Whispers

 
 

catch

Remy isn't the jealous, possessive type, though some might think he would be. He isn't even the overly protective type. When somebody ticks Rogue off, he's likelier to sit shuffling his cards with a smirk on his face and let her lambast them verbally or physically, whichever she'd rather, than he is to step in and finish them off himself.

But somehow he's captured her, bound her to him so she cannot escape.

The warmth of his hands sliding gently along her skin, the bristle of his stubble against her neck as he whispers to her, makes her burn, the way he holds her like something precious he still can't really believe is his.

He makes her want him.

Their gazes lock and she stares into the heady blaze of fiery irises against the dark sea of his eyes. Somehow she knows that whether or not he's ever said it, he'll never let her go.

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"The Morlock Massacre."

The words startle Rogue right out of her newspaper, and hot coffee from her mug splashes onto her lap. "Ouch!" She frowns and starts to sop up the spill with her napkin.

Logan raises his eyebrow in question at her while Ororo continues on, not realizing he's shifted his attention.

"Every time I think it's gone and buried, something new comes up," she says, sighing heavily and sipping on her morning cup of tea.

Rogue shrugs at Logan and takes a bite of pancake. She pretends to be reading her paper, but instead she focuses on Ororo. Logan probably isn't fooled, but he too pretends and turns back to the headmistress.

"What's up this time, 'Ro?" he asks gruffly. His toast pops up. He puts it on a plate and opens the tub of butter.

Ororo shakes her head, brow furrowed intently. "We're getting someone new that claims to have been one of the survivors. There were some, you know."

Rogue swallows hard. An actual survivor? Would they recognize Remy?

She excuses herself and slips away from the table.

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"What do y' wan' me t' do, chère?" he asks, irritation and annoyance in the line of his body and in his voice as he gathers up his cards for a round in the Danger Room. "Dere ain't not'in' I can do."

She crosses her arms at him from beside the door. "Ah jus' want ta know if they'll recognahze ya, if there's anythin' Ah need ta do."

"Dere ain't." His answer is clipped. He isn't looking at her. He's pulling on his boots.

Rogue glares at his back. "But will they?" she persists. "Will they recognahze ya?"

"I don' know!" He drops his foot to the floor and stares at her, breathing hard.

It's the first time he's ever yelled at her in true anger and she stares back. After a long moment, she turns away and stumbles out the door.

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She can't stay away. Somehow he has captured her and it's only a matter of time before she finds herself in his room again, hugging herself in absent need for comfort and waiting for him to return.

Minutes turn into hours.

Finally, she curls up on his bed and breathes in the scent he's left behind. It smells like him, so many almost definable things that make her think of home. She's asleep when he tumbles into bed beside her and wakes only when his arm slides around her and he buries his face against the back of her neck.

"Désolé," he whispers.

She catches her breath. She wants to say that no, it's her that should be apologizing, that she knew better than to push too hard when it comes to his painful past, but the words are frozen on her tongue and all too soon, Remy is asleep. The moment has passed.

"Ah love ya," she whispers in the darkness.

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It's hard to fall back asleep, what with all the pain and the shouting and the realization of just how much she is caught and entangled, her life with his, and there is no escaping any more. She twists her body over in his embrace, traces her fingers shakily along the edge of his jaw. In sleep, he seems so peaceful and uncomplicated. It seems she should have no difficulty coming to grips with her love for him.

She does love him.

She isn't even certain when it happened, if it was up on the roof or tangled with him on the covers, or the moment he called her by name.

With a soft sigh, Rogue pulls her hand away and wraps one arm around him. She needs to sleep. And she does. For a while. But she's startled awake by his tossing beside her, covers twisting around them. He's shaking his head, muttering in French.

"Remy," she calls, alarmed.

He wakes abruptly with a yell and very nearly pins her beneath him. His eyes are beyond seeing her. She catches his arms as he comes down.

"Remy!"

He stops, blinks at her, and finally she can see recognition in his face.

"Dieu," he barely breathes. His hands slide around to cradle her head and he leans his forehead against hers. "Y' okay?" he asks, voice soft and worried. Red dims into something softer, more vulnerable. "Did I hurt y'?"

Rogue shakes her head and draws him fully into her arms. "No. Ah'm all raght." She hushes him, holds him close. "It's all raght."

