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Friends, they had agreed. What else could they be? That was the accepted terminology for two people who cared for each other without fucking, wasn’t it? And if that was so, that was what they had been all along. Certainly not lovers.
Rogue had left that conversation with renewed positivity. They had talked about it like adults and they had reached an understanding. No more what-ifs, what-are-we, frustration and anxiety. Friends was simple and anything else was complicated.
If she occasionally still rubs one out to the idea of her good friend tight between her legs and panting obscenities into her ear, that was simple too, so simple that there were aphorisms for it: what Remy doesn’t know can’t hurt him. At least neither of them are telepaths.
It’s the paranoia that she releases first. No wondering when he’s going to lose interest, no castigating herself for not being enough. Remy can do whatever he wants and it’s none of her business. There’s freedom in that.
Sure, she’s as sexless as a newly minted nun, but that’s because she’s single. It’s not because she’s a vampirous wanton living every day next to her worst temptation, treading a tightrope between expressing affection physically and hurting the person she loves most. (When had she stopped being single? Did she ever stop being single? They didn’t have that conversation. Every day implied and never professedly declared.)
Her heart, lightened of worry, is soon set adrift.
Touch, for a start. They didn't touch, of course they didn’t touch. It hadn’t counted. How could she miss something that didn’t count? A stroke of her back, an arm round her waist, a head resting on her shoulder: that didn’t count. Inching next to her during briefings, hip to hip: that didn’t count either. Neither did kisses to gloved hands or legs resting on laps. You can’t count what is numberless. Losing the things she didn’t count leaves her with less than nothing.
There’s less teasing. A barb without an accompanying press of a hand is too naked, too unfriendly. It leaves a politeness that suits neither of them.
But Remy is there when she wants company, helpful when she wants help, consoling when she wants consolation (at a respectful distance). To a disinterested observer, they are friends.
The thing that really winds her up is Remy isn't dating. Dating or fucking.
Rogue doesn’t want him to date. She hates the idea of him dating. She’s got a tub of chunky monkey in the freezer on standby to cry into for the day he goes on a date.
But if he did, she would know that he meant it when he said they could be friends.
Remy is everything a friend should be and he’s obviously goddamned in love with her. And she can’t complain about it, and she can’t have him, because they agreed to be friends.
Remy is slowing sinking his beer at Harry’s Hideaway and Rogue is beginning to regret the double-chocolate fudge sundae: too bountiful, it cloys as it warms.
There was supposed to be a group of them. Ororo was sick, Jubilee had flaked out and Logan, faced with the realisation he was going to be stuck between Remy and Rogue, had made his excuses. They should have called it off, but neither of them had come up with a good enough reason why they shouldn’t go anyway. She’s stuck driving because the motorbike that was working fine three hours ago suddenly came down with a fault at the prospect of her riding pillion, her legs wrapped around Remy’s and her arms around his waist. Too close. Out of bounds.
Rogue suggests Remy goes up to pay the tab because she’s seen the waitress making eyes at him. Across the room, she watches the waitress lean forwards, brush an imagined spot off his top and seem completely uninterested in the whereabouts of their tab as she practices the aggressive friendliness of someone who is going to make this last.
"Oh no, we jus' friends," she hears him say, those honeyed tones carrying over to the booth. Or maybe she’s just attuned to his voice.
He’s not even dressed up. Jeans and a plain t-shirt: a tacit declaration of making absolutely no effort for Rogue whatsoever. Not a date, not even a little. He dresses up more to go out on the town with Ororo (though perhaps that’s a special case of competitive peacocking). Of course the jeans make his ass look great and the t-shirt is stretched across his sculpted chest and since the day he fails to accessorise is the day she takes down his skrull replacement, there’s a simple black braid on one hand that draws too much attention to a taut wrist and long, precise fingers. She notices that. Other people aren’t supposed to.
The waitress laughs and lightly touches his bare arm. Unbidden, Rogue wonders what that shade of bubblegum pink lipstick would look like wrapped around Remy's cock. She shouldn't. Encouraging him to date is friend stuff: picturing him in raptures is not. Sometimes she thinks of it as inoculation: that if she can get used to the idea in small doses, when it happens, she won’t suffer as much. But mostly it’s just an overly visual imagination and a dash of self-loathing. She jabs the spoon down to the bottom of the sundae glass and a fragment of brownie pings out and onto the floor.
