The
first glimpse he'd had of her was of her mile long legs and shapely ass.
He'd been having
his orientation with Storm, and there she'd been in the Rec Room with Logan,
leaning over a pool table with her lycra-clad butt stuck in the air. If he'd had to pick a moment when he'd become
smitten with her, that would've been the one.
“I sure hope all de
views in dis place are as good as dis one,” he'd remarked humorously, causing
the girl with the butt to miss her shot.
Storm had merely raised an eyebrow at him in that calm, collected way he
remembered so well and said: “Logan, Rogue, I'd like to introduce you to our
newest member of the team - Gambit.
Gambit, this is Wolverine; and the 'good view' just happens to be Rogue,
whom I'm sure would appreciate a little more respect from you in the future.”
She'd grinned - Storm's grins had always been a rare but very welcome gesture.
“These two are what Xavier calls his wild cards.”
“Wild cards, huh?”
He'd leant against the doorframe and crossed his arms cockily. “I oughta fit in
just fine den.”
“Hmph - we'll see
'bout that,” Logan had growled sceptically through the cigar in his mouth; he
was already looking at Remy as if he was a very bad disease.
“Logan --” Storm
had begun warningly, with a please don't
be rude to our guest look, but the angel with the cute butt had thankfully
interrupted her before she could begin her lecture.
“Dontcha listen to old
bushel britches here, sugah,” she'd assured him in the sweetest Southern drawl
he'd ever heard. “He may sound mean, but his bark's worse than his bite.”
She'd been standing
by the pool table, leaning on the cue whilst running her eyes over him appraisingly. Even from her great-shaped ass he couldn't
have guessed how beautiful she really was when he saw her face to face. The gorgeous body, the kissable lips, the
slightly upturned nose, the tousled curls of cinnamon-coloured hair shot
through with milky streaks of white… But
most of all the eyes, those unbelievably deep green eyes, eyes with more soul
than he'd ever seen in any other woman.
She was beautiful.
She took his breath
away.
He’d met a lot of
girls, but none of them had ever taken his breath away first time round, not
even Belle.
“Hmm,” he'd sounded
once they'd both glanced over one another appreciatively. “Pretty accent you
got dere, chere. Lemme guess -
Mississippi?”
She'd smiled. She had a great smile. “Ah'm a Caldecott gal,
born and bred. And Ah don't even need t'
guess with that accent - Cajun,
right?”
He'd pushed away
from the door, his grin growing wider. “Hmm, smart as well as sexy. Now all I need t' find out is why exactly dey
call you Rogue. Maybe I could take you
out for a drink t'night and you could help me find out.”
She'd looked away,
blushing; he'd found that unexpected, he'd found that cute. But before he could have coaxed an answer
from her, Logan had given a hostile cough.
He and Rogue obviously weren't the only ones to catch the sudden 'good'
vibes between them.
“Watch out, Gumbo,”
the short, hairy man had growled at him menacingly. “The Rogue here is way outta your league. Keep your hands to yerself and I might just
letcha keep 'em.”
Ah, so de wolf-man has a thing about her
too…
“I think the li'l
lady is grown up enough to make her own decisions, homme,” he'd replied coldly,
only for Storm to step in.
“Gambit, Logan -
this is hardly the time for us to pick fights.
We are all friends here - more than that, we are family. You will both
learn that despite all our petty differences, we must learn to put them aside
and work as a team, otherwise we are nothing.” She'd looked over at Remy
sternly. “If you aren't prepared to do so, then perhaps you may want to reconsider
your place on the team, Gambit.”
He'd glared at the
one called Wolverine before turning to Storm with a genuine smile on his face.
“Don’t worry,
Stormy. I'm an expert at
compartmentalisation. Besides, when I
get along wit' someone, I tend to get along wit' them very well indeed.” He'd
thrown Rogue a meaningful look, and she'd returned it, her cheeks still
flushed. For all the sass, she really
was just a soft-centred Southern girl at heart.
She'll be mine before de week is out,
he'd thought to himself as he'd finally followed Storm out.
*
A week later and
she'd still been playing hard to get. He
hadn't minded so much; he enjoyed the thrill of the chase, and the longer a
girl held out the more exciting he found the actual conquest. Still, she'd taken pains to avoid him -
whenever he'd finally catch up with her, she'd be hanging round with someone
else, and more often than not that someone else would be Logan, whom Remy had
now come to see as his rival in just about everything. So far as he could tell, he was the only one
who'd managed to outwit the hairy wolf-man in a Danger Room battle, which had
won the grudging respect of the other X-Men - of course, he'd only done it to
get her attention. Not that she'd ever
really noticed.
It was a week to
the day that he'd met her when he finally cornered her. She'd been sitting in the lounge reading a
book when he'd stolen in after her with his usual swagger.
