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It has been snowing for days, at least a foot piling up. Remy hates it. Harry’s is packed when Remy arrives. He hates this, too. He’s not even sure why he bothered; there are places closer to his apartment in the city with femmes more interested in him. His hair is blowing around his face, in a way that is just annoying. Shaking his head, he ties his hair back as he walks toward the door.
Wolvie is leaning against the wall, just to the left of the door, as Remy walks up. He pulls out a cigar as Remy approaches and holds it out to him. Remy lights it with his thumb while pulling out a cigarette of his own and lighting it. Remy leans against the banister, and both men just appraise each other for a time.
“Didn’t think this was your thing, Cajun.”
“Don’ want Gambit here, could ‘lways go,” replies Remy gesturing to his bike.
“Kid, you couldn’t go far enough,” snaps Wolvie as he tosses his cigar off the little patio and heads inside. Remy shakes his head in response and turns to look at the parking lot. He has no idea, thinks Remy as he flicks his cigarette butt into the parking lot. No love lost between him and Wolvie; Summers either, or Drake, or Worthington, list is actually pretty long. Remy ain’t at the top of anyone’s Christmas list this year.
This isn’t his first Christmas away from home, but it feels different this year. Couldn’t say why, just does. Shaking his head to clear it, Remy doesn’t know why he’s here at all; well, he knows why he’s at Harry’s. Stormy asked him, but why he’s still in New York is a mystery. He was here on a job about 10 months ago, and Stormy got in his way. Well, not Stormy, but one of her’s. With that thought, Remy scans the parking lot. No red Mustang, but a beat-up 1950s Chevy is parked on the far side of the lot. He could just leave. Get on his bike and ride away. He should; it is only a matter of time before his past shows up.
Remy tenses as someone stumbles out Harry’s door, well collides with the doorframe. Turning quickly to the door, Remy sees her, left hand gripping the doorframe. Remy smirks, takes a few steps forward, and steadies her. The her in question might be the only good thing about being here besides Stormy, that is.
Rogue flips her hair out of her face, and a huge smile breaks out on her face. She’s one of the only people happy to see him, even when she’s giving him the brush-off. And she does give him the brush-off, often, but he likes the chase. And he hasn’t had one like this in a long time.
“Hey, you came!” exclaims Rogue, throwing her arms around his neck. In turn, he slips his arms around her waist.
“Well, Gambit was invited by a belle fille, so he had to come.”
She wrinkles her nose, “It’s weird when he speaks in the third person.” She pulls back a little and stumbles.
Remy chuckles in response, his arms tightening around her. “Looks like you’ve had a few drinks.”
Rogue replies with a “HmmHmm, you haven’t had enough if you’re noticin’. Come on, bar’s over there.” She pulls out of grip, and he’s struck by how cold it feels. But she grabs his mostly gloved hand in her fully gloved hand and pulls him into Harry’s. It reminds him of how she pulled him along the night they met. Different sides, of course. It was snowing then, too. February in New York. She was wearing red that night, just like tonight. Slit up her thigh, black heels, and her hair off her neck. He didn’t look twice at her at first because her jewelry wasn’t the caliber of the others at the party, and she holds herself back. She’s reserved in a way that doesn’t attract men like him. But after his job was done and when he was looking for a cover, there she was, standing off to the side, trying not to attract attention, then slipping upstairs, where guests had no business being, and he had just come from. She was up to something, and he likes that in women.
Tonight, it is low-cut red button-down blouse over skin-tight jeans and wrist-length black gloves. Her heels are high, boots for the weather, but impractical. She’s dressed to impress someone. He feels a little stir of jealousy and glances around the bar, looking for Drake. He’s on the other side of the room, laughing with someone Remy doesn’t recognize. He gets the obligatory “Hi, Gambit,” with varying degrees of surprise as they move through the crowd from Kurt, Jean Paul, and a few others.
“Knew you’d be back,” says the bartender to Rogue.
“Oh?” she flirts, leaning on the bar, “Think aah couldn’t stay away from yah?”
“Crossed my mind, but you left your bag and coat,” replies the bartender, who pulls her clutch out from behind the bar, and Remy notices her coat on the stool she dragged him over to.
