She awoke later after a brief nap to find Rifkind still sleeping in the bed beside her. It was only then, alone in the bedroom with not another living soul to bear witness, that she showed any open sign of disgust and repulsion. She lay there, staring at the handsome young director for a long while with an ugly look etched onto her beautiful face.
In truth she had no
reason to hate him - he hadn't beaten her, he hadn't humiliated or degraded her
- but the fact that she had had to seek him out, that she had been forced to
sleep with him out of nothing but mere convenience, and that he had accepted
her tawdry seduction at all was enough to make her hate him. Yet even this she could have forgiven, if he
had not invaded her in a way none of her previous quarries had ever invaded her
before. He had done the very thing he
had no right to do - he'd made her lose control of her body. For the first time she really, truly wanted
to kill him, as if by killing him she
could steal back what he'd stolen from her, the one thing she'd saved and set
aside for the man she loved. But it was
impossible. Done. Over.
She'd never get it back. It was
useless, pointless to dwell on it - that's what Raven would tell her. Sometimes it happened. Live with it.
Deal with it. Move on.
Easier said than
done.
Lying there in that
hotel bed she felt dirty, damaged beyond repair, and she wanted nothing more
than to step into the shower next door and scrub him off her; but there was no
time. She must work with all the
swiftness Mystique had impressed upon her.
She must complete her mission.
Each movement made
her body ache with a dull throb, but she put this firmly at the back of her
mind, slowly rolling out of bed, making sure not to jar it and wake Rifkind
up. Silently she slipped back into her
underwear and her dress. Then, quiet as
a ghost, she crossed the room on tiptoe, went to his jacket (that still lay
haphazard on the floor), and rifled through the pockets. The outer ones were clean except for his cell
phone, his wallet and his keys. But
inside the inner breast pocket she found it.
The keycard, that one thin sliver of plastic she'd given away so much
for.
She didn't have
time to contemplate the irony of it.
Bending down, she pulled back the hem of her dress and carefully picked
at the threads. Once undone, she
produced another fresh, blank card, plain, unmarked. Then she searched in her purse, opened up a
secret compartment inside the lining, and slipped out a small black box - the
card-swiper Forge had manufactured. Quickly,
delicately, she swiped Rifkind's card through the small device; then having
pressed a small button on the side, at which a red light on the device flashed
once, she swiped her own blank card into it.
The red light blinked green, signalling that the data within had been
copied. Silently, she slipped the device
back into her purse, then slid the master card back into Rifkind's jacket
pocket. All that was left was the
duplicate card she'd made, the one that would gain Mystique entry into Bolivar
Trask's Sentinel files. She regarded it
a moment in the moonlight, a caustic grimace touching her lips. Then she slipped it into her bra, picked up
her purse and left.
She was careful to
take the utility stairs down and avoid the lifts and corridors. On the fifth floor she slid into a store
cupboard where Pyro had hidden her equipment a week before. Again she unclothed, stuffed the offending green
dress into one of her packs, and changed into her usual black bodysuit and old
brown bomber jacket. Glad to be out of
the dress at last, she slipped out of the corridors with the fluid, feline
grace of a cat, heading for the back doors she knew Avalanche had secured for
her that morning. There was only one
thing on her mind as she reached the final passageway, as she saw those doors
shining in the moonlight, beckoning her to make her escape. All she wanted was to get home, to get back
to base and get into that shower, to wash off Rifkind's lewd touches, to brush
the taste of him out of her mouth, to wipe every trace of his memory from her
body forever, even if it couldn't be done, even if it could only be an
illusion…
Her heart was
thumping, and despite all her training she found her step quickening, her
breath coming in short, sharp audible bursts as she half walked, half ran
towards that ever-encroaching exit and…
She reached out for
the door handle and pushed, half afraid it would still be locked, feeling it
give, feeling the door swing open under her touch…
And suddenly she
was on the outside once more, the sharp, cold sting of winter touching her
cheeks, the air catching her breath as smoke, and she suddenly felt like
shouting, whooping for joy - she'd never felt so invigorated, so glad to be out
in the open air in all her life.
Mission
accomplished.
Another notch on
her belt, another blade wedged into her heart.
She navigated the
lot by keeping close to the walls and staying in the shadows, all the better to
avoid cameras and prying eyes. It
wouldn’t do to get caught now. At last
she reached the exit, and she paused as she stepped onto the side road and
looked about her. It was a dingy street,
rancid and dank, but thankfully empty.
She glanced at her watch.