“Mind if I join
you?” he'd asked. She'd started, turned,
and seen him there. The same blush had
crept into her cheeks, but she'd feigned insouciance and replied: “No, go
ahead.”
She'd gone back to
her reading and he'd gone to the bookcase, picked up any old book, and slumped
into the armchair opposite her, opening up the book with a flourish. He hadn't read a single word of it. She was the one he'd been busy perusing.
She had been
reclining on the sofa, a look of intense concentration on her face as she read
voraciously; one hand was in her hair, a finger absently twirling round a milky
white lock; she was wearing a formless green jumper and black leggings. He didn't know why she always insisted on
wearing such shapeless clothing. She had
such a great body he figured a woman like her would be showing it off a lot
more than she did.
He had cocked his
head slightly so that he could see the front cover of the book she was reading
so intently. It was pink and gaudy - a
Harlequin romance. Again, he had been
slightly puzzled. A beautiful woman like
her ought to have been having enough action on the weekends to quell any need
to read such bawdy tripe.
That did it. This girl literally screamed sexual
frustration, and if he was going to be the guy to satisfy her, then so much the
better.
He'd placed the
book aside impatiently and announced: “Okay, chere, I admit it. You got me.
I'm clueless. Confused. I jes’ don’t get it.”
She'd looked up
from her book, mildly startled at his outburst.
“What d'you
mean? What's wrong?”
“You. You sittin' dere, lookin' as fine as you do,
readin' dat trash when a femme like you should be gettin' de real t'ing. Chere, I know you ladies like t' play hard t'
get sometimes, but come on now. Dere
ain't no cause t' be shy. I like
you. Okay, so maybe you're not de kind
of femme who goes straight in for de kill.
I can handle dat. How about I
take you out for dinner t'night? How
does dat sound?” With every suggestion he made, her face had displayed an ever
deeper sense of confusion and he'd finally finished in complete desperation:
“Okay, so now you really got me. How do you pin dis butterfly down?”
She'd stared at him
for what seemed a long moment; then suddenly she'd laughed, a sad,
self-deprecating one that confounded him even further.
“Yah can't pin this
butterfly down, sugah,” she'd replied at last - the mischievous glimmer in her
eye had been forced. “This one's got toxic wings. Touch her and you'll get burnt.” The
perplexed look on his face had said it all, and suddenly she’d frowned. “Yah
really don't know, do you?” she murmured. “Didn't anyone tell yah?”
“Tell me what?” he
asked, seeing that emotion in her eyes, the soulful green eyes that looked as
if they didn't belong in her face, that looked too old, too wise, too still…
“Mah power,
Gambit,” she'd said in a quiet voice. “Ah can't touch. Not without drainin' peoples' life-forces,
their powers and their mem'ries anyhow.
Not without even killin' them, sometimes.” She looked away suddenly, her
once flushed cheeks deathly pale. “Y'see, even if Ah wanted t' get close to
you, Ah couldn't. Ah could end up
hurtin' you, or worse. Ah'm sorry,
Gambit. Ah thought someone would've told
you. But thanks for the offer anyhow. It was… nice of yah.”
She'd got up,
placed the book on the coffee table, and walked out.
In all his life no
rebuff ever stung him so much as that one.
*
The thing he'd
always liked about Storm was, even though she tended to wear that disapproving
little frown on her lips whenever he spoke to her about his problems, she
always listened to him without ever judging him or telling him he was fighting
a lost cause. She would always encourage
him in any of his endeavours; or, if she happened to object to them, would
appeal mildly to his nobler side.
Because, contrary
to popular belief, he did possess a
noble side.
When he'd told her
about Rogue, she'd listened silently to every word he'd said, and never broken
in once. It was this equanimity and
fairness of mind that he'd always admired most in Ororo, and it was this
admiration that meant that it had never once crossed his mind during their
friendship that he should see her as a potential conquest. There had always been something about Storm
that had been untouchable in an emotional if not physical sense - a dignity and
a majesty of presence that had set her apart from any other woman he'd known or
was likely to meet. She had, Forge had
always liked to joke, the 'forbearance of mountains'.
Nevertheless, he’d
realised over time that her patience with him over Rogue was quite uncalled for
since the whole thing had been a hopeless case - even though he had never been
willing to accept it at the time.
“Remy,” she'd said
calmly one afternoon in her garden - she'd been floating around the foliage,
watering her garden in a flowing white gown that had given her the ephemeral
quality of a radiant spectre. “Whilst I appreciate your feelings on this
subject, I do believe any overt propositions on your part are quite useless -
perhaps even dangerous.”