“Nate, you’re the best,” declares Rogue, pressing her gloved fingertips to her red lips before pressing her gloved fingertips to Nate’s cheek. He’s blushing. Remy doesn’t like this guy.
Remy clears his throat, which apparently alerts Nate to his presence, “Bourdon, neat, and whatever she’s drinking.”
Rogue gives Nate a puzzled look and asks, “Did aah close out?”
Nate grabs a German beer for Rogue and says, “No, but I know you,” before setting about getting Remy his bourbon. Interesting.
Remy leans down, and whispers against Rogue ear, veiled by her hair, and asks, “Knows yah, huh?”
He’s rewarded by a shiver, and he takes that as a green light to slip his arm around her waist, hooking his thumb into her belt loop. She leans against him a little but with more sway than he’d like. She’s drunker than she should be for his flirting. Remy drinks his bourbon while Rogue gestures wildly with her hands, telling him all the Institute gossip he’s missed in the last month. Sounds like Summers is going to propose, which might be what has Wolvie in a bad mood.
“Where were yah anyway?” asks Rogue, look up at him with her bright green eyes, and he almost doesn’t want to lie to her. Almost.
“Job out o' town.”
“Thievin’?” asks Rogue; she doesn’t approve.
“And if Gambit said it was fo’ de benefit o’ children, would dat make it better?”
“Was it?” She sounds so sincere and hopeful.
“Non.”
It takes a second for her to register what he’s said, and he can’t fight back the grin as she slaps his shoulder and declares, “You’re awful. Why would yah even say that?”
When she goes for a second slap to his shoulder, he pins her gloved hand between his cheek and neck before taking it in his hand and bringing it slowly to his mouth to kiss her palm. She could have pulled back or away. And she does after a second, but not completely away, she’s letting him hold her hand, and for the life of him, he doesn’t know why. Remy shrugs. drops her hand, and says, “Bein’ ornery, I guess.”
Rogue’s eyes fly up to his eyes, and she says, “First person?”
Before he can respond, not that he knows what he'd say—she does that to him sometimes, puts him off his game, he’s saved by Stormy.
“Remy, you came,” says Stormy, wrapping him in a tight hug.
“Had ta, not one but two belle filles demanded Gambit show up.”
“I was hoping you’d be here earlier,” says Stormy, “Was hoping you’d help out at the school this weekend.”
Of course, Remy rolls his eyes and finishes his drink, signaling for another before responding, “What’s de job?”
It might not be so bad, given how homesick he’s been. Some action, death-defying stunts could do him some good. But the smile Stormy gives him is devious and dangerous. He takes a fortifying drink from his new glass. In what can only be described as a sweet tone, Stormy says, “Nothing much, just watch the kids a couple of nights. See, I’m planning a party for Jean, and with the holidays, so many faculty are in and out. For example, Logan and Scott are the only ones who are going to be there tomorrow night.”
Remy chokes on his bourdon. After getting control, he asks, “Yah thought, Gambit would be a good babysitter?” She’s lost her damn mind. “And he should do dis with Scooter and Wolvie?”
Rogue giggles, so for good measure, he glares at her. She addresses Stormy, “Told yah, he’d nevah go for it.”
“Still worth a shot, think on it, my friend,” says Stormy, only to be interrupted by Wolvie, “He bothering you?”
Unclear whom he’s addressing. Stormy turns to him and says, “I’ve told you; Remy and I are old friends. I’ve known him for years. He has my complete trust.”
Remy’s stomach turns; what bourbon has this guy been giving him? Wolvie ignores Storm and looks at Rogue, “Stripes, he bothering you?”
“Nope,” she pops the p, “And Storm’s angling for a house guest.”
“Like hell—” begins Wolvie, but Stormy cuts him off, “Logan, dance with me.” Logan shakes his head no.
“Ain’t you, ‘Ro, just don’t dance,” replies Wolvie, and if Remy didn’t know better, he’d think Logan was blushing a little.
“How fortunate for you that I do,” replies Stormy ending any further discussion and pulling Wolvie away.
“So, completely opposed ta an Institute sleep ovah?” asks Rogue, a smile on her lips.
