Author's Notes:
Things worth knowing beforehand: 1) This story a successor to A Kiss is Just a Kiss, but all you need to know is that Rogue has her powers sort of newly, 2) If this were written in 2002, I'd tell Facebook that me and canon are in a relationship wherein "It's Complicated".
What would you do (if I sang out of tune)
By Eileen Blazer, 2023
Remy LeBeau is on a mission.
Not the official kind, not the twenty fourth letter of the alphabet kind, that was before, earlier, at the behest of the Bald One, and he'd been crammed in a van with Bobby for hours, tired, bored, offering advice to teenage secret agents in training through an earpiece, until his phone buzzed and he looked at it and–
Now, presently, Remy is a man on a mission, on the most important kind of mission, the what sort of a man kind of mission. His steps are loud, heavy as he moves through the hall. Faces turn to catch the commotion he is causing, and he ignores them. He–
Sidesteps Jubilee when she tries to catch him, with a twist and a pet–
"Not now, petit."
Blows a half-hearted kiss to 'Ro when she raises a hand to address him–
"Non, belle, another time."
Ducks past Scott, dismisses him with a hand at the shoulder–
"Literally, never."
Until he's at the very last door in the hall. He takes a breath, steeling himself, then–
Throws it open.
The door hits the wall with a satisfying crack. Light pours in after him, washing the room with the sterile, white shine of the hallway lamps. And there, in the room: a woman. Pretty, beautiful, eyes like sunlight touching down at the bottom of a lake. Red, red lips that part, just so, as she inhales his arrival, breathes in the surprise. "Oh." And after a second, "You're back early."
Guilty. Maybe. Hard to tell because she dips her head, hiding under thick white and auburn curls.
"I am back early," he agrees. He is suddenly warm beneath the collar. He's always warm when she's close, always a little bothered, always overdressed.
"Were the children successful then?"
It takes a moment for the question to register, and another for him to realize that they are not alone, that someone else has asked. He glances over to see their company: Jean, perched on an armrest like a delicate bird, and Logan on the sofa, with sheathed claws and eyes sharp enough to pick up the slack.
Any other day and this is where he'd fall right into character. Any other moment and he'd grin, slyly, and brush a kiss against Jean's knuckles, leaning in to chase the lavender mint fragrance of her shampoo, because it would make her smile, and the old grump on the couch would huff. But they catch him now, this day, this moment, and he is busy. Priorities and all that.
So he says, "Dunno. Had to leave early. Somethin' came up." And before they have a chance to ask for the details, he says, "You should probably leave, both o' you."
"Now listen here, Bub–"
Never one to take advice, Logan is already rising, chest puffed, with a stare like sharpened arrowheads.
"Logan." Jean tries. There's a thin thread of amusement in her voice, a very slight turn at the edge of her lips, like she doesn't need telepathy to read the room – but she has it and she has.
"Nah, nah," Logan says. "I want to hear what this is all about. Think I didn't hear you clobberin' all the way through the hall? What's the big deal?"
"Is it a big deal?" Rogue asks the wall, light and innocent.
Remy grits his teeth. "It's not really your concern, mon ami."
"Not my–" Logan begins to protest, and honestly, it's just too much.
Remy has already lost time.
He shakes the trench coat off his shoulders and lets it hit the ground. The holster on his chest is next; he starts to work the latch with nimble fingers. "Tell you what," he says, suddenly amiable. "Stay, go. I don't care. But I'm about to take my wife against that wall, so it's voyeurism or th' door in ten seconds or less."
And–
Probably, they leave.
Probably, Jean can't fight the grin and escapes with grace, down the hall to find her husband and whisper happy scandal in his ear.
Probably, Logan takes his reddened face and clenched fists and walks straight out the door, then out to the wildness beyond, where embarrassment is a foreign concept.
Probably, the door shuts behind them, and that's when Rogue shifts from watching their direction to slowly turning into Remy's gaze, which has been fixed on her the entire time.
She worries at the bottom of her lip with pearl white teeth. Clears her throat. "So I hear somethin' came up."
The holster hits the ground beside his boots.
"A problem has definitely arisen."
He pulls his baton from where it's latched against his belt and that, too, is falling.
"A hard problem?" She blinks. "To solve, I mean." It's the laziest banter they've ever managed, but he can see in her eyes that she's only half in it, the rest of her tracking the steady resolve in his motion, anticipating.
Probably.
"Very."
"But you think I might know how to handle it?" Her voice is – too light. Too soft. The playful edge of it is like an invisible tendril, spilling out from that red mouth to wrap around him, tugging, drawing, and if he wasn't already advancing on her–
– there's no scenario where he's not advancing on her, that's the crux of it.
"With a little help," he says, catching her wrist and rubbing his thumb in a circle there, testing the feel of her pale skin, still wrapped up in the novelty that he can. "You could have a firm grasp on both the subject matter an' a solution."
"Remy." She says, quietly now. "You weren't supposed to–"
"Hold that thought," he murmurs, already leaning down to capture her mouth in a kiss.
Her lips are invitingly soft and it's the most important thing in the world, a biological imperative, to taste them, once, twice, one hand still at her wrist, the other tangling in the curls just above the nape of her neck. She sort of sighs in his mouth and he sort of spirals, picking her up so that he can press her back against the wall, gently, urgently, and–
He's really an objectively good lover, an experienced practitioner of the art–
– has spent a million and two days thinking exactly about how he'd prove it to her, once he could, except now that he can, he can't–
Can't get past this stage of fumbling need, like it's his first kiss, every time, like everything he knows is washed away with the tide of her tongue sweeping through his mouth, and it doesn't help that she's blossoming, a little more each time, confidence growing, so that her hands know how to move as they work their way under the edge of his shirt, sliding against his chest and she curls one of her long legs around him and one of these days he's going to live up to his reputation as a Cajun Don Juan, but–
Today she'll have to settle for this: his need and the way it pours out of him, how determined he is to taste the expanse of her smooth, white skin, as he moves to bite her neck, to drag his tongue over the ridges of her collar bone, encouraged by her little sighs and exclamations hot against his ear.
How firmly his hand grips at the swell of her thigh, how he rocks against her, already blindingly hard, her curls on his shoulder, the taste of her skin in his mouth – fresh, clean, the hint of salt.
How his hands, hands with a surgeon's precision, hands that slipped a pane of glass loose from a frame while it hung on the walls of the Louvre, just so he could draw a smiley face and a top hat, miss the first time he tries to work the latch of his belt buckle, and he curses and has to try again–
And she's laughing, laughing, but panting too, squirming impatiently, and she reaches down to crush the buckle, crumbles it in her palm like a cookie. He should react here – something wry and sharp – but she links her arms around his neck and whispers, "Hurry," and nothing else has or will ever matter as much as edging down the waistband of her well-worn jeans.
Appendix A
Text taken from the phone of Remy LeBeau:
Rogue (17:45): You should be here.
Remy (17:49): In my mind and heart, I am.
Rogue (17:52): And that's great, but what if you were here in body.
Rogue (17:53): …You could storm me like a castle.
Remy (17:56): Don't tempt me because I'll do it. I'll tank this entire mission and head home right now.
Rogue (18:00): Yeah? If I made it a challenge?
Remy (18:03): Without hesitation.
Rogue (18: 05): If I said something like
Rogue (18:05): I dare you?
To be honest, for the moment I am enjoying writing Rogue and Remy as happily married. Your feedback is always appreciated.