10:30. Technically, the night was
still young. The bright young things
would be out on the town now, laughing and dancing and drinking and flirting
and romancing, living their lives the way young people should. A long time ago, Rogue would've been doing
the same, had she ever been able to touch.
And now that she could touch, she was giving away all the feeling left
inside her to men whose names she would never remember, to whom she was a
nothing.
Sometimes, moments
like these, she missed Xavier and his dreams.
She missed them
because she didn't know how to dream anymore.
She turned and
began to walk towards the main street, thinking of the place she called home,
thinking of a long, hot bath.
And there he was.
Leaning against the
railing and watching her, as if he'd always been there watching her, waiting for
her.
She half-halted and
stared at him, showing no outward sign of surprise - she never did, especially
since she had now come to expect his impromptu appearances in her life - but
nevertheless her heart had begun to beat painfully against the wall of her
chest. She knew what his meetings meant
by now. She knew that whenever he showed
up it could only mean one thing. Yet for some reason, despite everything that
had happened that evening, she wanted it.
She wanted it bad.
But Ah don't need it. It's the last thing Ah need…
And so she kept
walking.
He didn't stop her,
didn't even say a word as she brushed past, but when she'd just about got to
the main street she felt him behind her, knew he was following her just like
he'd always ghosted her every move back when they'd been in the X-Men.
“What're you doin'
here?” she snapped at him over her shoulder, not knowing why she didn't just
continue to ignore him.
He grinned, came
into step beside her as if she'd greeted him, and shrugged.
“Got my day off.”
She raised an
eyebrow.
“So you decided t'
follow me?”
He shrugged again,
a slow, sexy smile crinkling his lips, the kind of smile that had made her
knees go weak back in the day.
“You're de flame,
I'm de moth,” he said helplessly.
Something in the
words made her halt. He'd known they
would have that effect on her. He
stopped too, under the streetlight, lighting a cigarette while he waited for an
answer. It was a year and a month to the
day since she'd last seen him - yes, she counted the days - since they'd last
met that fateful night at the FoH headquarters.
There, under the eerie, ephemeral glow of the lamplight he didn't look
much different at all - it was as if he never changed from one year to the next. He was still beautiful, still lean and strong
and dangerous, his movements still as elegant as the feline and unconsciously
seductive, as if he invited her with his body.
And as she stood there running her eyes over him, something unfurled in
the pit of her stomach, something bold and animal and primitive, something wild
and desperate in the face of the cold emptiness that had so consumed her the
past year and a half.
And suddenly she
didn't even have to think about her answer, she simply had to open her mouth
and it all came tumbling out on a laboured breath:
“You wanna get
burnt?”
He took a drag, his
teeth flashing white in the dimness; smoke wreathed him, making him seem even
more beautiful, even more mysterious to her…
“Only if you're
offering.”
She looked down the
street, at the world spinning past irreverent, at the bright young things
coming out to play in all their finery… She decided.
Tonight, this
night, she wanted a piece of it too.
“You still got that
place downtown?” she asked.
*
It was the same old
dingy block of flats, disused and disowned by all but the inconsequential and
the unknown. They'd parked his battered
old Harley up outside the forecourt, their journey there having increased their
impatience and hunger tenfold. She'd
clung to him while he'd ridden, pressing herself against the hard contours of
his body, feeling the fire in her stomach stoking into an inferno of eager
expectation, so that by the time they'd arrived at their destination her breath
was shallow and shaky.
They'd said nothing
on the way up to his apartment; but she thought she saw his hands tremble too
as he stabbed the key into the lock, pushed open the door, and let her step
inside.
It smelt as musty
and unused as it had done the first time she'd come here - she heard him flick
on the lights behind her and she looked around, interested to see whether it
was the same. And it was, superficially
- still pokey and dusty and unkempt, and yet there were subtle changes here and
there. Bland white towels hung over the
armchair, mugs on the stove, a portable heater in the corner, a fresh comforter
on the mattress. As she heard him close
the door to and lock it behind her, she couldn't help but wonder how often he
now came back here, whether he brought other women here too.
