Chapter Text
Remy had learned how to hide pain.
It was an old skill, one that had been built into him long before he ever came to the X-Men. Pain was something you swallowed, something you breathed through, something you learned to carry without letting anybody else see the weight of it. He had spent enough of his life being hurt to know that there was very little to be gained by announcing it.
So when his chest ached, he said nothing. When the muscles along his back tightened until every movement felt stiff and sharp, he still said nothing. When the scars pulled beneath his skin, he breathed through it and kept moving.
And when the pain settled beneath his ribs, deep and persistent, he could only press his hand over it and wait for it to pass.
This was nothing compared to Apocalypse. He could endure.
Rogue only noticed the first time because Remy thought she wasn’t looking.
They were in the kitchen late in the afternoon, the mansion quieter than usual after most of the team had gone out on a mission.
Gambit had yet to invite himself to any of the X-Men’s missions, and so Rogue had taken to excusing herself as well. It was just another thing they would not acknowledge out loud.
Sunlight came through the tall windows in long golden strips, catching the dust in the air and making everything feel strangely peaceful. Rogue was standing at the counter, cutting fruit for herself, while Remy leaned against the other side with a cup of coffee between his hands.
He had been telling her some ridiculous story about Logan, one that had already made her laugh twice, when he suddenly stopped.
He didn’t gasp, or cry out in pain. His words trailed off, silence bleeding into the space between them.
Rogue looked up.
Remy was staring down at the counter. His fingers tightened around the coffee cup.
Then he shifted his weight.
His shoulders pulled back as though he were trying to stretch something that had gone stiff. His face remained carefully neutral, but his breathing changed. Just slightly.
Rogue watched him reach beneath the edge of his shirt. His palm settled against his ribs, and he rubbed the area slowly.
Once, twice, as if it were an idle motion.
Then his fingers pressed harder, and his eyes closed shut in a wince. Only for a moment. When they opened again, the expression was gone.
“Anyway,” he continued, as though nothing had happened, “Logan tells me he don’t need nobody’s help, which is funny because five minutes later he ask Hank where he put his sunglasses.”
Rogue smiled. She even laughed. But she kept watching him.
“You’re terrible,” she said.
“Chère, I am delightful.”
“You are somethin’.” He was everything.
He grinned, and there in the streaming sunlight, was the Remy she knew. The crooked smile. The easy confidence. The little spark in his eyes that made it almost impossible to believe that there had ever been a time when she thought she might never see him again.
But beneath the table, his other hand had moved to his side. His fingers curled against his ribs.
Rogue said nothing. She had learned that much from their years together. If she pushed him, he would only push back. They were the same in that way. Both were too stubborn for their own good.
Especially since Remy had returned, there were moments when watching him too closely made him retreat into himself. She had learned to give him room, to let him come to her instead of making every tremor or hesitation into something that needed to be fretted over.
So she let him tell his story and she let him make her laugh. But his hand remained clasped firmly against his side.
Over the next several days, she started noticing it everywhere.
Remy would rub his ribs when he thought nobody was looking. He did it after training, when he climbed too many stairs, or stood up too quickly.
Once, she saw him do it after laughing too hard. That one had frightened her the most.
He had been laughing with Jubilee in the hallway, his head tipped back, eyes bright, and then something had changed. His laughter faded into a breath that sounded almost like a gasp. His hand went to his side.
He turned away before anybody noticed. But Rogue did. She always did.
She didn’t say anything that time either. But the worry had begun to settle inside her. It wasn’t only that he was in pain, but he was becoming too good at hiding it.
They had started to share a bed without either really acknowledging it. She’d spent nights at his side, too terrified to leave him. He had pulled her into his bed, curled into her side, seeking comfort in the dark. Eventually, she’d pulled him into her room wordlessly after the team had gone to bed, and there he had stayed.
There were nights when Remy slept beside her and barely touched her, as though even the warmth of her body was something he was still learning how to trust himself with.
There were mornings when he woke before her and quietly left the room, giving them both an excuse not to talk about the awkwardness that followed.
They had kissed, and they held hands, and sometimes he let her curl against him while they watched television, but neither of them had tried to rush any further. Rogue wanted him. She had wanted him for years, and there were moments when simply lying beside him made every part of her ache with the memory of everything they had lost.
But wanting him did not mean she needed to have him all at once. They were finding each other again, slowly, carefully, one piece at a time.
That night, they went to bed a little after midnight. When she woke some hours later, the bed had changed beneath her.
For a moment she didn’t understand what had woken her. Then she realized Remy wasn’t beside her. The room was dark.
She lifted her head “Remy?”
Nothing.
She sat up.
The bathroom door was cracked open, a thin line of light stretching across the floor.
Rogue got out of bed and walked quietly toward it. Lifting her hand, as gently as she could, she pushed the door open.
Remy looked up.