“Dangerous?” he'd
contested hotly, following her past the geraniums and onto the row of unusual
black grasses. “How on earth could it be dangerous? I just wanna take de girl out, okay? Get t' know her better. How de hell dat could qualify as dangerous is
beyond me.”
“Remy,” she'd begun
in that voice, the voice she always used when he was beginning to stretch her
patience, the tone one would use when speaking to a very small child, “You and
I both know that your seductions can be very dangerous things.”
“Quoi? Stormy, contrary to what you may be thinkin',
I'm all for female emancipation. Burn de
bra and all dat. I don't mess wit'
woman's lives, dat ain't my style. It's
just fun, dat's all. Mutual fun. All those women, they know de score. It ain't like I'm pullin' de wool over their
eyes or anythin'. Besides,” he added
quickly when he saw her beginning to bristle, “I'm not talkin' about seducin'
Rogue. Even if I wanted to, de chances
of dat are a big, fat zilch, right? I
just wanna take her out, get to know her better, make her feel special. But every time I wanna ask her, she runs away
from me. It's drivin' me crazy.”
She had said
nothing for a moment. Instead she waved
a hand in a careless gesture, chasing away the tiny rain clouds that up till
that moment had been watering her garden.
In a second the clouds had evaporated, leaving nothing but the crisp
tang of moisture on the air.
“Have you ever
considered,” she'd begun thoughtfully, “looking at things from her perspective? What it must be like to be so young and so
full of life and passion, yet to have to remain distanced from everyone and
everything around you? Not simply
physically, but emotionally too?” She'd turned to him, her face filled with
that tranquil stillness that instilled respect with so little effort. “Rogue is
confused, Remy. She is both a child and
a woman. Do you see the way she reads
those books, do you see the daydreams behind her eyes? There is only one thing she yearns for, and
one thing she can't have. Taunt her and
tantalise her with it, Remy, and I believe you'll be doing her more harm than
good.”
She'd walked on
down to her large collection of roses; a butterfly had been sitting on the
nearest one, a large, sweet-smelling blossom of blood red petals, only to be
chased away by the returning rain clouds.
“'Ro --” he'd
begun, but she'd ignored him.
“Remy, listen to
me. By all means, take her out, talk to
her, be friends with her. But don't
tempt her with notions of romance. Don't
make the false promises I've seen you make to others. She's naïve, she won't be able to see through
them.”
“Rogue?” he'd scoffed.
“Naïve? Dat girl's got more sass on her
den a --”
“Naturally. She's had a hard life - perhaps harder than
most of us. But in matters of the heart
she is as a child. Perhaps she wants to hear you make promises. It doesn’t matter - whatever happens, Remy,
you will never be able to keep them.”
*
It was only later,
when he'd finally taken her out on that first date, that he'd realised what a
bizarre situation he'd set himself up for.
He had no idea why he was so interested in a woman he couldn't touch -
perhaps it was the fact that he couldn't have her that made him want her all
the more.
It was a twisted
logic, and yet he could not have denied that he found the thrill of chasing the
indomitable and insurmountable an irresistible prospect.
They'd sat in Harry's Hideaway with a beer each
between them and a clumsy silence, nervous as two inexperienced high school
kids. It wasn't the kind of date he'd
been used to, where the woman flirted and giggled and batted her eyelids from
the moment he flashed a smile her way.
She'd sat there awkwardly coiling a loose lock of hair round a
forefinger, those beautiful eyes darting every which way but never on him. And yet he had sensed from the very first
moment the passion inside this woman called Rogue. Back then, it had confused him that she'd
never been able to show it to him. In
later years, it had saddened him when he'd seen that thirst for life go.
“So,” he'd begun
humorously, once he'd given up on her ever speaking first. “Let's get all de
pleasantries out of de way, shall we?
Only I t'ink we're never gonna get anywhere otherwise. Perhaps I should introduce myself first. The name's Remy LeBeau, but most people these
days seem to call me Gambit, although I have no idea why… Maybe it's because
I'm an expert at gamblin', although dis gamble don't seem t' be payin' off,
since we've already spent five minutes in each others company without sayin' a
single word. But, chere, dat's just
fine, because t' tell you de truth,” and he'd lowered his voice confidentially
and continued, “I don't like blind dates either.”
It'd worked. Somehow his idiotic monologue had broken the
ice and she'd actually laughed. He liked
her laugh. Husky and rich and deep, and
so completely uncontrived it was downright sexy.
“Ah'm sorry,” she'd
replied a little earnestly. “Ah'm not normally like this… not normally
this…this nervous round men, it's just…” her eyes met his with a sincerity he
found quite disarming, “the way you stare at me, Gambit… It's kinda unnerving.”
He'd smiled. “Call
me Remy, chere. And dat's okay. A lotta people find my eyes weird at first.”