No, don't think about it…
She stood
stationary in the middle of the room, her emotions wavering somewhere between
need and dismay, desire and dread……
It was a long
moment before she felt him come up behind her, and his fingers tickled her hair
softly; then suddenly he'd circled her, was in front of her, his hands on her
upper arms, his eyes looking down into hers with now undisguised passion, and
suddenly the animal hunger was kindled inside her again. As he leaned forward and took her lips with
his own she closed her eyes and passed a quivering sigh, her heart swelling in
her chest in an onrush of emotion so violent she could barely breathe. It was something so different, so totally
divorced from what she had experienced with Rifkind before - it was magic, dark
and seductive, and for once she was letting herself be seduced, she was wanting
it with every fibre of her body. It was
the animal inside her that returned his kiss, devouring his mouth with a feral
need that had long felt alien to her. He showed no surprise, no wonder at her
abrupt and fierce reciprocation - if anything his embrace became deeper, more
savage. His hands slipped from her arms
to her hips, pressing her against his pelvis, and she slid his arms over his
shoulders, twined her fingers into his hair, grinding herself against his
growing hardness, wanting to feel him, wanting that connection to bridge the
aching gap inside her…
Ah need him inside me, Ah need him so bad…
But not yet, not with Rifkind still on me…
The cold feeling
was stealing over her again, like frost on a winter's day - she pushed against
his chest with both hands, breaking their kiss, their embrace.
“Remy…”
He was reluctant to
let her go, his hands cupping her buttocks, holding her against his erection;
their breaths were both coming hard, and she whimpered a little as she felt his
arousal press against her stomach, telling her exactly what she did to him,
exactly what he wanted to do to her…
“Mon Dieu, Rogue,
you're so amazin'…” he purred, sucking her lower lip into a seductive kiss, but
once more she pushed him away.
“Remy… wait…
please…” she breathed - her lungs were burning painfully.
“What is it?”
Another kiss, but she pulled back from it before it could become any deeper.
“Remy… Ah-Ah really
need t' go have a shower…”
He paused, his eyes
tracing her lips longingly before travelling to her eyes.
“Den I'll join
you,” he murmured; but there was no way in hell she was going to let him do
that. She clung to the lapels of his
trench coat, wilfully suppressing the pleading in her voice as she continued.
“No…Please… Ah just
need to clean up, that's all… Ah won't be five minutes, Ah promise… It's - it's
been a rough night.”
Her voice trailed
off, and even though he'd loosened his embrace, she was afraid he'd get
suspicious at the desperation she felt sure was in her words. But he stared at her a long moment, searching
her gaze, before a slight smile curled his lips.
“D'accord. I know how sweaty it can get durin' missions,
but chere… You an' me are gonna get a whole lot sweatier when we're done…”
Even though she was
screaming inside, she somehow managed to return the grin.
“A gal's gotta make
herself presentable for her man…” she drawled playfully, toying with the collar
of his duster in a perfect display of coquettish sexiness. His smile widened and he leaned in, his nose
lightly touching her own.
“Just don't keep me
waitin' too long…”
“Ah won't,” she
whispered, and he kissed her, this time deliberate, unhurried, making her toes
curl.
It was all she
could do to finally break away, grab one of the towels, and hurry to the
bathroom.
*
It was cold and
damp, but she'd been in worse places and frankly she didn't care. Her limbs were shaking violently as she
switched on the shower and scrambled out of her jacket and bodysuit. The keycard was still stuck inside her bra,
and she pulled it out, neatly tucking it inside one of the concealed inner
pockets of her suit. Then she hurried
out of her underwear and threw it aside.
By the time she had done all this, she was trembling so fiercely that
she could barely stand. She could still
smell Rifkind on her and it seemed impossible to her that Remy could not have
smelt him too.
Maybe he doesn't care…
But somehow she
knew that if he had known, he would never have taken her here, he would never have
kissed her with such passion, he wouldn’t be hanging around outside this room
right now, waiting for her and wanting her…
It was a cold form
of comfort.
She stepped under
the shower. There was only soap, but it
would have to do. She let the hot water
hit her for a moment, relishing the cleansing feel of it on her skin. Then she got to work with the soap, going
through the ritual she always went through when she was in the shower. Each body part, one at a time. Feet, legs, hands, arms, stomach, breasts,
back, buttocks. Each movement was
calculated, methodical, almost obsessive.
Every iota of contamination had to scrubbed off. She saved the more vigorous part of the
routine for her genitals, which always remained till last. There was a kind of brutal concentration on
her face as she scoured this part of her body, trying desperately to destroy
every trace of any man that had ever touched her there - she'd scrub until she
was red and raw and still it wouldn't make any difference.
Because it didn't
matter how long she stayed in the shower, she knew she wouldn't be able to wipe
the memory of Rifkind from her body - as long as she was alive, however much
she cleaned herself he would be there, a part of him always inside her.