“Offerin’ ta share your bed, Cherie?” asks Remy, reveling in the blush stain her cheeks, and his eyes follow it down her neckline.
“We have extra beds at the Institute, which yah know because yah stayed in one for two weeks after that whole thing at the Worthington’s,” says Rogue, watching the couples dance. “After yah refused to stay in medlab, and we found your sorry carcass passed out in a corridor.”
“Just didn’ want our first date ta end,” replies Remy.
She spins on her heels to face him, and he takes half a step toward her a moment before, which leaves only room for the holy spirit between them. She immediately moves to step back, but Remy just goes with her, which inadvertently puts her between him, the bar, and a barstool hosting a larger man; she clearly doesn’t know the large man, given how quickly she steps into Remy.
“Oui, our first date. Gambit remembers a red dress, heels, a fancy party, can’ be said yah didn’ have a good time.”
Rogue scoffs, “Yah robbed my friend—”
“Seems like yah were up ta no good, too.”
“For the greater good—”
“Just excuses,” counters Remy; he’s lean down toward her. He’s tempted to steal a kiss from her, but he knows how that will go. He’ll end up in medical, and she’ll push him away again—physically and emotionally.
Rogue huffs and signals for Nate to bring her another drink. But Remy shakes his head no to Nate, who seems confused. Rogue looks at Remy and says, “Hey, aah want another one.”
“Later, Cherie. Don’ yah wanna dance?” She glances at the dancefloor, and he slips her clutch into one of the many pockets of his trench coat.
Rogue flushes again but becomes uncomfortable and stumbles over her words while scratching absentmindedly at the bar top, “Aah don’t really dance. Thanks for askin’—kind of askin’, but aah just don’t. It could be dangerous—”
“Dat’s all dat’s stoppin’ yah from dancin’ with me? You’re dangerous? Cherie, I’ve met cats mor’ dangerous.”
“Hey,” replies Rogue with a glare.
But he doesn’t really give her a chance to refuse again because he just pulls her toward the dancefloor, where she puts her hands on his shoulders, how Remy imagines children dance in high school, not that he has a point of reference. She’s also not meeting his eyes. This is not going to do. He takes her right hand in his left and extends them while slipping his right hand behind her back, allowing him to pull her flush with him. Pulling her toward him makes her eyes fly to his face; he can feel the tension in her body. Remy gives her a crooked smile, which makes her relax marginally. However, White Christmas ends, and Run, Run Rudolph comes on, which makes Rogue move to pull back from him.
“Where yah goin’?” asks Remy in a low tone.
“Well, slow dancin’ don’t really work for this song,” says Rogue.
“What? Yah don’ hear it?”
“Aah hear Chuck Berry.”
“Non,” replies Remy, as he leans in and starts humming Footprints by Wayne Shorter. She giggles in response and relaxes into him.
He doesn’t get halfway through the song before Drake interrupts, “Let her come up for air, Gambit.”
“She’s got plenty o’ air, Drake,” snaps Gambit as Rogue untangles herself completely from him, though Remy keeps her right hand in his left. Remy doesn’t understand this relationship at all. He’s been accused of womanizing, and there might be some truth to those accusations. But he’s never lied to women, outside of work, that is. He’s transparent with what he wants and for how long. Drake, Drake is something else. But Rogue is somehow still buying this. They have an on-again/off-again relationship—though Remy wouldn’t call it a relationship. However, Rogue hasn’t mentioned being on again in a while.
“Got to borrow her,” says Drake; when Gambit still has a hold of Rogue’s hand, he adds, “I’ll give her back. She gets to have friends, Gambit.” Remy lets go. He doesn’t want to be that guy, but regardless of his own interest in Rogue, she deserves better than a man like Drake.
Remy doesn’t watch. Instead, he makes his way back to the bar. He should have stayed close to his apartment.
“Bourbon neat, right?” asks Nate. Remy just nods.
“Someone’s sulking,” jests a stunning beauty with green hair. Lorna Dane is unmistakable. Remy and Lorna get on well enough. The femmes always like Remy, and he has few complaints about them. Remy shrugs in response. Lorna continues, “What’s going on between you and Rogue anyway?”
Remy takes a drink in response.