“No, it ain't
that,” she'd answered self-consciously. “It's just the way you look at me. Like…”
“Like I find you
unbelievably sexy?” he'd finished for her, and she'd blushed that blush again,
her eyes darting away once more, a shy, plaintive smile tugging at her lips; a
smile that made something in his chest tighten pleasurably.
“Well, I do,” he
continued, the warmth in his chest spreading to his lips and into a broad smile.
“What's de point in hidin' it?” He'd pulled out a packet of cigarettes from his
coat pocket and given her a questioning glance.
When she shook her head he'd lit one and settled back in his seat,
appraising her. “So, I just gave you an introduction of m'self. It ain't a life story by any means, but it'll
have t' do, because you ain't gon' get much more outta dis Cajun. So how about some quid pro quo, huh? Why don't you tell me a bit 'bout your
beautiful self?”
Again she'd looked
away, the faintness of a blush not quite disguising the sudden tightness around
her lips.
“Mah name's Rogue,”
was all she'd said.
“Real name?”
“Ah don't have
one.”
He'd cocked an
eyebrow at her.
“Everyone has a
name.”
“Not me. Not since Ah was thirteen. Doesn't feel right, y'know? Not anymore.”
“How come?”
She'd allowed
herself to look at him then, and there had been that look in those pellucid
green eyes, the kind of look you didn’t see in young women anymore…
“Ah first used mah
powers when Ah was thirteen,” she'd explained quietly. “And when Ah did… Ah
changed. Haven't felt like mah old self
since then. Ah'm just Rogue.” She'd
shrugged, as if that explained everything, when really, of course, it had
explained almost nothing at all. “That's all.”
There had been
about a minute of silence after that; he'd taken a swig of his beer, and she'd
stared at the table, embarrassed. Then
he'd said: “Do you feel them then?”
She'd looked up.
“Who?”
He tapped his
temple.
“De people inside
your head?”
She'd swallowed, nodded.
“Ah feel them. Ah hear them. Every day.
Every night.”
There was no
self-pity in her features, no sadness, but he had sensed shame and guilt. Familiar.
He had felt sorry for her, wanted to reach out to her. Maybe that was why he asked what he did,
though even at the time he knew it was foolish.
“Who was de first
person you absorbed? When you were
thirteen?”
In the fortnight they'd
known one another, in all the idle, meaningless words they'd exchanged, for
some reason she'd chosen to confide this thing in him - something that he
instinctively knew she'd only told to very few people, and none of them after
only a few days of general acquaintance.
Even now, he'd never been able to understand why she'd felt it necessary
to do what she did. She'd gazed over at
an amorous couple embracing in a shadowy corner and said almost in a rush: “He
was a boy Ah knew at school. Cody
Robbins. Ah never asked for him t' like
me. Nobody liked me. There was no reason he should have liked me
at all. But he did.” There was a faintly
accusing look in her eyes as she'd continued; “One day, we were playin' down by
the river, and suddenly, he was kissin' me…
It was so crazy… And Ah was so angry at him for doin' that, but what was
even crazier was that suddenly… Ah was kissin' him back too. And Ah didn't even know, up until that
moment, that Ah'd ever wanted t' kiss anyone
let alone him… But Ah did… And Ah was…
And then… it happened.”
She stopped on a
breath, and it had been as if something had suddenly gone out of her, as if the
confession had sapped it from her, leaving her dry.
Even now, if he had
been asked how he'd felt upon hearing her story, he wouldn't have been able to
tell you.
“I'm sorry,” he'd
muttered. It had been crass, inadequate;
he hadn't even known what it was he was sorry about. It was the only phrase that had come close
enough, yet it was so far from the mark it could never have done his true
feelings justice.
“The way you look
at me,” she'd continued softly, still not looking into his eyes, “don't get me
wrong, it's not that Ah don't like it.
You don't look at me the way other men do. You make me feel…good about myself,
Remy. But sometimes… it just reminds me
of the way Cody kissed me that day at the river, and sometimes Ah think…” She'd
looked at him then, holding his gaze with those breathtaking, beautiful green
eyes, “sometimes Ah think that if Ah ever let you get close t' me like Ah let
Cody get close t' me, Ah'd kill you.
Just like Ah killed Cody.”
*
Perhaps it was a
twisted form of self-torture that always made him come back to her. Because being attracted to her was like being
attracted to the Siren; it was like falling in love with something beautiful
and yet perversely ugly, a dream of the sweetest kind that thwarted you when you
woke up.
Later they would
spend more time together as comrades and teammates, and consequently they got
to know one another a little better. He
would flirt casually with her, and to his pleasure, she would always flirt back. Their banter was bold and suggestive and
never boring. He found he enjoyed her
company, but in equal terms he found it frustrating. Because despite all the banter, despite all
the flirting, they couldn’t deny that underneath it all something intensely
sexual existed between them, something that could never be consummated in any
way.