And with that
realisation, something inside her broke.
Suddenly there were tears spilling out of her eyes, and she dropped the
soap and leant against the cool, tiled wall, wanting to die, wanting to lay
down and die and escape this cruel Fate that had been handed to her. Her cage, her prison, her cocoon -- one no
one could save her from.
Not even him.
She cried for a
long time, longer than she'd intended to, for she rarely indulged in self-pity
anymore, seeing it as a sign of weakness.
But her tears were silent, and she made not a sound; and that was her
only source of comfort, that she'd never surrender her voice to this pain, that
she would confess it to no one.
At last, tired and
emotionally drained, she switched off the shower and passed a shaking hand over
her face. She'd been in there too long;
he'd be getting impatient, wondering what was wrong. Slowly, uncertainly, she stepped out of the
cubicle and went to the sink, staring at herself in the mirror. Her face was pale, her eyes puffy. She turned on the faucet and splashed them
with cold water. She smiled a wan smile
to herself, and her reflection smiled wanly back. She thought, with a little regret, that while
still youthful, something had gone out of her face - she looked somehow more
worn, more tired. She was still
beautiful, but then, beauty was such an overrated thing these days and didn't
mean very much. She had been more
beautiful when she was younger - beautiful in a truer sense, beautiful in a way
that spoke of her soul, not just simply her looks. Now the beauty was cold, superficial. She had been a fool back then, to believe
beauty was anything more than skin deep.
She wondered what
he thought of her when he looked at her face.
She wondered why
she came back to him at all, when all he did was what every other man did to
her anyway.
Because it's the closest thing to love Ah
can get.
And because to her
he was beautiful, inside and out.
She picked up the
towel, wrapped it round her. One last
look in the mirror. She rumpled her
dampened hair, pouted her lips.
She felt stretched
thin, thinner than ever before, but she figured she could stretch herself a
little more, just for him.
Her hand on the
door, pushing: and suddenly she was out.
*
He'd been lying on
the mattress staring at the ceiling when she came out the shower. There had been no more feeling in her as
she'd crossed the room towards him, no more feeling but this animal instinct -
her heart felt empty, as if her tears had drained it all away. He'd looked up at her as she'd entered,
unable to hide the hunger in his face, and it had made it easier, easier for
her to face this and pretend there was no emotion, there was no passion… She'd stripped the towel from her, flung it
aside, sank down onto the mattress and straddled his long, lean body, snaking
her palms up his torso, his rough, chiselled face, relishing the texture of
him. When she kissed him it was greedy,
lustful; and when he'd kissed her back, it was just as needy, just as hungry,
his hands pressing her naked body towards his, no tenderness, no gentleness,
just as raw and sordid and angry as she wanted, no, needed it to be…
There could be no
more thoughts, no more feelings, nothing but instinct, nothing but touch.
She had fallen into
that cruel mechanical ritual, had already pulled off his clothes and was
kissing a trail down his chest, his abdomen, lower, lower… Her teeth grazing his hard flesh, her rough
tongue worshipping him. All the while
she kept her eyes closed - it was the only way she could cope, that she could
break the connection between emotion and action, that she could turn him into a
thing and not a man, a man that she
cared for more than anything she'd ever cared for in all her life. And yet she hated him, she hated him because
she cared for him and she couldn't deal with that, she couldn't deal with the
fact that they could be nothing more than this, than a cheap and tawdry fling
once a year.
And suddenly it
wasn't so hard, it wasn't so hard to be violent, to make this brutal and unkind
and indifferent, just like sex with every other man that used her had
been. She dug her nails into his thighs
as she sucked him, hearing him panting above her, feeling his fingers twisting
in her hair, drawing pain, sweet pain…
“Stop.”
At first she'd
thought it was her own imagination, that he hadn't really said it. But when she felt his hands go slack, when
she felt his body go limp against her own, she knew she'd gone too far. So she stopped and slid back up against him,
unable to meet his eyes - but still she insisted on kissing him, quick, light,
fleeting kisses on his collarbone, his throat, his chin; but he kept twisting
his mouth away from hers so she couldn't catch it, and underneath her body his
own was unresponsive.
“What is it?” she
murmured between kisses, intent on catching his lips, but he'd grasped her head
between his hands, trying to look into her face. She dodged him, persisting in planting those
light kisses on his chin - she didn't think she could take him staring into her
eyes and seeing the pain that lay within. “Don’t Ah please you?” she asked,
deliberately dropping her voice to something slow, seductive. She didn't understand what she'd done wrong…
After all, every man she'd seduced the past year and a half had liked playing
rough and she didn't doubt for a moment that he was really an exception to the
rule…
He was still
clutching her head between his hands, still trying to get her to look at him,
but she couldn't do it.
