. VII .
Later, and the air had settled, and there was little need for talk. A cloud of steam lay between them like smoke as Remy sat in the bath, and Rogue sat on the rim watching him, the white bathrobe drawn about her. It was one of those moments where the spoken seemed superfluous, where everything that needed to be said had been said, and there were only looks to share between the two of them.
It was easier to read her now, without the tangled web of bitterness inside of him, to see the fragility of her self-conception, the uncertainty, the passion, the hidden exuberance, the love of life and love of him. It was easy now to reacquaint himself with the reasons why he loved her, not simply why he had wanted her, or desired her. Some measure of calm had fallen over him since he had purged himself so wantonly of his grievances, exorcised the demons of their turbulent relationship.
Half-smiling he ducked his head into the hot water, wetting his hair, resurfacing to see her stand and draw the robe off her shoulders, baring her skin to him again, the creamy flesh marred by the welts and marks of their lovemaking. Without words she stepped into the bath opposite him, sat in the soapy water, drew the warm liquid over her sore arms and chest. Something in that action touched him, the vulnerability mingled with the uncontrived, uncomplicated sexuality as she gazed at him through heavy-lidded eyes. Silently he held a hand out to her, drawing her to him, swivelling her round so that she sat with her back against his chest, her buttocks in his lap. Tenderly now he dipped a sponge into the water, leaning her into him, bathing her wounds gently, propitiation for his violation of her. She said nothing, allowing him to make amends. He could not heal the injuries he had dealt her body, only the ones he had dealt her heart.
“I’m sorry,” he spoke softly, continuing his ministrations with a tender chasteness.
“So am ah,” she replied, rubbing her forehead against his chin.
He massaged the sponge across her collarbone, watching intently the play of light and water on her soft skin. “I didn’t mean to hurt you,” he continued in a near-whisper.
“Neither did ah.”
He paused, pushing her hair away from her shoulder, baring the dark imprint of his bite, tracing the mark lightly with a forefinger, stopping to salve it with the water when she flinched at his touch.
“Non, chere, I should never have hurt you like dat.”
“You needed to,” she reply softly. “An’ besides, it wasn’t all bad.”
He laughed quietly, putting aside the sponge and nuzzling his cheek against her own. “Oh no? Didn't know you were into rough sex.”
“Ah might be,” she murmured, “But ah’m preferring this a whole lot better.”
She leant her head back against his shoulder, tilting her face so that her lips brushed against his shyly, proffering him her kiss. He consented, responding to her softly, warmly – there was no longer any need to struggle, to fight. He kissed her, savouring the taste of her mouth and the fragrance of her hair as he held it in his hands, feeling the silken dampness of her cheek. Breaking apart she was content to rest her head in the crook of his neck, to relax her body into his as he clasped his arms about her waist, burying his face in her hair. This is how it should be to love, he thought wistfully to himself, to be able to be here together in silence, to have to say or do nothing, to only feel the reassurance of one another’s presence. He could not remember the last time he had felt so happy and at peace with himself, or the world. If Destiny said this was right, he didn’t care. If she said it was wrong, he didn’t care. For a moment in time nothing existed but the two of them, enclosed within these four walls.
“Remy?” she asked at last, into the silence.
“Hmm?”
“Where do we go from now?”
“I don’t know, p’tite,” he answered, unwilling to remove his lips from her hair. “Where d’you wanna go?”
“Wherever you do.”
“What if de place I wanna go ain’t de place you figured you’d be travellin’ to?”
“Ah don’t know. What if we ain’t supposed to be goin’ any place, ‘cept together?”
“Dat would prob’ly be de reason why we always end up kissin’ an’ makin’ up,” he half-joked.
She leaned back against his shoulder, looking up seriously into his eyes.
“Ah made a mistake, Remy,” she said, somberly. “An’ ah can’t tell you how sorry ah am. Ah don’t deserve to be with you, ah know. Ah won’t blame you if you don’t want to be with me anymore.”
“You still want t’ be wit’ me, chere?” he murmured, absently caressing her cheek. “After everythin’ I did t’ you?”
“Ah love you, Gambit,” she half-whispered, “an’ that ain’t changed.” She paused, swivelling round, drawing her arms up around his neck, resting her head against his chest. “You ain’t wicked, Remy. Stop believin’ you are. You were hurt, an’ you were angry. Ah understand. What you did was what ah wanted.”
“What you wanted, chere?” he questioned, disbelieving.
“For you to show me how wrong ah was. For you to make me suffer the way you had. Sayin’ sorry could never be enough for either of us.”
“Could hurtin’ you?”
“Should ah be hurt, here, now? When ah feel all the love you’re givin’ me?” She paused, drew herself upward to look into his eyes. “No more debts, Remy. Ah’ve been a fool. From now on ah’m yours, for keeps. If you’ll have me, that is,” she added shyly as an afterthought.
He smiled, brushing his fingers lightly over her face. There was no reason left to question. “Promise?” he asked, aroused by the contours of her wet body against his.
“Promise,” she replied, sliding her fingers into his wet hair, pulling him in closer for another kiss.
*