Finally, finally, he relaxes back into her embrace. "Désolé. Désolé." He holds her, as if comforting her when it's she that should be comforting him, and whispers against her over and over. For the first time, she realizes she isn't the only one with such fears.

He never tells her what he dreamt.

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People notice her silences. Remy's had years to get used to this and so easily ignores when those words come up in casual conversation. The Morlock Massacre.

She hasn't.

Jubilee glances quizzically at Rogue's pensive face. "It's over, chica. No need to take it so seriously."

But Rogue shakes her head and lets them think it's just because there were so many dead that she refuses to question and poke and prod into their personal future tangled with a tragic past.

"You know, I heard Gambit was in the area when that happened," Dazzler notes aloud, then glances over at Rogue herself. "Do you think he might've seen anything?"

Rogue shrugs and proves how much she's learned from her evasive boyfriend by blowing it off. "He was in Chicago that year." For about a week. Recovering from the way everything went down.

The girls hum acknowledgement, though Kitty frowns at the discrepancy, before they break up to their respective classes.

Rogue feels drained as she walks to hers, goes in, and teaches her freshmen English. She tries to forget how closely tied their lives are to Remy's past, tries to forget that Ororo is looking forward to asking the soon arrival what she knows about Essex, or a man called Sinister, tries to forget that Remy's life is a web of secrets and lies wrapped around one stubborn hope for a future.

Remy's had years to get used to this.

She hasn't.

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He's in his room, grading papers as if nothing is wrong, when she walks in without knocking and closes the door to lean on it. Maybe it's irrational, but she just wants to see him there, fine, none the worse for all the speculation running up and down their school halls.

Burning red eyes study her before he sets down his pen.

She'd back up but there's nowhere to go. Was there ever?

"Chère..."

"Don't."

They stare at each other.

Rogue shouldn't be angry at him. She shouldn't. It's going to pass, blow over with her crazy irrational fears that someone's going to see and know exactly what happened. That she's going to lose him.

Her hand is already fumbling for the doorknob, but he's faster than she is, catching her in his arms. All these weeks of training and it's reflexive to struggle against him, to fight for a way out of there. She can't breathe and she's crying and she isn't even sure why she's so very angry when it isn't his fault (but was it?) and there's nothing either of them can do to stop whatever's going to happen from happening.

"Remy! Let me go!" Rogue pushes against him, but he only holds her tighter until she can barely even struggle.

"Non," he whispers.

She stops, staring at him, at the desperation in his voice, his eyes. It hits her with a blinding clarity, like a slam in the gut, that takes her breath away.

He's afraid he's going to lose her.

And for the first time, she realizes she isn't the only one with such fears.

Her mouth finds his and kisses him fiercely. Her arms are pinned to keep her from fighting and unable to hold him, she pours all of her love and her passion into that kiss. His grip tightens and he clutches her to him, kissing back with an intensity that sets her entire body ablaze.

This isn't what she expected her first time would be like, but it's real, so very real, when they stumble towards the bed in the middle of the room and slide hands under clothes and he's pulling them off of her and she's burning so badly.

"Remy."

It's whispers and heat and fire and his hands are tracing over her virgin flesh and her hands are tracing his scars. For a moment, she just stares at him, awed. He's beautiful.

He pulls her down with him, pressing their heads together. "Anna, y' sure 'bout dis?" For a fleeting second, concern flickers in his eyes.

She licks her lips, but she can't seem to find her voice. She can only nod.

Dark eyes study hers for a long moment, then something changes. He believes her. He wants her.

Their mouths meet again and then their bodies and she loses herself in his touch.

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Passion spent, they lay together tangled in the covers. One hand idly traces along the scars on his abdomen. She wondered at first where they came from, but then she remembers. Sabretooth. So many things wound up in this thing hanging over their heads.

Suddenly, Rogue rolls over and rests her head over his heart, draping one arm across him. For so long, she had never thought about having anything like this with anyone, and even when the Cure had taken away her powers, still she hadn't imagined this. Bobby never captured her, bound her to him with those smoldering eyes and whispered secrets and endearments that actually meant something. She never wanted him with a fire that burned and ached and refused to let go.

She sighs into Remy's skin.

He brushes one hand over her shoulder, wraps her up a little tighter. "Y' okay, chère?"

"Mm-hm."

She is trapped, but she does not want to escape.
 


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