“Somet'ing's
different,” he murmured breathlessly. “You're
diff'rent…”
“No, Ah'm not…” She
kissed his chin… “Ah still wantcha somethin' bad…” …His jaw… “Maybe Ah just
ain't afraid t' show it anymore…”
Maybe Ah just wantcha t' rough me up like
those other guys do so's Ah can't fall for yah anymore than Ah have already,
Remy LeBeau…
She pressed herself
against him harder, wanting him to hate her, to use her, to abuse her any which
way he wanted just as long as he didn't have to make her feel…
But his hands were
on her face, forcing her to look at him, to meet his gaze… And when she looked
into his eyes, those deep, dark eyes, there was no anger there, no violence,
none of the leering lust she saw in the eyes of so many men when they looked at
her… Instead his gaze was tender, it was
questioning, it was all things she didn't want from this one night; and it was
breaking her heart, making her fall for him even more…
Tears rose in her
throat, but she held them back because she never cried when she was with a man,
and she wasn't going to cry for him.
“Let's go slow,” he
murmured, delicately brushing her cheek with the back of his hand, his eyes so
open, so trusting… “Okay?”
She couldn't find
the words to answer; but he needed no answer, didn't want one anyway. Gently he rolled them both over, never
breaking eye contact with her, searching her face as his body settled, warm and
strong, into hers; and suddenly the helpless desperation in her was quelled;
suddenly there was no more fight left in her.
And then his mouth was on hers, kissing her slowly, moist and soft, the
texture of velvet, caressing a kiss back from her with his tongue, making her
shudder, making her moan… The defences she'd erected around her heart had
crumbled haphazard around her. Without
knowing it she was kissing him back with eyes closed, shyly, deeply, her arms
involuntarily reaching out for him, holding him as if to hold him too close
would be to break him. And suddenly it
was different. Suddenly she was feeling.
And she didn't want
that. She wanted the harshness, the
cruelty of lust, so that the next time she was with a man that wasn't him she
wouldn't have to compare, she wouldn't have to pretend there was something
better in him…
He'd left her mouth
and was now kissing a lazy trail down her neck, her clavicle, lower still,
slower and gentler than the kisses she'd lavished on his body before. She didn’t dare to open her eyes in case he
stopped, in case it ended. Unable to
help herself she twined her fingers in his hair, guiding him onward as his lips
drew lower still, over her stomach… His tongue lathing her navel, leaving her
core tingling in a glow so intense she thought she would burst with it.
And then it hit
her.
What if he could tell, what if he could
taste all those other men on her…?
“Remy…”
But his mouth was
already there, kissing her with that same, reverent slowness, his tongue
fluttering inside her, and she caught a breath, her pelvis involuntarily rising
to meet his kiss, her mind reeling with pleasure and horror… A cold fire was in
her heart, in her throat… Because however much she scrubbed herself in that
shower, however long she spent under that water she never felt clean, she would
always come out again feeling dirty and defiled --
Stop!
For a second she
thought he must have heard her, for his kiss became less intense, and then he
stopped altogether, and she thought with a certain sense of dread, that he must have known, he must have been able to tell that he was not the only one……
She lay there
panting, feeling his weight sinking in against her body once more, and as his
face came back into view, she saw that there was no rage, no accusation on his
face.
“You okay?” she
felt more than heard him whisper.
She swallowed,
nodded.
“You were so
tense…” he murmured, brushing loose curls from her cheek once more, his
expression questioning.
“F-first time,” she
lied. He smiled.
“Sorry.” He kissed
the tip of her nose. “I jus' thought… De way you were comin' at me earlier on,
you'd be ready…” His mouth opened hers again in another soul-stirring kiss, his
way of apologising - but she didn't think she could take much more of this
whimsical foreplay without bursting into tears, without telling him she loved
him.
She twisted her
lips from his, even though it killed her to do so.
“Remy…”
“Hmmm?”
“Now…” she whispered.
There was a pause,
and a shade crossed his face; but she knew he wouldn't, couldn't refuse
her. He'd dipped his head once more,
kissing her with open eyes; but she'd closed her own when he entered her, not
wanting to see the look on his face when he first pushed inside her. Because something had changed, and now it was
different to all the times before.