The waitress is writing something on a napkin and tucks it into his jeans pocket. Remy walks back over and pulls into the booth opposite Rogue. He slides the napkin under her sundae glass, folded down discreetly over the digits, where it can get chucked out with the gooey remains of too-sweet chocolate sauce. “Not my type,” he says, in explanation.The petite blonde is everyone’s type. Pert breasts, mischievous eyes and a smile to charm fish outta water. If the waitress took half a glance at Rogue, she couldn’t swear she’d say ‘no’. She is also, specifically, a type she’s seen Remy with before.
Please move on, she wants to say. I can’t bear waiting around for it. The dang bird was sitting in the cage with an open door and refusing to leave.
“Guy over by the bar is watching you,” Rogue says instead.
Olive skin, intense eyebrows contrasting with a playful quirk of his mouth. She thinks about him rutting against Remy, their breath coming quick and short together. She’s getting all her shots this evening.
“Both of us, maybe. Not for me, though.” Bullshit again. “You should go over there.”
“An’ leave you on your lonesome? Ain’t that much of an asshole.”
“Sure you ain’t just forgotten how t’flirt?” He teases. “Ma chère used to be a champion at it.” He doesn’t bite his lip, he doesn’t show any outward sign that he didn’t mean to say it, Remy’s too smooth for that. He smiles and leans back into the booth and presents it as a challenge. But it hangs in the air: Remy hasn’t called her his chère for a while.
This is why they maintain that smear of formality: old ways too easily bring forth old habits.
Rogue doesn’t know what he’s playing at and she gives up caring. Fine, it might save the evening from being a complete wash-out. She is a champion flirt and she used to enjoy that shit. Maybe Remy needs a little shove out of his cage. It wasn’t just freedom for him, after all.
Rogue is wearing a turtle neck, gloves, and has leggings under her skirt, so it’s as safe as she gets. She runs a hand through her hair, shakes it out for a bit of volume and grabs her purse. No lipstick, which is a shame, so she bites her lip to get the blood flowing, remembering some old aunt ranting about sinful harlots who wore makeup (but other methods to create similar effects were A-OK).
And since she’s feeling a little petulant now, she turns to Remy and asks how she looks.
He takes a moment and she waits for him to formulate a devastating quip. “Beautiful,” he says, finally, as if that wasn't about the worst thing he could have done.
Fuck Remy LeBeau and the horse he rode in on.
Rogue plasters on a big smile – she vaguely remembers how those work – and approaches the stranger, purse held across her body as an inadvertent shield. Would you like a drink? No, allow me. All slightly awkward but only in the standard way approaching someone always is, though she’s more used to being approached (somewhere in the back of her mind she acknowledges how effortless Remy makes it look). It gets easier. He’s on a road trip, already been up through Mississippi, so they talk about that for a while. He’s self-deprecating, a little intense, but he’s curious and well-travelled.
While he excuses himself, Rogue looks over at Remy. He’s playing solitaire and doesn’t look up for the few minutes she’s watching him. The son of a bitch can be cold sometimes.
Rogue has fun. She remembers how to touch a man’s arm when he says something funny, pretends to stumble and is rewarded with two strong arms under hers and then a steadying hand that stays at her back for the rest of the evening. It’s… nice.
Her freedom is more limited. Rogue isn’t going home with anyone. She’s not going to form a new relationship with all the same problems as the old one. But for a time she can feel desirable, interesting, and normal. She accepts his number at the end of the night and deposits it in the trash on her way out the door.
Remy jumps out of the moving car when she’s only half way up the mansion drive. “Hey!” she calls after him, jolting to a stop.
“Goin’ for a walk,” he says, without turning around.
It was an awkward evening, but Rogue didn’t think it had gone badly, as such. She abandons the car, careless of whether it’s in anyone’s way or whether she can leave it with the top down on a cloudy evening, and flies after him.
Remy has just passed the outer edge of the grove as she puts a hand on his shoulder and yanks him round harder than she intends.
“What’s this about? I thought you wanted me to flirt?”
“I don’ mind what you do, Rogue, I mind what you want me to do.”
“Now what’s that supposed to mean? I thought we were friends.”
“Ain’t my friend, Rogue. Never were. Not what I wanted. I can say it’s so if it’s what you need, I can leave you alone, but I won’t fuck someone else so you can think you’ve done right by me.” He’s been running that little speech over in his head, she thinks. Rogue finds that sufficiently annoying it excuses her from having to engage with his point.
