Work Text:
They're back from something that was not a date but looked decidedly like one, and she has accepted to follow him to his room to continue their chat. It doesn't mean anything, she tries to remember. She enjoys having a chance to imagine what a real relationship is, and he enjoys being a player.
It's a good deal, really.
It's just a shame it hurts so much whenever things get quieter, when she has time to stop and think and everything begins to feel a little real.
The only source of light is the crappy bedside lamp, and it's barely enough to illuminate the two of them when they're sitting side by side, but now their conversation has slowly ended, and he's smoking by the window.
They had so much to talk about, about the last mission, about their worries, but she doesn't mind the silence. It feels intimate, there is something about being able to exist with someone, with no expectation or fears, that makes her feel exposed and raw. She's not used to it, worse, she worries she shouldn't learn to like it.
Looking more like an apparition than a man, his profile nicely framed by the gentle light of the moon, Remy seems content enough to let the minutes roll by. So far from the light, she can only see his silhouette, red eyes burning almost as intensely as his cigarette.
It's hypnotizing, and it's not lost to her how fond she's grown of looking at him. As much as she dislikes his smoke, it's an infuriatingly sensual look. She's not sure he's trying; maybe his very essence is tempting sin.
"Stay?" Remy asks, disturbing the silence that has formed around them. It sounds like a plea, almost. "We don't gotta do anything… Gambit just needs you close for a little longer. Night's still too young to be lonely."
It's sweet he's trying to reassure her, but the issue is she wishes they could. She still hurts with want when she looks at him; there is so much she wants, and so little she can have. Rogue whishes he could just kiss her and tell her everything will be alright, but she's too scared to close the gap between them, knows it could kill him, so she remains still, sitting on the edge of his bed.
She feel lonely, looking at him waiting for her just a few feet away from her.
"Ah'm not sure that would be a good idea, Sugah," Rogue says, voice weak, eyes looking down at his floor like the tiles hold the answers. Her hand fusses with the blanket; she imagines how it would feel on her bare, nude skin, were she to lay on that bed without fear.
Remy's reply doesn't come right away. The twin flames that are his eyes flicker out of existence when he closes his eyes, and when they return, Rogue can feel them on her. She idly wonders how well he can see her in the dark.
"Of course." For a second he sounds sad, resigned, but he's quick to slip back into a more casual tone, then into a teasing purr. "Want I walk you back to your room? No gentleman should let his lady walk home alone…"
Rogue almost says she's not his lady, that they are still not a couple, but she can't bring herself too. He doesn't want to hear it; she doesn't want to hear it. Maybe they should just make the best of the little they have, pretend it can mean something.
Her fear tastes bitter when she tries to swallow it, and she knows she won't get rid of it that easily.
"Ah would love that."
---------------------------------------------------------------------------
She has a key to his room now. It sits in the pocket of her jacket, and as much as she promised herself she wouldn't use it, Rogue likes to know it's there. Despite her reservations, she doesn't regret accepting it.
A question, why he would try, still buzzes in her mind. They're not the sort of young couple who can sneak into each other's room to get handsy away from prying eyes…
They are not a couple at all, officially; he knows that. They can't be, because if they try and fail, the disappointment might just kill her. Gambit has promised her love, loyalty, but As much as he has assured her he is fine with the little intimacy they can share — dangerous, every movement calculated, every inch of skin covered — Rogue worries he will grow tired.
From the way he speaks to the way he moves, he looks exactly like the sort of man her mama would warn her about, and she knows, for a fact, he had his fair share of women. Maybe men, too. Why he would fixate of someone he can never have, she can't tell. It's the challenge, perhaps.
No, that's not an entirely fair read of his character… But it is the one that makes it easier to keep her distance.
And still, she still finds herself wishing that distance didn't have to exist. Rogue takes the key into her hand. There is nothing fancy about it — just a plain piece of metal — but she can't quite stops herself from looking at it.
Remy's out on a mission, a tough one, according to Scott. He's been gone a few days and maybe that's why she's getting so moody, but he will be back soon. Maybe she should take advantage of that rare opportunity and surprise him, see if she can be the who catches him off guard. There have been gifts, during their many not-dates; Remy is a far more generous man than most give him credit for.
A wrapped up box waiting on his bed, that probably keep him happy for days, no matter how silly the actual gift is. It's a funny, sweet thought, and it almost distract her from how much she misses him.
—-------------------------------------------
After a couple good months, it finally happened again: they failed a mission. The mutants they were trying to rescue are gravely injured, one didn't make it. Civilians were involved, too; on top of the grief, they have to worry about the far too many civilian ready to blame mutants because having an enemy is easier than accepting life is just unfair sometimes.
Rogue is slightly surprised by how bitter the taste in her mouth is. She,of all people, should know their streak of good luck was bound to end soon. She should have prepared herself, braced for impact, but she hadn't.