Because this time she was answering him with every ounce of her being
because she wanted it like he wanted it, and it was almost too much for her to
handle, to even comprehend. The previous
times she'd been with him she'd been uncertain, unsure, letting him lead her;
she'd been a child-woman, an infant with touch.
And all the other times she'd been with other men for the sake of the
mission, she'd been divorced from her body, a cold automaton with no emotions,
no heart, no feeling.
But that night was
the first night she realised the difference between sex and lovemaking, between
lust and intimacy. For the first time
they were both equals in this act, and for the first time she had felt
something change in the nature of their relationship, something tangible yet ambiguous,
something they'd never be able to reverse again.
In that one
insoluble night they ceased to be mere strangers, comrades, teammates,
colleagues, friends.
From that night
onward, they were lovers.
*
It must've been
hours later when they stopped, exhausted yet for the first time curiously
satisfied in a way they had not been satisfied in years. Satisfaction was a strange thing to come by
these days, and they were both so full on it, they were now a little bewildered
by it. So they lay together, silent and
bemused on the dusty mattress, for they'd never in their wildest dreams guessed
that they would ever be satisfied again.
She hadn't counted
the times they'd made love, each time more desperate and violent than the
last. It was as if a barrier had been
broken between them, a dam had been cracked and the floodwaters had come
gushing out. Everything that they'd ever
wanted to say to one another but were still unable to seemed to manifest itself
through their bodies - they knew they'd never be able to vent it any other
way. It was still an unspoken rule that
they never ask the other about their lives, their loves, their emotions. Despite the sudden and subtle change in the
balance of their relationship, they still knew that tomorrow they would part
again and go back to their dark and monotonous lives. Whatever their feelings, their connection
could never break the bonds of the physical.
The physical was the only form of communication they had.
And this time, when
she cuddled against him and he put his arms around her, it wasn't just the
embrace of two incidental outsiders coming together out of a mutual need for
warmth and comfort. Not anymore. It was the embrace of a couple who now felt
they shared a singular bond - a camaraderie, a conspiracy almost, something no
one else could touch.
Neither voiced the
sudden realisation that this unwitting collusion now existed, but as they lay
there entwined together in the silence of the night, each could not help but
quietly acknowledge that it did.
To Rogue, it was
the most frightening and exciting thing she'd ever known.
As if, in making
love to him, she was fighting against the world.
Despite these
subtle changes, something of their previous rituals still remained. Afterwards they would say very little; he
would smoke a cigarette or two, and she would nestle into him and hold onto him
as much as she dared. But this time
round she couldn't help touching him, feeling every inch of his body that she
could reach - she wasn't scared of his sexuality anymore, nor of her own - in
fact she was greedy for him, because he was the only thing she wanted but could
never truly have.
“I swear de past
couple of years you've gotten better at dis,” he suddenly murmured out of the
blue, breaking their prolonged silence.
“What?” she asked,
running her fingers down over his taut abdomen and lower still with a playful
lightness, feeling him tense then moan as she tickled him mercilessly, feeling
devilish.
“Dat,” he groaned, removing her wandering
hand before she could do anymore damage.
“Why, you
complainin'?” she asked boldly, surrendering and letting him have his way for
now.
“Nope,” he replied,
but as she looked into his face she saw doubt in his eyes, the same shade that
had passed over his face before he'd first entered her.
That look, that
long questioning look sent her heart cold.
Could it be that he can tell? That he knows Ah've been with other men…?
She waited for the
accusation to come, but it didn't.
Instead he half smiled, touched her cheek and quipped: “Never thought
I'd live t' see the day de Rogue became a sex goddess.”
She grimaced
derisively. Is that all he cares about, how Ah measure up against his stupid
standards? If he knew what Ah did for
the sake of the mission, would he be so picky then?
“Lucky Ah have such
a great teacher then, huh?” she muttered disdainfully, unable to keep the
bitterness from her voice. His
expression was slightly wounded.
“Don't get like
dat. I'm payin' you a compliment.”
“Yeah. Now Ah'm
just about as good as all the other women you fuck. Great.”
She could tell that
he was slightly bewildered as to her sudden agitation. The last thing she wanted was for him to
question her - if he did she knew she'd break down and the truth would have to
come out. So she rolled over onto her
side, turning her back on him. There was
a confused silence before she felt him spoon in against her back, felt his
breath in her hair as he said: “Rogue, we’ve talked about dis before. You know
you're not be only woman I sleep wit', so--”
“Yeah, Ah know,”
she snapped before he could continue. “And Ah'm fine with it, Remy. Fine.”