“Well why’d you agree to it then?”
“Can’t make you want something you don’t want, any more than you can.”
“It ain’t a matter of want! I don’t get to have what I want.”
“Only thing stopping it is you.”
Rogue swings at him. She’s spent hours and years and sweat and tears trying to fix her powers and he knows it better than anyone and, well, she never did get the hang of slapping a guy. As an over-tall 13 year old, punching was the only way they’d take ‘no’ for an answer. By the time she had the force of a four by four behind her fist, it was still the solution to a wide range of problems.
Even if he didn’t expect it, Gambit’s reactions are good enough he’s got a high chance of dodging; if she makes contact, he can roll with it, lessen the force and stay upright. He doesn’t: he crumples like a chip packet and falls to the floor. He puts a thumb to his mouth where she's split his lip, a trickle of blood running down the side.
She’s stronger than him, but he’s always held his own when sparring. She didn’t think. “I-”
Something in her jacket pocket explodes with a faint pink glow, sending her forwards and she lands on top of him. She feels him juddering with laughter, chest to chest. “If it’s the only way you’ll touch me, chère, I’ll take it. Hit me again.”
“You’re crazy. I could’ve hurt you.”
“Singing our song, still.”
Rogue levers herself up with her arms, legs straddling his lower body. There’s still adrenaline coursing round her body from decking him and subsequent panic over hurting him. Rogue almost wants to pick a fight so she has something to do with it. She tenses a fist, which his eyes flick towards, then he’s back looking at her, his face a combination of anticipation and resignation. If she thought he would fight back, she’d be tempted, but there’s something fatalistic in his mood and it’s so strange a look on him that she dare not.
Instead, she pulls him into a sitting position by his t-shirt, bringing his face within inches of hers (some long stolen part of Remy’s consciousness berates her for stretching out the cotton. The real Remy barely seems to register it). “Ain’t stopping myself. Can’t just want it hard enough that my powers start behaving, ‘cause I have wanted so hard-”
Remy cuts her off. “Not what I meant. Never what I asked for,” he says softly.
Rogue grunts in frustration and lets go of him. Her heart’s pumping for some action but the heat has gone out of her. She lets her shoulders drop and holds his chin to examine his face and sighs. “Damn’ fool,” she says under her breath. “That’s gonna bruise.”
“Ain’t got much use for being pretty right now.”
“As if your vanity weren’t its own reward.”
Remy grins weakly.
Remy probes the wound at the side of his mouth with his tongue, deftly and carefully, and damned if she hasn’t sent herself madder than a march hare wondering what that tongue can do. Rogue runs a thumb across the split of his lips to wipe away the blood and then, unthinking, she puts it to her mouth and sucks off the blood. Most of it has soaked into her gloves; barely enough for a taste, but now they share a metal tang against their tongues, his blood in her. Remy has a look on his face she’s only seen rarely, in dim light, in reflections, on her periphery: the raw desire he tries to hide from her, because she can’t ever make good on it. He doesn’t hide it now: Remy’s eyes are fixed or her, his breath as heavy as the air between them.
The ground slopes gently laterally beneath them and Rogue shifts her hips to even her weight. Remy exhales roughly and she wonders if she should pretend she didn’t feel him twitch beneath her, her own jolt of pleasure more deniable, if not more resistable.
Every touch denied leads here: the shrouded kisses and tempered strokes acted as a valve on a shaken pop bottle of desire that’s been firmly capped for too long now. They’ve never gotten so close nor been so foolish. The guy she flirted with this evening – his name already slunk from her mind – his touch didn’t do this to her. It’s Remy’s touch, Remy’s body beneath her that threatens to make her explode into a fizzy shower of lust and regret.
Remy reaches a hand towards her, but it hangs inches from her face. She closes her eyes, able to imagine leaning into it, warmth on her jaw. He can’t, he isn’t wearing gloves: another habit cast aside, supposed to keep them from temptation. Remy slips his right hand under one roll of her turtleneck instead and strokes down the side of her neck while pressing a kiss into the fabric on the other side.
His right hand wanders lower, down the side of her ribs, pauses, then over her breast and he sweeps a thumb across one nipple, rising through the ribbing of her top. He stills, like he’s waiting for her to respond to this outrage, ready to take another punch. Rogue answers with a roll of her hips and from then there’s no hesitation between them. Remy puts his mouth to one breast, a hand to the other and Rogue grabs at the sides of his t-shirt, crushing the fabric in her hands with each fresh shock of pleasure through her.