She was a
heartbreaker, in every sense of the word; funny and kind one moment;
hot-tempered and argumentative the next; then, invariably, whimsical and
quixotic. She possessed a natural sex
appeal that he found quite confounding in one so inexperienced and hung up
about her body - every time he'd tried to touch her, even a simple pat on the
arm, she'd freeze and sometimes snap at him, even though every moment he laid
his eyes on her she seemed to subtly invite him with her body, to lead him to
do and say stupid and dangerous things.
And the bolder and
more reckless he got, the more she pushed him away.
It was a game of
cat and mouse that frustrated him more than any pursuit of any woman had done
so before, all the more so because he had never had a hope in hell of attaining
her.
So why had he never
given up?
Because every
movement she made was insinuation to him, it was the stuff of dreams, of
fantasies, it fuelled his desires, it inspired him. The way she sashayed into a room, the way she
drew a breath, the way she crossed her legs, the way she pursed her lips when
she was mad at him. She was, in every
way, his muse. The muse of a thief, a
liar and a scoundrel, but a muse nonetheless.
He remembered - it
must have been a day in summer, since the weather had been unusually hot and
bright. He had wandered down into
Westchester village with the aimlessness of one who no longer knows where he is
going. It was not the first time since
arriving at Xavier's mansion that he'd questioned his motives in coming to this
place, in becoming part of such a close-knit family, one that he felt he had no
real connection with. He still wasn't
able to work out whether he really bought into Xavier's claptrap, or whether he
didn't but he wanted to, or whether he did but was in self-denial.
When he had first
arrived, he hadn't believed in any of it.
As far as he had been concerned, it had all been the worst kind of
bullshit - the kind that puts blinders over peoples' eyes, that makes them see
only what they want to see, that makes them free to dream but afraid to
live. But over the months, having lived
under the same roof as them, having listened to all that bullshit day in, day
out, having got close to Storm, and having met her… He was beginning to question himself.
He hated
questioning himself, he hated rocking the foundation he'd built and deviating
from his chosen path into moral shades of grey, but he realised now, very
clearly, that all he was and all he had been were shades of grey, nothing more.
He wasn't good, that was for sure - he'd never pretended to be good -
but he wasn't wicked either.
Every time he
looked into Xavier's eyes, he had the brief, unnerving impression that he did, indeed, have a soul that was worth
saving.
It was the kind of
impression people like him always avoided and dreaded.
That sultry summer
afternoon, he'd suddenly found himself in a jewellery shop, standing amongst
all the little temptations that had plagued him since childhood. He had decided, quite suddenly and without
any rational flow of thought, that he was going to rob that store. It wasn't that he had any pressing need to do
so, or any real ulterior motive other than a paradoxical emotional need to
prove that he was not a good person,
and therefore, was incapable of a betrayal of any kind. He had no ties and no bonds to break - he had
no loved ones to upset or disappoint.
And it was just as
he had made that decision that it had caught his eye.
The butterfly
pendant inside the glass cabinet, lying on a bed of plush red velvet, staring
right at him from across the shop-front like it had been waiting there all his
life.
He'd walked right
up to it. White gold, the wings adorned
with deep green and blue enamel. He didn’t
know why it made him think of her, but as soon as he had seen it, he knew she’d
had to have it. He'd called to the
jeweller, who'd scurried up beside him, a little wary of this mutant stranger
“Can I help -?”
“Dis necklace. How much is it?”
“Three hundred and
fifty dollars, sir.”
He'd stared at the
tiny, minute butterfly and made up his mind.
“I'll take it.”
“Now?”
“Do I look like I'm
jokin'? Take it out and box it up.”
Looking rather
harassed, the jeweller had done so.
“And how will sir
be paying?” he'd asked rather belligerently whilst boxing the necklace up.
“Cash.”
As he counted out
those crisp, clean dollar bills the irony had not been lost on him.
All that dirty
money paying for the only honest thing he'd ever buy.
*
When he'd got back
to the mansion, there had been a picnic going on down by the lake. She, of course, was nowhere to be seen. It
had always been the kind of weather that made her off-colour - her usual attire
of long-sleeved sweaters and jeans would become a virtual prison, and as for
wearing gloves… She was always grumpy in summer, and he had known it was best
to steer clear of her, but that day he wasn't going to be denied, whatever she
threw at him.
He'd found her
sitting in the shade, under an ancient cedar tree, reading another worn romance
while the others splashed in the lake in their skimpy bathing costumes. Even though she'd seemed engrossed in the
book, he'd noticed that her eyes weren't moving across the page, and there was
a cantankerous, doleful expression on her face.
The downturn of those lips said it all.