Lorna shakes her head, “Maybe that’s the problem. You ghost her for a month; what did you expect?”
“So, deir back together?”
“No,” states Lorna with a grin, “But what do you care?”
“Any femmes, Drake ain’t been with?” His question lands as he intended, with Lorna’s face puckering.
“Yeah, Rogue,” snaps Lorna, and with that, she leaves Remy at the bar.
Remy turns his back to the bar and scans the crowd. Drake is leaving. He’s at the door with some guy. Actually, many people have trickled out. He starts looking for Rogue, who is talking to Hank and Jean. Discretely, Rogue takes something from Hank and gives him a big hug, which leaves the blue man flustered. Another man wouldn’t have noticed, but neither person involved are particularly good at doing lifts, and Remy, well, he’s been doing them since he was a pup. Jean is saying something to Rogue, which has Rogue nodding along with an eye-roll.
Finishing his drink, Remy places the empty glass on the bar and says, “Close out. Me and Rogue.” Remy hands Nate a grand, “No change.”
Nate takes the money and heads to the register quickly.
“Leavin’ already?” asks Rogue as she leans on the bar next to him.
“Oui, little birdy told Gambit de snow is goin’ ta git worse.”
“Oh,” she sounds disappointed, “Yah could always stay over.” She says it shyly, looking over to Nate. “Close out.”
“It’s taken care o’, Cherie.”
“Why do yah always do that? Yah don’t have ta.”
“Cash transactions are good fo’ launderin’ money.”
“Oh, so that’s it. Obviously, you’re laundering money through Harry’s since you’ve been here like four times this year.”
“Oui.” Rogue starts to giggle, and Remy continues, “What bothers yah ‘bout it? How Gambit makes his money?”
“No, well, not exactly no, but yah don’t have ta pay for meh all the time. Yah weren’t even here when aah started drinking.”
“Well, Cherie, Gambit’s got a lot o' money, so might as well spend it on yah.” As Remy says it, he thinks he should probably get Stormy, too. But Stormy’s gone. Everyone seems to be gone, with a handful of Institute people packing up and getting ready to go. Picking up Rogue’s coat, and holding it for her to slip it on, Remy says, “Walk yah ta your truck.”
And that is, in fact, the plan. Except Rogue can’t stay upright in her impractical boots in the icy parking lot. Remy hates the snow. He hates ice. However, with Rogue clinging to him to keep her on her feet, there are advantages.
“Aah’m usually more coordinated than this,” says Rogue, nearly whipping out again.
“Remy believes yah,” replies Remy. He’s tempted to just pick her up, but every few feet, he slips a bit too. Given his natural agility, he is even more resentful of the ice.
About halfway across the nearly empty parking lot, Rogue starts giggling. Remy huffs, “What’s so funny, Cherie?”
“Aah hate ice skatin’,” says Rogue, “Don’t yah?”
Remy chuckles, “Never been.”
While Remy would never complain about femme clinging to him, it took damn near forever to get across the parking lot.
Once at her truck, Rogue gasps and starts checking all of her pockets, “Aah left my bag on the bar. Mah keys are in there…” She trails off when Remy dangles her keys in front of her face from his left index finger. A grin spreads across her face, and she reaches for them, only for the keys to disappear up Remy’s sleeve. “Hey, give meh those.”
“Cherie, yah ain’t drivin’, get in, and scoot over,” instructs Remy as opens her truck driver’s side door with the keys in his left hand.
Rogue fails up into the truck, which is something to behold; she scoots about halfway over before asking, “What about your bike?”
“She ain’t mine,” replies Remy, following her up into the truck.
“Yeah it is, yah drive it everywhere.” Remy gives her what he knows is a patronizing smile, and she gives an exaggerated huff, scooting the rest of the way over.
“Where yah goin’?” asks Remy, snaking his right arm around her waist and pulling her back toward him. Rogue wiggles away from him giggle, can’t win ‘em all, thinks Remy as he starts the truck, cranking up the heat.
“Hey, Remy?” her tone is sweet and flirty, but the nervousness is rolling off her. She shifted in the seat to face him with her leg up on the seat, allowing her to fully face him.