Remy grasps her thighs and pulls her against his lap. His hands run around her waist, up her back; he presses her against him as he moves under her. With his head next to hers, he whispers into her ear: “Late at night I think ‘bout the weight of you, the shape of you under silk, the noise you make when you come. Not a thing different from how you are now.”
When Rogue fantasises, it’s about skin sweating against skin and mouths scraped across naked flesh; kissing and sucking and lapping, tongues flat against bodies. If fantasy is all she has, it may as well be the most impossible version. No points for realism when you’re coming on your own.
It hadn’t occurred to her that Remy’s desires wouldn’t be equally outlandish, as far distant from anything she can give him.
Rogue rubs herself against the buttons on his fly (never zips: she doesn’t know if this is another fragment of his memory or evidence of her own wayward attention), chasing more pressure against his hardening cock. Remy pushes her skirt up, removing one layer of fabric and distance between them, and slides a hand between her covered legs and that is better: firm and even.
Rogue scootches further back for a moment and Remy pauses, unsure. She utters a squeak of outrage, grabs his hand and pulls it to her, back where it had been a moment before. But now, with space between them, Rogue works on the buttons of his jeans. The metal slides off her smooth gloves in haste and she curses, but taps away Remy’s less busy hand that offers assistance. She daren’t remove her gloves, even for a moment, under such uncontrolled circumstances, but she’s determined to do it herself. Remy’s movements over her leggings become slower, languorous: delicious but less distracting and with a moment of concentration and a bit of force, the buttons come open one by one. Remy taught her better lockpicking than that, even with gloves on, but Rogue doesn’t give him a chance at disappointment in her skills, she reaches below his boxers, releases his cock and places it in her hand. Remy groans, pushes into her, and starts moving his thumb in circles beneath her skirt.
They’re driving together now: she moves her hand over him at the same time as she thrusts against him, at the same time as he sweeps his thumb across her clit. There’s no magic in the synchronicity, there’s just no room in her head for more than one rhythm; she’s lost the sound of the night and the feeling of the ground under her knees and in its place is the pulse of her own blood in her ears, the heat of Remy in her hand and ecstasy between her legs. With one more cant of her hips she’s over the top, blinding pleasure within a silent world.
Rogue’s ears are still ringing as things come back into focus.
Rogue bears down on an empty cunt, pressing Remy’s hips between her thighs and squeezing one or two more peaks out of her descent.
Remy is panting beneath her. He takes her hand and gently removes it from his softening cock. He uses the edge of his t-shirt to wipe off her glove and himself, the t-shirt already irredeemable. He tucks himself back into his jeans and strokes her thighs to a standstill.
As the waves of pleasure recede, the rest of the world crowds back in.
Oh, she loves this man, but she had never had stopped loving Remy: that feeling isn’t unusual and she knows from experience it’s perfectly compatible with fear and anxiety and heartbreak. The thought intrudes into the back of her mind that one roll in the hay doesn’t fix anything. Rogue climbs off Remy and sits to one side, not willing to turn away from him but unable to face him. She grips the grass as if she might fall off.
“What is it,” Remy asks, “Chère?” It’s not the lapse at Harry’s, nor the provocation of the fight, it’s a question: is she his chère? He continues: “ain’t exactly what I’d planned for our first time either–”
“Ain’t that. It was….” Better than fantasy for being real. Somewhere to start if they ain’t gonna stop. She’s already thinking about next time and, lord, she wants there to be a next time, but from here on in it only hurts more if it...
They’re not friends.
“It ain’t working, is it?” She sees a moment of alarm pass over him and hastily adds “-friends, I mean. Friends ain’t working. But darned if I know how to go forwards from here.”
“Wit’ hope, chère.” He smiles, uncertainly. “Good things ain’t always simple, but that don’t make them less good.”
“Could be simple for you.”
“It couldn’t. Ain’t nothing simple about keeping distant, watching you face every day alone. Ain’t nothing simple about living wit’ you and not being wit’ you. Ain’t simple to forget you. Gambit tried and did not care for it.”
“You are crazy.”
“Ain’t no fixin’ crazy. Best not t’ try.”
Remy sits behind her, weaves his arms beneath hers, rests his head against hers.
Not friends, then: something else, something bloody and messy that could break them both if they can’t master it. For once, for now, Rogue is not more afraid of that than of not trying at all.