She wanted to be down with the others enjoying herself; she wanted to
have some fun without being afraid she would hurt someone with a single
touch. Nevertheless, he was surprised to
see that she'd made the effort to come out in nothing more than a lime green
string vest and denim hot pants - he'd never seen her display that much flesh,
and to have said it was titillating didn't do enough justice.
He'd stolen up
beside her and leaned against the tree trunk, perusing her from behind his
shades.
“Lookin' good,
chere,” he'd greeted her, unable to help himself.
She'd started and
looked up to find him there, looking down at her with an appreciative
smile. She'd never been able to work out
how he always managed to sneak up on her, and it was a secret he hoped she'd
never find out, because he found the way she blushed when he did decidedly
appealing.
“Yah still
followin' me round, swamp rat?” she'd rebuked him, trying not to look too
approving of his choice of clothing. All
he'd ever needed was a Tee, jeans and sandals to get her heart racing and he
knew it.
“I can’t help it,
chere,” he'd grinned, removing his shades and fixing them to the neckline of
his shirt. “You're too beautiful. You're
like de flame and I'm like de moth - I jes' can't leave you alone.”
“You'd better be
careful then, Cajun,” she'd told him wryly. “Flames can get moths' wings
burnt.”
He'd knelt down
beside her, teased a white lock of hair between his fingers and grinned at
her. He'd been close enough to feel the
body heat rising from her white skin, and it had been painful to resist the
urge to put his hands on her, his lips on her, to taste her flesh…
“Not dis
flame. She can't touch me.”
“So why are you
botherin' t' hang around a gal you can't touch?”
“Maybe de fact dat
I can't touch you is what I like about you,” he'd replied, cocking his head
sideways and holding her gaze intently, making her breath catch in her throat,
making her skin flush despite the shade…
“Oh, Ah get it,”
she'd parried back sarcastically, “Ah'm just the unattainable goddess on a
pedestal, aren't Ah? The one you get to
fantasise about when you haven't got a real woman to hold at night, right?”
“Dat's right,” he'd
grinned, irreverent. “But dat don't mean dat I don't fantasise about you even
when I have a 'real' woman to hold at night.” His smile had broadened as her
blush had deepened. “And dat don't mean dat if you suddenly became attainable,
I wouldn't forsake all 'real' women in de blink of an eye for you.”
Despite the way her
cheeks were burning up, she'd managed a playful scowl and nudged her hair out
of his grasp. Even though he knew she
enjoyed all their sexy banter, there were
times he knew he got too close for comfort.
“You and Ah both
know that ain't possible,” she'd murmured, standing and dodging out of his way
when he'd stood too.
“I'm willin' t'
take de risk, chere,” he'd purred back. “Are you?” She'd stared back at him,
both exasperated and amused. She could
see in his eyes that he really was serious.
Because there were some nights
when he thought that he'd really be willing to sacrifice all his thoughts, all
his secrets, all his inner machinations - even oblivion - for a kiss from those
soft, sweet lips…
“Go back and play,
swamp rat,” she'd ordered him peremptorily. “Why dontcha go hit on Betsy or
someone?”
“Are you
kiddin'? To Betsy I'm classed somewhere
b'tween amoeba and worm food on de food chain.
I'm not even an anomalous blip on her radar.”
She'd started
walking back towards the mansion, but he'd still insisted on following her.
“Then how about
Storm?”
“Taken.”
“Jubilee?”
“I ain't into
schoolgirls.”
She hadn't been
able to keep the bitterness out of her voice.
“Oh, so you're some
sorta masochist who enjoys havin' your memories ripped outta you by a
soul-eatin' vampire?” she'd snapped.
He'd stopped, and she'd continued walking, but a few seconds later he
was right behind her again.
“Wait, Rogue…” He'd
walked in front of her, cutting her off, and she'd glared at him.
“What?”
She really had been pissed…
“I wanna give you
dis.”
He opened his
hand. She stared. And stared.
“Did you steal it?”
she asked at last. If he was any other
man he may have been offended, but him being him, he couldn’t have blamed her
for thinking so.
“Non,” he'd replied
honestly. “Just saw it and I guess I wanted you to have it… Thought it might look good on you…”
She'd continued to
stare at it. For the first time he had
felt genuinely embarrassed in her presence.
“Just take it
okay,” he'd insisted, holding it out to her. “I don't mean anyt'ing funny by
it, I swear. S’just a gift. Okay?”
There had been an
odd look on her face.
“Okay,” she'd said.
She'd opened a palm
- small and ungloved, lily white. How
much would it have been to ask that he cup his own hand over that palm, hold it
tight, feel her fingers etch their pattern into his heart as he pressed the
necklace into her hand, as he pressed the butterfly into her possession?