This has the feeling of a relationship talk; normally, he’d distract a femme who does this, but Rogue is different; he can’t really use sex as a distraction. Remy shifts to look at her, and asks, “Oui, cher?”
“Wanna see mah present from Hank and Jean?”
No, thinks Remy, but she’s almost bouncing on her seat, and he nods. She pulls a small circular item from her pocket, whatever Hank had slipped her earlier in the worst exchange ever. It is small, for a wrist probably, silvery in color, but not silver, white gold, or platinum, if Remy had to guess. It is simple, without any charms or engraving. She holds it up for Remy to see it, and yeah, it is just stainless steel, clinical in a way, and there is a little magnetic clasp. Remy gives Rogue a smile, “It’s nice, cher,” as he hands it back to her. “Now, not ta shame Red and Henri, but Remy got yah somethin’ for your wrist, too.”
Rogue’s face falls, and she shakes her head no, “No, we didn’t talk about exchanging gifts. Aah can’t accept anything.”
“It’s ‘lright, wasn’t expectin’ anythin’ from yah.” Remy pulls a thin jewelry box out of a pocket. The velvet box is green, with a gold bracelet with emeralds. Rogue gasps when she takes it from him.
“Remy, this is too much.”
“Non, it ain’t. I wanted ta git yah somethin’. Had I known everyone was gettin' yah bracelets, would’ve gone with something else.”
Rogue just stares at the bracelet; Remy shifts in his seat, unsure of what to do. She whispers, “Thank yah, Remy.”
Remy nods. They should go. Rogue grabs his hand as he goes to put the truck in drive, but then she releases him like she’s been burned. She always does that after touching anyone and withdraws immediately. The ground is covered in snow, despite the plow that went through earlier. She’s looking out the windshield as she says, “Yah do, though, right?”
Brow furrowed, Remy leans back and says, “Rogue, aah don’t know what yah mean.” Does she think he’s working her for something?
“Aah mean, if aah was normal—”
Interjecting, Remy directs her face to his using his gloved fingers on her chin, “Yah ain’t gonna be normal. You’re exceptional, and—”
But this time, she cuts him off, clumsily pressing her lips to his. Remy sucks in his breath, waiting for the pull of her powers. It is painful; he pretends that it isn’t. He pretends he isn’t scared, and he isn’t, not of the pain, but of what she could glean from him. The terrible things he’s done. He never wants her to see him, the real him.
But the pull doesn’t come, and instead of questioning this, he leans into it, literally, practically, pushing her down onto the truck bench seat. There is a soft thud when the velvet box hits the floor. He takes over the kiss, too. She’s a novice, and Remy’s always taken the lead when it comes to people with less experience than him—more experience, too. The cab of the truck is small, too small to do this properly. As that thought crosses Remy’s mind, fleetingly, Rogue pulls back a little taking a deep breath in. At some point, she grabbed his shoulder, because he can see the tacky bracelet from the doctors on her wrist. Grabbing the door handle on the passenger side, Rogue shifts slightly, trying to get some leverage, triggering the truck to sputter when she kicks the stick shift. Remy puts the truck back in park.
Leaning forward, he brushes her lips again, when she parts her lips, she tastes like beer because she’s drunk. Remy might have the worst luck ever. He’ll stop in a minute. His hands have stayed in PG places, mostly, realizing his right hand is gripping the back of her thigh, mostly her ass. Her back arches and Remy releases her lips. Then she moans, Remy almost whimpers. Her arched back inadvertently gives him access to her neck. Since, the whole Danvers’ thing, she doesn’t bruise easily, and armed with that knowledge, he sucks and kisses his way down her neck, nosing the collar of her shirt out of the way, before nipping—kind of hard—right above her clavicle.
Rogue gives a tiny breath of pain, and Remy pulls back, asking, “Rogue?”
“Sorry, sugah,” replies Rogue, left hand raising to the spot he bit her, “Aah wasn’t expecting that.”
She’s flushed, but her skin is irritated, too, from his perpetual five-o’clock shadow and boarding on aggressive affection. Of course, she wasn’t expecting that. They’ve never discussed likes and dislikes during intimacy, this was never on the table. Remy’s brow furrows: she’s going to bruise.