“So why do I get de
impression you're not?”
“Don’t flatter
yourself. This doesn’t mean anything,
does it? You said it yourself. You made it perfectly clear last time we were
here that this is just sex.”
There was another
pause, thick and pregnant, and she lay there, her heart pounding horribly as
she realised… Ah'm sayin' too much, Ah'm
givin' too much away…
“And does dat
bother you?” came his voice, soft, unreadable…
Ah've said too much…
She rolled over
quickly, looked him in the eye, and without once wincing, without even
blinking, said: “No.”
A horrible lie, a challenge
in the face of all the hurt and pain and suffering that consumed her days, that
would never stop consuming them till the day she died.
She didn't wait to
see his reaction. She knew he'd heard
what he wanted to hear. Leaning forward,
she kissed him, long and hard; and he responded with equal roughness, pulling
her closer to him. The embrace was bold,
daring, the last defence she had against the truth. And when they pulled apart she ran a hand
through his hair, content to watch him, content to let him watch her.
“It doesn't bother
me,” she murmured at last, decidedly. “Y'know why? Because after everythin' yah said t' me last
time we were here… After all that bravado yah came out with… Yah came back
after all. Yah came back, Remy.”
He smiled at her,
lazy, sleepy … Beautiful, guarded…
“I didn't mean t'
say those things t' you last time,” he returned in an undertone, his eyelids
heavy. “I was just angry wit' you, chere.”
“Maybe,” she said
contemplatively. “But what you said was right.
This doesn't mean anythin', does it?
Not out there.” She looked away, to the window. “Out there is the
reality. And this is just some sorta
fucked up wet dream. But Ah guess we'll
dream it again, someday.” She chuckled softly. “When Ah saw you outside the
Ritz t'day, Ah was pissed. Last year yah
told me Ah shouldn’t wait for yah, that you weren't gonna come back. And then there you were, right outside that
hotel, waitin' for me anyways.”
His arms were still
snugly round her hips; his fingers idly tickled the small of her back.
“Guess I just can't
stay away,” he murmured.
She chuckled again
lightly.
“Ah hope that means
that someday, you’ll be back hangin' round mah door again, sugah.”
She didn’t wait to
hear him say yes or no. She didn't want
to; she didn’t want to know if or how long she would ever have to wait to be
with him again. Instead she closed the
gap between them, putting her arms round him, holding him close when all she
really wanted to hear him say was, this
does mean something, it isn't just sex, you mean something to me, Rogue, even
if we can't be together…
But she knew that
if he did say it, if she did hear those words, she wouldn't be able to leave
this room, she wouldn't be able to leave him…
She'd never be able to go back to the life she now led, the life of a
terrorist, an outlaw, a whore…
Because she wanted
all or nothing, and she knew that was something he'd never be willing to give
her.
And yet was it only
her imagination that he seemed to cling to her a little too tightly; that as
she drifted off into sleep his embrace was more secure, more protective than it
had ever been before?
*
Her sleep that
night was strangely untroubled, and when she awoke the next morning she felt
more refreshed than she had done many mornings past. But his embrace, which had so tenderly lulled
her into sleep the night before, was gone.
The only sign that he was still present was the sound of running water
in the bathroom.
Reaching out over
the edge of the mattress she fumbled for his watch, which he had left on the
floor, and cast a bleary eye at it.
Seven. She groaned, not wanting
to get out of bed, not wanting to leave the place where so many of her happiest
moments had been. Nevertheless she knew
she couldn't stay much longer. By now
Mystique would at best be worried about her, at worst foaming at the
mouth. Best not to incur her wrath much
more than was possible - she knew how anal Mystique could be about the
slightest thing, and her absence the previous night meant she was already going
to get more than just a stern talking to.
Even though her
body protested at every movement, Rogue rolled out from under the covers and
staggered across the room, her limbs wobbly.