The mansion feels less welcoming than usual, through no fault of the people living there. Those people are her friends, she trusts them, but she can't trust herself not cry if they try to comfort her. Jubilee, still a girl in many ways, is not taking it too well, and Rogue wouldn't know what to say to cheer her up. Not right now; she needs a moment to collect her thoughts before she inadvertently makes everything worse.
It haunts her how, when she search her mind for a safe hiding spot, she thinks of Remy. He wouldn't judge her for her weakness or vulnerability, and he would just add that conversation to the large pile of secrets collecting dust in the recess of his mind.
That's what she needs now: some time and space to collect her thoughts, a familiar face and voice that makes her feel safe. She knocks at his door before she can give herself enough time to change her mind.
The second he opens the door, Rogue gives herself just enough time to make sure he's decent before she is on him, arms wrapped around him in a thigh hug. He's wearing civilian clothes, her cheek is resting against a shirt and his usual armor. It's kind of comfortable. He's still wearing the trench.
"Rogue? Chère?"
His voice sound a lot weaker than she expected, with a distinct note of sadness he is struggling to hide. Remy gently brushes her head, letting her curls keep him safe, and for once Rogue doesn't have the heart to tell him to stay careful.
"Ah don't want to be alone right now."
As she says it, Rogue looks up at him. He seems tired, and he's trying to smile, but his eyes tell her he doesn't want to be alone either. He looks handsome still, but frail enough she can't help but want to hold him back. The affection in his eyes is far too intense not to be real.
The realization she might really love him hits her hard. Rogue shivers in his arm, the emotion so visceral, so intense it frightens her a little. The urge to run away from it returns, but she manages to subdue to the first wave of panic. She still feels like she's making a terrible mistake, but she can't bring herself to let go of him.
She just buries her face into his chest, hides her tears, feels his heartbeat. Remy is saying something, trying to reassure her, but all Rogue can think about is how much it will hurt when the dream finally ends. She hopes neither of them will wake up anytime soon.
They end up sharing a bed that night. Nothing really happens, of course. It's the gentlest, simplest of intimacies, but it means the world to her. They're laying in his bed, fully dressed, and she is all wrapped under the sheets. Layer after layer to hide a skin that wasn't really meant for love. Remy had promised he didn't mind the cold, that he would be careful. He's sort of spooning her from behind, and it feels nice, almost normal.
There is so much she wants to say, but the words make her choke. She idly wonders how long it would take a person to drown in all their secret thoughts.
"Ah know Ah said it can't work between us," she manages, eventually, but her voice is far more broken than she intended, and she pauses.
Remy just kisses the crown of her head, careful and kind. "You don't gotta explain, chère, not now."
She shakes her head. In the morning, when she doesn't feel as raw and vulnerable, she probably regret it, but it feels like the right thing to say. It would hurt too much to keep it inside, like heart might burst and crack open her ribs.
"Ah just need you to know, it's not because I don't love you. Am just scared… If we try, if we try and it doesn't work, if we try and Ah end up hurting you…" Her voice fades, grows shaky. Her cheeks are wet; she must have started crying, but she didn't notice. The stars could explode, and at this point she's not sure she would notice or care.
It doesn't take long for Remy to answer, but every second that passes feels like an eternity, leaves her alone with the boiling anxiety growing in her belly. She might feel sick if he doesn't speak soon. But he does.
"Remy ain't scared of you, chère."
"Gambit…" Rogue tries to interject, only to find herself at loss for world. A part of her wants to protest, but she no longer has the strength to; she simply turns and pulls him into a weak, hesitant hug.
"We be careful, take it slow. Maybe dhis doesn't have to be a normal relationship, maybe we're fine doin' our own thing. What it is, we can find out together."
His voice is sweet and thick as honey, and it might just kill her, because it's already more than she had hoped for. Remy is more than she thought she'd have, between her powers and all her mistakes… She's just a little too overwhelmed by her own emotions to remember how to use her own words; the silence stretches.
She's scared. She's happy. She loves him. She doesn't think this will really last.
"Rogue?" His voice is dripping with concern, grows impossibly soft.
"Ah'm just scared."
"You don't have t' do dis alone, chère."
Rogue wants to believe him; she's not sure the universe has enough of a good temper to agree with them.
—-----------------------------------------------------------------------
Erik's return has complicated things. Storm's departure and Sinister's scheming have made them unbearable. Despite the face he's putting on for everyone else, she knows Remy is not handling it well.
There is something nagging at him, but she doesn't want to prod. They have been more distant lately, but she can't leave him alone tonight. He doesn't look like he would handle it well, even if he won't say.
She feels guilty, when she finally visits him once he is allowed to leave the med bay. His injuries are minor, but whatever happened during the Goblin Queen's attack must have shaken him.
They don't say much, and she is secretly grateful.
