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It was a long journey back to the Mansion. More, it was even longer night ahead. For Hank to run his tests, to find out how badly Storm had been hurt, and whether the bullet she’d taken for Magneto had taken away her powers for good.
Tough times like these, used to be Remy would ask himself why he stayed. A swamp rat didn’t belong here in the Mansion, hanging with heroes, living the Professor’s dream. Now there was no question. Team needed him; Storm needed them all.
Rogue needed him too. At least Remy hoped she did.
Rogue had been quiet since the away team’s return. She had a load on her mind, most like. Delivering Scott and Jean’s baby, then learning what had happened to Storm at the UN.
Remy couldn’t pretend to know how it felt. Losing his powers would be like losing the best part of himself. Whereas for Rogue …
She stood by her bedroom window, skin still damp from her shower, wrapped in a hooded cotton robe that covered her from head to toe. Arms braced around her body, staring out at the night and nothing in it at the same time.
Remy went to her. She let him put his arms around her. He could feel the tension in her body, the sadness that was part of her at the best of times. The weight of her powers that she carried with her every day.
Now she also carried the weight of what happened to Storm. Knowing that her teammate might have lost the powers Rogue would once had given all the world to give up.
He put his nose in her hair, so close to the skin he could smell but never taste, breathed her in. “You okay, chère?”
A small shrug. “’M not the one in sickbay. The tests should’ve come back by now, no?”
“Hank’ll send word once they know for sure.” He rubbed her shoulder: enhanced polymer against the cotton of her robe. “You wanna get something t' eat?”
She shook her head, and continued to scan the horizon as if she could see in the dark. Her eyes were clouded with emotions Remy didn’t know how to read. Some days he thought it would be almost worth it to let her drain his powers dry if it meant he’d understand her at last, like she'd finally understand him.
The temptation of letting her do just that made his mouth water. He shook his head: this was no time for such reckless thoughts. He gently touched her cheek with his gloved hand.
“Makin’ yourself crazy over Storm won’t help no one.”
She hesitated, then leaned into his touch. “I know. It’s just … Her powers mean everythin’ to her, they’re so much a part of who she is.” She didn’t add, It should’ve been me they shot, but Remy thought he could glimpse it in her eyes.
He stroked her hair, trying to comfort her. “Storm woulda taken the bullet for any one of us. Like we would for her too. An’ your powers be as much a part of you as hers are of her.”
Rogue was silent for a long time. Something crackled under her skin, something he could feel through two layers of fabric.
At last she sighed, and murmured, “I know that. And, matter o' fact, I don’t hate it. Maybe I did a year ago. But I'm not that girl anymore.” She turned to look at him, curls hanging over one eye, a look that said, clear as day, And that’s thanks to you.
A light switched on inside him. It felt like he was bringing her back from dark lands into a more hopeful day. Tentatively, he asked, “How can I help?”
She smiled, sidelong and coy. “You’re helpin’ now, Cajun.”
His pulse had started to pound. He could feel the heat of her body curling up through their clothes. “You tired, chère?”
She put her bare hand over his costume’s chestplate, over his heart. “No, but I wanna go to bed. Wit' you.”
“I can help wit’ dat.”
He picked her up, and she nestled close against his chest like she belonged there. Like she was just a girl who wasn’t afraid to touch her lover, whose skin wasn’t deadly to anyone who got close enough.
Remy wondered whether she’d ever let him get close enough. He’d had his own share of lovers, but some things were deeper than skin. On a good day she’d let him convince her. This was shaping to be one of those days.
He carried her over to her bed, laid her down like she was made of glass, as if her skin couldn’t stop cold steel.
“What be you in the mood for t'night, chère?”
He’d be happy to just hold her all night if she needed him to. But of course he hoped she wanted more from him. As for him, he wanted her all the time.
Softly, she whispered against his shoulder, “To feel alive. To make you feel alive, wit’ me.”
So they could never be skin against skin. He’d never taste the sweetness of her lips, or her breasts, or the base of her bare spine. And she hadn’t wanted to make it official between them because of it. But still they’d found ways to make it work — in the bedroom, same as on the battlefield.
Lovers who could touch switched off all the time, taking turns to give and to receive. For them two, switching off meant taking turns with the medical-grade nanomembrane suit that Hank had let Rogue borrow (and you bet the doc would be freaked to find out the secret use they'd put it to). As Remy brought it out of its box, the light shimmered across it sinuously like a snake's second skin.
Remy took first go, and watched Rogue take her robe off, sliding cotton off creamy flesh. He got shaky as a schoolboy every time: he couldn’t believe he got to see this, to touch her like this, to feel the softness of her skin under his fingertips, separated by just one micron-thin layer of polymer. They didn’t talk about the past, no point raking over old coals, but he’d lay odds that nobody had touched her like this before, not like he could, not like he did.
He traced patterns around her nipples, long trails down her flanks, let her suck on two fingers while he found his way between her thighs with his free hand. She made small, panting sounds as he stroked slow circles against her clit, chasing a wet heat that he could almost feel. When he could see she was shaking, right on the edge of herself, he thrust two fingers into her, testing the membrane's give, and took her over the cliff into the wide blue sky beyond it.
Then it was Rogue’s turn. Remy couldn’t strip off fast enough; he was hot everywhere, skin and blood and down to his bones. She chuckled deep in her throat as she took him in her gloved right hand. It was so good. He wasn’t going to last; he heard himself make a desperate noise and then he was coming apart, lighting up like fireworks on Mardi Gras, painting her and the nanosuit in streaks of white.
They lay curled together on the wreck they’d made of her sheets, catching their breath. Like any ordinary couple — who didn’t worry about mutant politics and their friends being hurt and accidentally touching bare skin and consuming their lover’s powers and maybe even their life.
Remy ran his palm down Rogue’s side. The membrane that encased her was dry and cool, a contrast with his superheated, sweaty skin. Treacherous happiness crawled over him, like one of the Marauders’ tall tales that turned bad in the end, rocks fall, everybody die.
He set that superstition aside to say, low and promising, “’Dis what you had in mind?”
So maybe they could never be skin against skin, but some things could be better than that. He hoped he could convince her, make it stick. They didn’t have to make it official for him to want to stick around the X-men, to be with her. Even if it meant rocks fell, even if people lost their powers, it was worth it, because of the dream they all shared, and because of her.
“Yeah. Remy…”
The hesitation in her voice wasn’t new. One day he’d chase it away for good. “What is it, mon coeur?”
“Nothin’,” she said. Her eyes were filled with secrets and sadness that he longed to take into himself. It grieved him that he couldn’t. Maybe she could tell, because she touched a finger to his chin and said, “Stay wit’ me tonight?”
“Gladly. It’s not a night t’ be alone.”
What he left unsaid was, I’d stay every night if I could. Maybe she heard it anyway; she didn’t need to absorb his thoughts to know how he felt about her.
He’d loved many women, but none were like her. They’d never made it official. But he was hers, he’d always be hers.
Remy cleaned himself up. Rogue put the robe back on. Then they settled in to watch the sun rise over Westchester together, in each other’s arms, almost as close as skin against skin.