Always too much.
Instead he'd dropped that sliver of
white gold, watched it trickle like water into her hand; watched the butterfly
nestle safe inside her palm, with all the quiet certainty of having found its
home at last.
*
It had been later
in the summer; he hadn't seen much of her. She'd been put on various missions
he hadn't had any part in, but on the other hand, when he had seen her she'd
been much more receptive to his flirtation.
It had given him a satisfaction of a different kind, to know that he was
proving Storm wrong.
That particular day
he had been sitting in the lounge, slouching on the sofa and idly flipping
channels, only to finally halt on the news.
He'd barely listened to it. The
past few days a unique kind of dread had fallen over him, one he couldn't
pinpoint the source of. It hadn't just been
the anti-mutant riots right outside their front door, or the Sentinels being
rebuilt. Something had felt terribly,
undeniably wrong…
He'd frowned and
stared into space.
Maybe I should start makin' a move now. It don’t matter what de X-Men t'ink - it's
not like I need Storm's approval, and my chances wit' Rogue… let's face it,
they're zero. Besides, things don’t feel
right anymore, I've been wasting too much time sittin' round listenin' to
Xavier's crap…
Because the act had
begun to grate on him. The rules, the
principles, the codes of honour, the heart and soul of that fucking
place and everyone in it had been bleeding into him and he wouldn’t have given
a shit about it in reality, but somehow he had begun to forget who and what he
really was, and it had felt good to believe he was someone who bought into this
bullshit, someone who was honest and clean and blind, but good.
He'd grimaced and
punched the remote, only to find himself on Fox News.
“Sentinels have been government-approved…
Before his death at the hand of a mutant terrorist outfit named the
Brotherhood, Senator Robert Kelly stated that… Trask has been granted
permission to put his Sentinel Mark 2 project underway… mass-production…
Professor Charles Xavier reiterated his stance on what he terms 'racial
harmony'… The X-Men… outlaw band of mutants… sparked anti-mutant demonstrations
outside the Xavier mansion yesterday… Military on high alert…”
“Hi.”
He'd looked up to
find her standing there beside him, dressed in skinny-leg jeans and a tight red
sweater. The butterfly pendant had been
hanging about her neck, glinting in the sunlight that was streaming in from the
windows. He'd smiled slightly when he
saw it.
“Hey, chere.”
She'd sat down next
to him, closer than usual, so that their arms touched. He wasn't used to this - it surprised
him. He'd turned to look at her and seen
the small frown on her face as she'd stared at the TV screen.
“You're watchin'
this bullshit?” she'd exclaimed disapprovingly, snatching the remote out of his
hand and switching the TV off with disdain. “Ah just can't stand the news these
days, it's so depressin'.”
She'd been in less
of a bad mood than a despairing one, he could tell from the look in her eyes.
“How did de mission
go?” he'd asked.
“Not good. We managed to infiltrate Trask's Manhattan
factory, and it looks like the Mark 2 program has been underway for months, not just days… Recon is one
thing, Remy, but Ah'd have been much happier blowin' the place t' smithereens…”
She'd sighed
plaintively, and then quite suddenly, in an involuntary, childlike gesture,
she'd turned, put her arms through his and buried her face into the sleeve of
his shirt. He'd never seen her looking
so lost. It was then that he'd realised
that what she'd seen at the factory had disturbed her more than anything else
she'd seen before. He'd lowered his head
slightly, pressing his forehead comfortingly into her hair. She'd smelt of shampoo and shower gel,
vanilla and orange blossom. It was a
scent he'd never forget.
“How about I take
you out for dinner tonight?” he'd murmured softly. “Take your mind off things?”
She'd shaken her
head slightly.
“Sorry, no can do,
sugah. Me and Logan…”
“You and Logan,” he'd muttered vindictively,
unable to stop himself.
“Me and Logan and Betts have booked the Danger Room for a session,” she'd
informed him, raising her head and glaring at him archly. “Remy, just what is
your problem with him?”
“My problem? Well for one t'ing, he's an overrated, hairy
little bastard who's always swaggerin' round like he owns the place. And secondly, maybe I don't like de way he's
always hangin' round you lookin' like he's ready t' swat flies away wit' dose
claws of his.”
She'd raised an
eyebrow at him.
“Ah can't believe
it - Remy LeBeau, you’re jealous!”
He'd scowled,
finding the whole thing less than amusing, but she'd squeezed his arm tighter,
trying to reassure him.
“Remy, for your
information, there is nothin' goin'
on between me and him. He's like a big
brother t' me, that's all. He knows how
nervous Ah am about the whole touch thing… sometimes it makes him a little
over-protective.”
“Sometimes?”