Her bodysuit and underwear had been slung over the back of the chair;
her pack had still been left in the corner, untouched. She slipped on her underwear, deciding not to
get into the bodysuit since a shower would be best before she left. Though her bag looked secure enough, she
wondered whether he'd rifled through her things while she'd been asleep,
whether he'd seen the dress she'd worn to seduce Rifkind, whether he'd seen the
butterfly pendant tucked inside the inner pocket for good luck. She wondered whether he had any interest in
her 'other' life at all. Maybe he didn't
want to know. Maybe he wanted to keep as
distant from her as possible. It
lessened the risk of attachment, of guilt and regret. She could understand that. But somehow she secretly wanted him to go
through all her personal belongings, she wanted him to seek a connection deeper
than that which their trysts encompassed…
She suddenly
wondered if Irene had ever foreseen these dalliances they shared, and whether
she knew, and always had known, that
this morning Rogue would be here, whether Rogue would always be right here… …
It was while she
was standing there, tying up her hair into a ponytail and mulling over these
things, that he finally emerged, naked but for a towel round his waist. He seemed surprised to see her up already,
instantly becoming awkward, brushing past her to retrieve his clothes with an
air of forced insouciance.
“You're up early,”
he noted somewhat accusingly. She
bristled to hear his tone, so harsh, so reproachful, but managed a shrug in the
face of it.
“Ah slept better
last night.”
She thought he'd
show some sense of remorse but he merely grunted. She heard him drop the towel and a part of
her wanted to turn and look, but another part knew it would invite something
more sensual between them, and she knew that with the night over there could be
no more hope of that. Still, she
resented the enforced coolness of their relationship come the morning. She knew he did it because he didn't want
them to become too dependent on one another; but if he could just show her some
sense of affection, some sense of acknowledgement
that the night before had actually happened at all…
“Remy…” she began,
while he continued to dress behind her.
“Yeah?” His tone
was gruff, abrupt. She hesitated,
continued quietly: “Thank you. For last
night, Ah mean.”
She heard him pause
behind her, surprised; but a well of emotion was brewing up inside her and she
needed to get it out, she needed to talk about it even if he didn't want to
hear it...
“Ah know you
probably don't wanna hear this,” she spoke slowly to the wall, “but Ah just
wanna let you know that…” She paused, her breath catching slightly. That it did mean somethin' t' me, that it
did make all the difference t' this gal's life… She blinked, her eyes
suddenly smarting. “That Ah'm really grateful, that's all. Ah-Ah really needed it; last night. So yeah.
Thanks.”
She stopped,
feeling oddly relieved at having made some allusion to her feelings, however
inadequate. He said nothing. After a moment she heard him continue to
dress, then move to the other corner of the room where she knew his bags
were. Her throat constricted. They'd spent five minutes in one another's
presence and he'd spoken a grand total of four words to her.
Even after last
night, even after the strange certainty that they were now no longer simply
friends but lovers, he was still treating her like this, still denying that
anything existed between them…
But then suddenly
he was right there behind her, his body heat warming the length of her back,
and she started when she felt him press a kiss against the nape of her neck, a
delicate, lingering kiss that said more than words ever could have done.
She didn't wait to
rationalise it. Turning, she wrapped her
arms round his body and buried her face in his chest, flooding her nostrils
with the spicy scent of his aftershave, the faint aroma of tobacco, of leather
and motorcycle grease, all the smells she couldn't help but associate with him
whenever she came across them. She knew
it was bold, she knew it was dangerous, she knew it went against every unspoken
rule that lay between them, but she couldn't help it.
“Ah don't want you
to go,” she whispered, and she thought he'd be angry, that he'd push her away
and remonstrate with her for being such a fool, but instead he inhaled a long
breath, a breath she read like a sign; and suddenly she was overjoyed because
she knew he was hesitating, she knew he was wavering too…
“I've gotta go,” he
murmured into her hair - a reminder, low, apologetic. She clasped him a moment longer, taking a
deep breath of him before letting him go and stepping back.
“Take care of
yourself, Remy,” she half-whispered. “Stay alive.”
He stood mute, his
arms hanging by his side, his expression imparting nothing; then suddenly there
was a ghost of a movement, and she thought he had meant to enfold her in his
arms once more; but a split second later the impression had gone, and he had
merely given her a short nod of the head.
He turned, picked
up his bags, walked to the door, and with that image of him she thought her
heart would break; but she tried to hold the agony deep inside her, tried to
hold it back, and it was breaking through her defences, seeping out into her
veins, into her skin, and a wail was forming inside her, scrambling into her
throat, leaping to make its escape……
“Remy.”
He halted at the
name, so softly spoken on a drawn-out breath.
She paused,
gathered all her courage, managed a smile. “Until next time.”
He half turned, a
small grin suddenly on his face, brazen and roguish as ever.
“Until next time,
chere.”
It was the last
thing she saw, that sultry smile, before he'd shut the door behind him, and was
gone from her life once more.
*