Work Text:
The wood creaks under him as he settles down at the end of the dock. It's worn from years of exposure to the elements, covered in barnacles down in the water, rusted nails just barely holding it all together. It's probably been here since Xavier was a boy, maybe even before that.
The condensation from his beer sweats down the can and drips onto his legs, right where his basketball shorts stop above his knees. It was a shitty night, and that called for shitty beer. Remy takes a gulp of the cheapest watered-down sludge they had in stock at the nearest liquor store and grimaces as it slides down his throat and settles in his belly.
He was hoping that, maybe, if he came down here with his cheap beer, sat on the end of the dock and dragged his bare feet through the water, he could pretend that he was back in Louisiana if he tried hard enough. That he was surrounded by cypress trees and could imagine the cicadas screeching and maybe the quiet splash of a nearby alligator slinking into the water. But he's surrounded by maple and spruce and the sound of the crickets chirping is far too pleasant and the breeze floating across the surface of the water and brushing his skin is not nearly humid enough.
He chugs the rest of his beer, foam dribbling out of the side of his mouth and down his chin. He burps loudly when he's done, his stomach already bloating in protest. He grabs the pack of cigarettes in his pocket, takes one out and sticks it in his mouth, lights it up with the touch of his fingertip. He takes a long drag, feels the nicotine hit, and blows the smoke out into the sky.
He'd been trying to quit, at Rogue's request. And he'd been doing so good, too.
He hears her before he sees her. There are shoes crunching along the gravel path that leads down to the lake, and he can tell it's her from her footsteps. She's not flying, so she wants him to know she's coming.
He takes another drag from his cigarette. He taps the ash into his empty beer can, placed on the dock next to his shoes. It's dark, and except for the distant glow of the mansion, the only light near him is the small lantern hanging at the beginning of the dock.
She keeps approaching, and eventually he can see her out of the corner of his eye. He doesn't look at her directly, just continues smoking, looking at the sky.
Eventually she steps onto the dock, makes her way towards him where he's sitting, carefully stepping around the loose planks just as he did. He blows smoke out of his nose as she approaches, tries to refrain from sighing.
"Hey there…" she says. She's hesitant, her voice soft and unsure. He hates it. "…Swamp rat."
He could do it. He could look up at her with a charming smile, reply with a "Hey yourself, river rat," invite her to sit with him and they could move on like they always do, like they have dozens of times before. She would flash her dimples and they'd pretend like she hasn't been avoiding him for three weeks and they'd spend the rest of the night together talking and laughing. Maybe they'd even go up to her room and find some creative ways to have a little fun together, fall asleep with a pillow barrier between them. They'd wake up and he'd make them breakfast and it would be like she never left.
But his muscles ache, and his bed is suddenly calling to him, and his endless reserve of energy has been tapped out for once.
He stands up, grabbing his makeshift ashtray in one hand, his cigarette hanging from his lips. Once he has his footing, he takes another drag before holding it between his fingers.
He faces the lake as he blows the smoke out, away from Rogue. She doesn't like the smell. He slips his shoes back on and finally turns to face her.
She's got shorts and a T shirt on, her strong legs and arms on display in a way he rarely gets to see. The nearby lantern casts shadows across her face, but he can still see the small, hesitant smile across her lips. Her curls are wild and untamed, the night breeze gently ruffling them, getting in her face and eyes. She brings her hands up to her face, tucking her hair uselessly behind her ears, but the wind just whips it up again.
He nods at her. "Rogue."
Her face falls.
He walks towards her, and she stares up at him as he approaches, biting her lip. But then he sidesteps around her, goes right past her and heads to the end of the dock.
"Remy?"
"Have a good night, Rogue," he throws over his shoulder.
His footsteps tap against the wood, echoing into the night. Rogue remains still behind him for a moment, before she springs into action and follows him quickly. He reaches solid ground when he hears her speak up again.
"Remy, I'm sorry."
He stops, closing his eyes, his back to her. He hears her approach, hop off the dock as well and move so she's standing in front of him.
"I'm sorry," she repeats. He opens his eyes, and she's right there. The lighting is better closer to the lantern, and he can see her wide eyes, her creased brow.
"Okay," he says. "For what?"
She searches his face, her eyes big and glassy. "I'm sorry fer… not talkin' to you for a while. And leavin'. I was… Not feelin' good."
"About what?"
"Huh?"
"You weren't feelin' good," he repeats. "What weren't you feelin' good about? Me? Us?"
"No!" Rogue says quickly. "No! Remy, I… I just, I…" She searches for an answer, and doesn't seem to find one. Eventually she just looks at him helplessly, eyes pleading.
He remains silent for a minute, his dark gaze boring into her. "I thought we were doin' good."
"We were. We are."
Remy exhales a laugh, quiet and bitter.
"I—" Rogue continues. "I just needed some time alone."
"So why didn't you jus' say that?"
"Because I thought you'd be mad!"
"You thought I might be mad, so your solution was to leave, not tell me you're leavin', and not talk to me for weeks? I know you weren't on a mission. I asked Cyke."
"I'm sorry," she repeats. "I'm sorry. I know I—I know."
"I can't do this anymore, Rogue."
Rogue's eyes widen. "What?"
Remy shakes his head.
Her breathing picks up. "Remy, I'm sorry. It won't happen again, I—I promise."
"Yes, it will!" he shouts. He pauses for a moment, collects himself before continuing. "It will, because you don't ever work at it. You can't just—do nothing and then expect to magically get better! You have to work hard!"
"I am!" she cries. "I'm tryin'! Remy, I'm tryin'."
"Are you?" he shoots back. "Because sometimes I think you like bein' miserable."
She reels back as if she's been slapped. "Fuck you, Remy." She wipes her eyes, and Remy's heart sinks in his chest, down into his belly to marinate in his shitty beer. "You're a fuckin' asshole."
"Yeah," he agrees.
He expects her to run away again, but she stands rooted to the spot, and the silence settles heavily between them. It's too cool outside and the bugs sound wrong and the trees smell weird and Remy would give anything to be not here.
"Rogue, I love you," he says. "But you can't jus'—you can't jus' shut me out like this, and then keep goin' on without changin' anythin' when you feel okay again. You need to do better. You need help, Rogue."
Her face crumples, tears spilling over.
He watches her for a minute before he steps forward and gathers her into his arms.
She cries silently against his shoulder, shaking, her face tucked into his shirt, and he just holds her. Strokes the back of her hair. He checks them over to make sure they aren't almost touching anywhere, but Rogue has already positioned herself carefully against him so that there's no danger. Even in this state, she has to be on guard, in control, aware of every inch of her body, and his.
"I love you," he repeats, presses a kiss to the side of her head, and then he pulls back.
He leaves her there on the gravel path and heads back up to the mansion alone. He pauses for a moment to listen for the sound of her footsteps chasing after him, but they never come.