“Hank, it’s a power suppression thing,” explains Rogue answering his unspoken question. He never knows if she knows him that well or if she can figure out what he’s thinking based on the memories she’s taken over time.
“Excellent taste in accessories, that Henri.”
Rogue giggles, and it reverberates through him. The giggle isn’t because she thinks he’s funny, she does, but this time it has a nervous tinge to it. He still has her pinned down, and while he can usually get the upper hand when they spar, she always has the option of tossing him across the room.
Remy shift slightly, so he can easily bury his face in her neck, and he takes a deep breath in. She’s still giggling. Remy mumbles, “Just one more minute,” as he pushes her right sleeve up with his left hand. He wasn’t savoring this the way he should have been. He just wants to feel her skin, and it is everything he thought it would be. Smooth, flawless, warm—he shouldn’t be surprised, but somehow he is. Maybe he just associates her with being cool and standoffish, but she’s so soft. Her blouse is tight, so he doesn’t get it much further than her forearm. Honestly, he kind of wants to find an imperfection. She can’t possibly be perfect. Pulling back from her neck, he moves to look at the exposed skin on her arm. Freckles. She has freckles.
Pressing his lips to her skin, Remy mumbles, “Tu es incroyablement belle.”
Rogue’s breathing is accelerated, and she gasps, “Aah don’t know what yah are sayin’.”
“Just sayin’ we should get yah home,” says Remy, and he should. She’s drunk and oh so touchable and he’s not a good man.
“Oh, yeah, we should go.”
Slowly, Remy disentangles himself from her, reminding himself he should be a better man. About five minutes into the drive, Rogue is rubbing her temples.
“Too early for a hangover,” observes Remy.
“I’m fine.” But as she says it, she closes her eyes, and the next time Remy glances at her, she’s asleep with her head resting on the headrest and window. She’s cute, like a little kid. The rest of the ride to the mansion is pretty uneventful, and he’s familiar enough with the layout to know where she parks.
“Rogue,” Remy whispers, gently touching her shoulder, but she doesn’t stir. He could just carry her up to her room. But carrying an unconscious, newly able to touch femme around—let alone to a bed isn’t a good look. So, he tries again, a little louder, “Rogue, bebe, we’re here.” She startles awake and grabs her head. “Rogue?”
“Sorry, Jean said this thing has some side effects. Thought aah’d have some more time.”
“What kind o’ side effects?”
“Headache, nausea,” replies Rogue aiming for flippantly, but she struggles to get out of the truck.
“Rogue, if it hurts yah, den don’ wear it.”
“Didn’t yah tell meh, yah can handle the pain?”
“Different, and yah know it.”
“Aah just wanted ta, aah don’t know. Yah must think aah’m pathetic.”
“Non, just ain’t sold on yah bein’ in pain,” replies Remy, but Rogue looks away, “Not sayin’ I don’ appreciate de dedication, but if one o' us should be uncomfortable here, probably should be Remy, is all.” He reaches around her into the passenger side floor and pulls out the velvet box, “Maybe trade ‘em out fo’ a while?”
Rogue smiles up at him through her lashes before kissing him, “One more.” She’s blushing as she steps back from him, “Let’s find yah a place ta sleep.”
“Bet’s we’d both fit in your bed—”
“Aah don’t wanna hurt—” begins Rogue, only to be cut off by Wolvie, “I don’t much care about hurtin’ you. Rogue, darlin’, I’ll find Gumbo a place to sleep.”
Rogue sashays past Wolvie and says, “Be nice.”
Once she’s out of earshot, Remy asks, “Gonna give Gambit a lecture?”
“Gumbo, you deserve exactly what you’re gonna get,” replies Wolvie with a grin. The comment gives Remy pause for a moment, but he assumes Wolvie is drunk, too.
He gestures for Remy to follow him, but Remy declines, “Non, gonna head home.”
Wolvie gives a high pitch whistle and when Remy turns to face him, he catches the keys Wolvie tossed him. Scooters Porshe, nice. Wolvie says, "Don't wreck it too bad."
"Just gonna go joyridin' in Scooter's Porshe?" asks Remy.
"Hadn't made up my mind, but this," says Wolvie, gesturing to Remy, "is better." And who is Remy to argue with that?