“Yeah. He just doesn’t want to see me get hurt. Besides,” and she'd looked away suddenly, “we
have a bond. Not like the kind lovers
do, or even siblings. It's more like the bond between comrades.” He'd looked at
her quizzically and she'd replied; “We were on a mission, back when Ah first
joined the X-Men. Everyone hated me
then, b'cause before that Ah was runnin' with Mystique's Brotherhood, playin'
the mutant terrorist. Anyway, we were on
this mission in Japan, and Ah nearly got killed. Logan let me borrow his healin' factor so Ah
could live.” She'd paused, adding quietly: “He was the first person who gave me
their power as a gift.”
“Oh,” was all he'd
said. He'd felt very sheepish. She'd continued to stare off into space, and
when next she spoke her voice had been contemplative.
“Ah can kinda see
it, you know. Why the baseline humans
get frightened of us. Hell, Ah'd be
frightened of myself, if Ah ever got threatened with the kinda power Ah
have. Maybe Ah want the Sentinels to stamp me out.
Maybe it'd put me out of my misery.”
“You don't mean
dat,” he'd said, only half believing it because when he looked into her eyes,
when he saw all the pain and all the strangeness in them, sometimes he believed
she really did mean it…
“Maybe. Ah don’t know.” She'd paused, turning back to
him, her lips breaking into a smile. “Maybe yah can take me out after the DR
session after all.”
“You sure?”
“Yeah. Ah'd like to.
Maybe it'd take mah mind off things.”
“Oh. Great.” He'd passed her a wry smile and she'd
laughed.
“Ah meant that as a
compliment! Somehow, you always seem to
take mah mind off things!”
“Maybe dat's
because I'm on it 24/7.”
They'd known each
other for months now, but she still blushed whenever he really started
bantering with her.
“Don't flatter
yourself, Cajun,” she'd pouted at him in that way he loved so much. “Ah like
you, but not that much.”
“Shame,” he'd
drawled sexily. “Because I like you, and I like you 'dat much'. And just for de record,” he'd added
shamelessly, “you are on my mind
24/7. Especially at night.”
He'd expected to be
berated or slapped or teased back mercilessly.
So he'd been surprised when she'd stared him right in the eyes, without
a trace of a smile on her lips and murmured: “Y'know… Just this once… Ah'd
really like to kiss you.”
She had been
entirely serious. He'd known he'd never
be able to get another chance. He'd
straightened his face, returned her gaze with the utmost sincerity and replied:
“So why don't you?”
A dangerous
challenge - she hadn't known then just how much he would have been sacrificing
had they shared that one kiss. Her eyes
had widened, then darkened.
“Are yah
crazy? You know what would happen if --”
“I told you, I'm
willin' t' take de risk,” he'd interrupted in a low voice. “Are you?”
The same question,
and this time she'd known he really, truly meant it… There had been confusion
in her eyes, want, passion, desire…
“Ah --”
He'd lowered his
face towards hers, prompting her, tempting her…
“Remy, you don't
know what it's like…”
“I don't care. Show me.”
“No.”
“You want to.”
“But it doesn’t
mean --”
“I want to kiss you
too. I've wanted to from the first
moment I met you. Don’t keep me waitin',
chere, 'cos I don't t'ink I can stand it any longer.”
Uncertainty,
uncertainty in those gorgeous green eyes as she realised how far he was willing
to go…
“This is crazy…”
she'd whispered.
“Crazy, just like
when you kissed Cody back? Crazy because
you never knew you wanted it? But you
did, chere. Just like you want t' kiss
me now.”
He'd made a grave
error, and he'd known it as soon as he'd said it. At the mentioning of Cody's name she'd
frozen, and the next moment she'd pulled back, her arms going slack about his
own. She was trembling slightly.
“Rogue --” he'd
begun, knowing he'd made a fatal mistake, but she'd cut him off before he'd
apologised.
“That was below the
belt, Cajun,” she'd murmured.
“I know, I'm
sorry…”
“You don't understand.”
“I do, I just… I
don't know why dat came out, it was insensitive of --”
“But that's what
you are, isn’t it,” she'd said sadly. “Insensitive. The way you look at women, the way you make
them feel like there's somethin' more when there is nothin' more. Ah don't
even know why you'd be willin' to take the risk with me. Ah'm just a game, aren't Ah. 'Cos this can't be serious, it can't ever be serious. Even if we did go out to dinner tonight,
tomorrow you’d be out findin' some other woman to fuck. All this talk about risk… Ah'm a risk you'd
never be willin' to take, Remy. Not for real.”
She'd unwrapped her
arms from his and stood up, walked to the door.
“Rogue --” he'd
begun, but before he could get the words out she'd gone.
He would never have
been able to spit it out anyway.
He'd never have
been able to say I care for you.
The very next day,
the military had attacked.
* * * * *
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