," he murmured in French, "I am hungry for you. I can't wait any longer. If I can't have you now, I think I'll die a very unhappy man."

She scoffed; but the gruff impatience of his tone, and the candour of his words, was sending that familiar warmth threading through her. Even as he spoke he was advancing on her like a wolf on a lamb, and she allowed herself to be backed up against the voluminous furs and stoles, not wishing to resist.

"The general's waitin' for me," she protested weakly, her voice clipped with sudden desire.

"Let him wait," he growled, pressing her into the pillow of clothes with his body. "I'm so ready for you I don't think dis can take very long."

He was. She felt his arousal press against her belly, and she swallowed at the feel of it, at the need for it.

"People will hear us," she whispered, her breath coming fast, and he grinned, all wolfish, his lips mere inches from hers, murmuring:

"Let them hear, Rogue. Let them hear how I please you."

His mouth crushed against hers, and she responded without hesitation, as needy for him as he was for her, and more so now that the chance to have him was firmly back in her grasp. At the back of her mind the need to protect the general was still there, but… well, he was but a wall away from her, and this wouldn't take long… She felt assured of that as she impatiently freed his arousal from his trousers, and he snatched the satin skirt of her evening dress up her thighs to her hips, a finger coming in to slip aside the crotch of her knickers and test her already growing wetness.

They were already both whimpering at the eager insistence of one another's touch, greedy for a satisfaction neither could get from anyone else but the other.

Not able to wait a moment longer, he hoisted her up onto his hips, and almost in the same moment he was driving up into her, making them both gasp at the brutal simplicity of the connection, so raw, so impatient, so uncompromising, just unrepentant and selfish lust.

There was no pause, no moment of tenderness. He thrust into her wildly, and she wrapped her legs tight round him, her fingers grasping into the back of his jacket until her knuckles went white, holding on desperately for purchase against his onslaught.

For Rogue, there would be no greater pleasure than simply being able to be physically connected in this way to this man she had never stopped loving.

And for Remy… well, she didn't know what he thought, or felt. But it hardly mattered anymore. Nothing mattered apart from this… and the tidal wave of her orgasm, a jingling, jangling crescendo that swept her gracelessly up and away in its wake. He followed what seemed like barely a second later, moaning his release and spilling into her jerkily.

For a few moments they sank into the coats and held one another with trembling limbs.

In that moment, even as she felt the dire need to be next to the general pressing in upon her, Rogue couldn't help but acknowledge what it was to finally know what it meant for two hearts to beat as one.

"I-I should go," she breathed, her heart still racing. "The general will be wondering—"

And a shot rang out.

It was so near, so loud, that all else was driven instantly from her mind. Unwinding herself from Remy's arms, she pushed him aside, throwing back the bolt to the door and rushing outside, her gloves, her lover… all forgotten.

She knew without having to be told, without having to witness a single thing, what had happened.

General Wagner was on his back on the pavement, eyes raised heavenwards, their chauffeur hovering uselessly above his prone form.

Rogue shoved the driver aside, getting to her knees, belatedly falling into the rhythm of a task she had both desired and feared. She threw back the general's jacket, paused when she saw the bloodstain on his white shirt, near his heart. Such a quantity of blood! And growing!

She pressed her wretched, toxic fingers to his breast and tried in vain to stem the bleeding.

She knew it would be in vain. Yet guilt and shame forced her to act where she knew it was a wasted effort.

"General," she spoke, in a voice that was strangely thin and high-pitched, alien even to her own ears. "General, can you hear me? It is Anna, your Anna."

His eyes moved to hers, his mouth open… yet he could not speak.

"General," she said, her eyes burning yet tears refusing to fall. "He loved you, general. Despite everything, he still loved his Vater. Here," and she gave up all pretence of medical aid, opening her clutch with bloody fingers and taking out the trench lighter she always kept with her. "Here, general. Here it is. He remembered you."

She took his hand and pressed the lighter into it. The souvenir of an idealistic young war hero, now broken and jaded. Etched with the name of his son.

She saw something in the general's eyes, as they fixed on hers. Fixed, as if in one last act of communication. She strained to read them, strained to make sense of this final thing he wished to impart. She couldn't. Try though she might, she didn't understand – she never would.

"He loved you," she whispered again.

And whatever she could have read in his gaze died out at last.

-oOo-