Whispers

 
 

The Question

She wakes, wondering at the rustling at her back and then realizes her husband is pulling away and getting up. She can hear him tugging on his jeans and sliding into a shirt.

"Logan?"

"Gonna see how the kids are," he says. She knows who he means. "'Bout time she let him back in."

She settles back into the covers, twisting a strand of white hair around her fingers, remembering Carol. She isn't so sure.

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Hazily, she opens her eyes and glimpses him settling into the chair by the open balcony doors. His blood-colored eyes close halfway, still studying her, guarding her, guarding against her. She closes her eyes and forces herself to drift away into slumber and memories.

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His body was so impossibly warm when he wrapped his arms around her stomach and nestled her head beneath his chin. She could feel his warm breath ruffling her hair and a spreading heat from where his hands rested against her front. His fingers lightly brushed upwards and she caught her breath, leaning back her head to put some air between her and him. Instead he moved closer, taking the opportunity to nuzzle her neck, using her hair as a barrier.

She shivered. Not from cold.

"Remy," she murmured, not certain if she was protesting or encouraging him.

He took it as encouragement.

His hands slid further down her body, caressing her hips, as he buried his face along her shoulder, kissing her through the fabric of her shirt, careful to avoid her bare skin. She shifted, reaching for him, feeling him as he was feeling her. Between the gasps and the moans and the friction of bodies, she found herself pulling closer, wanting more.

That was when she panicked.

She shoved him off and pulled away on shaking legs.

"Rogue?" His voice was thick and she could feel the traces of his fingers brushing her back as he reached.

But she didn't look at him. She managed to get to her feet and stumble away from the bed and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind her and sliding to the floor. What was she doing? What had she done? Her shoulders shook and then her body shook and she couldn't stop the tears from falling and her breath from catching and falling in gasps against the bathroom floor.

She could hear him approaching and she leaned hard against the door, knowing he would not shove it open into her. He called her name outside the bathroom, and she heard the growl of frustration that was all him and only him.

What was she doing?

She berated herself as the sobs shook her.

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He was quiet when she finally emerged hours later, watching her with glowing eyes as he crouched as close as he could without blocking her exit. She didn't want to look at him, merely stealing one glance before she padded over to the closet and pulled down her clothes for the day.

She still felt shaky, but she tried not to let it show.

How could she do this to him constantly? She pulled him close, encouraged him, asked for it, then pushed him away when he gave it. She brushed back her tangled hair with one hand and glanced over at him again.

He was quiet, watching. He always seemed to know when coming near would only push her farther and farther away.

She sighed and tossed the hangers on the bed.

Sometimes, she wished he would.

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Carol was the final straw.

They'd both been close to breaking for weeks, as she continued to avoid the closeness she wanted so much to have with him. But somehow, he was slipping through her defenses yet again and she knew it was only a matter of time before he managed to bridge the distance she had built up between them, yet again.

Fighting alongside another team, working to bring down a raid by the Brotherhood. It only took a few minutes, three short minutes, to change her life, to break her and remake her. Just a little too long, a little too late.

She never meant to do it.

A new gravestone behind the mansion. A new set of powers for her.

Forever.

Something broke.

And nothing he could do could fix it.

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He hears her tossing in her sleep before he even reaches the door. He can still smell him and soon he's hearing him too. Soft murmured French with scattered English words here and there. Love. Rogue. Sleep.

He stops outside the door to listen as he calms her and her whimpers and groans slowly fade away.

He's good for her. Always has been.

Assured that he won't be leaving anytime soon, he turns around and stalks down the hallway back to his room and his worried wife who will doubtless be wanting to know the two are okay.

He doesn't think they're okay. But at least they're together.

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She wakes to his gentle touch as he rubs her shoulder, still whispering calming words in French. She closes her eyes.

What is she doing?

And she cannot stop the tears from falling down.
 


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