There is a pit inside of her, growing deeper each day. Rogue loves him, lord know she does, but she less sure than ever she can make him happy.
Remy might have died, and she wouldn't have been there to help. She can't even touch him, she can't kiss him, and they can't make love to forget about all their problems and keep the world away.
She can only hold him, hope it will be enough.
Rogue doubts it, but she knows Remy won't admit it. He is a gambler, a thief, if Remy really sees her as a treasure, a precious thing to be loved, there is no risk he won't take.
She understands him well enough to know he won't admit his beloved diamond is only a pretty shard of glass, even when it starts digging into his hand and it cuts his flesh; he will say the pain is worth it, pay his devotion in blood if he must.
This weird, ill-defined relationship still means so much to her, to them. Not calling it by its given name hasn't exactly stopped their passion from burning. It's not late to leave unscathed; the longer they wait, the longer they allow this to go on… They may not survive the fall.
Her past is knocking at the door. Remy wouldn't judge her — she knows, she hopes — but the real threat to her stability is she has a choice. Not one that would make her happy, no, but one that would let her end things before they both get hurt.
Just sitting with this thought makes her head spin. Anxiety, fear, guilt. She can bear the thought of pushing away right now, when he feels so vulnerable, but she isn't quite sure they can keep pretending their future is bright for munch longer.
She should do something, before it's too late, before he does something stupid.
Rogue holds him a little tighter, and she isn't sure whatever she's trying to comfort him or herself.
----------------------------------------------------
His coat is too big for her. Rogue looks into a mirror, takes a moment to study the way the worn leather hugs her form, and she can't help but think she looks like a lost a little girl. She feels like one, too; the world feels hostile and strange, and she isn't quite sure what to do about it.
Maybe she can't do anything about it, and that's the thought that scares her the most. The room around her is quiet, and there is something final about the way everything is visibly unused. No one has slept in that bed or opened those drawers—not since their trip to Genosha—and she knows that's not going to change now.
It feels like a cruel joke. She managed to push Remy away, and right when she changer her mind, realized she still wanted to have a future with him, life found a way to take him from her for good. Remy was a hero, deep down, even if he wouldn't admit it to himself. He hadn't hesitated.
He had died a hero, but he died thinking he had been rejected.
During the battle, Remy had fought by her side, and he seemed just happy to see she'd survived. For a moment she had taught that meant something. It hadn't; the sentinels had made sure of it.
She had held him right after the explosion, touched his skin for the first time. There had been been no response, no pull of her power. No sign of life, just a harrowing reminder she was holding the shell of the man she had loved.
The memory is enough to make her choke. Her tears haven't run out.
Rogue doesn't know why she thought it would be a good idea to visit Remy's room, when she knows, deep down, it would yeld no answers. There is no closure, only traces of his past, frozen in time and abandoned. No one has cleared his room, the wound is too fresh and painful, so she could close his eyes and pretend he's just left the mansion, on a mission or a foolish adventure.
It wouldn't work. A part of her feels it would be offensive to even try, and she's not sure she could find any relief in such a shallow lie. What would be the point? The moment she opened her eyes, she'd have to acknowledge the rest of the team is busy organizing his funeral, and she would be alone on an empty bed that no longer smells of cologne and smoke.
It's funny, she thinks sitting on the window, how you can learn to miss something so mundane. Rogue hated his cigarettes, and she remembers tossing at least a couple of them out of the window when he wouldn't put them away. He'd looked amused, too mesmerized by her to be angry, and gently teased her about her impatience.
But the smoke always lingered on his coat, and she had, begrudgingly, started the scent of cigarette with his presence. Rogue fusses with the lapels of the coat, her stomach churning with discomfort.
She can't go to his funereal.
It would make it real, force her to accept Remy is gone, that they no longer have future — or a present — to worry about. It's not fair. There is a sick feeling growing inside of her, a boiling anger, and she welcomes it because it's easier than pain.
It's not fair. Rogue wants to scream and maybe she does; she can't tell, and there is no one close enough to hear her.
The room is spinning, walls closing around her like a trap; she needs to leave. Rogue hugs the trench coat close to herself one last time before sliding it off her shoulders. She immediately feels its loss, but it's one of her last memories of Remy, and she doesn't want to ruin it.
Her plan… is hardly coherent enough to be called such. Rogue just wants to fuel her anger into something, lash out at the world itself. It's irrational, but she doesn't want to bring the coat; she don't really want to feel like a part of Remy is with her to witness what she's about to do. She fold it neatly on his bed, as if someone were still alive to look for it.
Remy wouldn't want that—he had whished her the best even with his heart in tatters. But he's gone, and before she falls apart under the weight of her own agony, Rogue flies off.
Even if it's a mistake, even if this only ends up making everything worse, she needs to feel like she's in charge of her own fate again.