Their eyes met, and neither of them moved. He looked caught, almost embarrassed, as though she had walked in on something private that he had been determined to keep that way. His shirt was pushed up around his chest, exposing the pale scar that crossed his ribs, and one hand was pressed firmly against the place beneath it. His fingers were spread wide, his thumb moving slowly back and forth over the skin as though he were trying to ease something deep beneath it. There was a tightness around his mouth that she recognized immediately. He was hurting badly enough that he couldn’t hide it anymore. Even from her.
Then he sighed and the spell broke. “Go back to sleep, chère.”
Rogue didn’t move. “You hurtin’?”
“Nah.” The answer came too quickly.
She looked at his hand. Then at his face “Remy.”
“It’s fine-“
“No, it ain’t.”
His jaw tightened. He looked down at the floor between his feet, and for a few seconds Rogue watched him try to decide which version of the truth he was going to give her. She could almost see the calculation happening behind his eyes. If he told her it hurt, she would worry. If she worried, she would start asking questions. If she started asking questions, he would have to admit how long it had been hurting and how often it happened, and suddenly something he had managed to keep contained would become another thing everyone knew about.
“It’s nothin’,” he said finally.
His voice was so quiet, so raw, Rogue softened at the sound of it instantly. “Then look at me and tell me it’s nothin’.”
His eyes lifted to hers. He couldn’t. That was answer enough.
Rogue stepped into the bathroom and closed the door behind her, leaving the rest of the mansion outside. The small room felt strangely intimate in the quiet of the night. She could hear the faint hum of the ventilation and the soft rhythm of Remy’s breathing, although even that wasn’t quite right. Every few breaths, his chest caught, and each time it did, his fingers pressed more firmly against his ribs.
Rogue crouched in front of him. “How long this been goin’ on, Sugah?”
He looked away.
“Remy,” she said, more firmly this time
“Few weeks.”
Her stomach dropped. “How many?”
He sighed. “Three.”
Rogue stared at him. “Three weeks
“Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
“Could be two.”
“You know how long it’s been.”
He rubbed his ribs again. “Yeah,” he relented with a soft sigh.
Her eyes followed the movement. “And you haven’t told anybody?”
“Didn’t seem worth it, non?”
Rogue felt a flash of anger, but it disappeared almost immediately beneath something heavier. He wasn’t trying to be careless. She knew he genuinely believed that pain was something he should handle himself.
“Does it hurt right now?”
Remy hesitated. “Yeah.”
The quiet admission hurt more than if he had complained.
“How bad?”
He gave a small shrug. “Enough.”
Rogue reached for him, then stopped herself before her fingers made contact. She had learned that being able to touch him was not enough anymore. Loving him did not mean she could assume every touch would be a comfort.
“Can I see?”
Remy’s eyes flicked toward her. For a second, she thought he might refuse. But instead, he nodded.
Slowly, he pulled his shirt higher.
Rogue had seen the scar before.
She had known it was there. She had watched Hank examine the healed tissue when Remy first returned. She had seen the mark in passing when Remy changed clothes, had caught glimpses of the pale line disappearing beneath fabric. But seeing it now was different because there was nothing between them except the quiet room and the truth of it all.
The scar crossed his chest and disappeared around his side, pale and uneven against his skin. There were smaller marks surrounding it, remnants of damage that had healed in ways his body had apparently decided to remember. Rogue’s eyes traced none of them for long. She couldn’t. Her mind had already filled in the parts she didn’t want to see.
Blood. Remy’s body in her arms. The terrible stillness. The knowledge that she had been holding someone who was already gone.
She swallowed.
Remy noticed. Because of course he did “Don’t.”
Rogue looked at him.
His eyes were glassy with pain, but still he focused on her. “Don’t think like that.
“Like what?”
“Like you’re back there.”
The words were quiet. Rogue felt her throat tighten
“I’m not.”
“You are.”
She looked at the scar again, then back at him. “Maybe for a second,” she relented.
Remy looked away. “I don’t want you remembering me like that.”
Rogue’s heart broke at the quietness of it. “I don’t.”
“You do.”
“I remember you alive, too.”
His eyes came back to hers.
“I remember you laughing at me because I couldn’t cook.”
A faint smile touched his mouth. “You still can’t, chère.”
“I know. That’s why I said it.”
His smile stayed for only a second before fading.
Rogue lowered her voice. “I remember you dancing in the kitchen. I remember you making everybody crazy. I remember you calling me chère when you knew I was mad at you because you thought it’d get you out of trouble.”
“Usually does.”
“Not usually.”
“Works enough.”
She smiled. Then she looked at the scar again. “And I remember what happened to you, Sugah.”
His expression became still.
“Both things can be true, Remy.”
He looked down. Rogue reached toward him, stopping just before touching his skin “Can I?”
He nodded.
She placed her fingertips gently beside the scar
Remy’s breath caught. Rogue immediately stopped. “Sorry.”
“No.” His voice was quiet. “You don’t hurt me, chère.”
“Does touching it hurt?”
“Little.”
She started to pull her hand away, and his fingers caught hers. “Said it okay.”
Rogue looked down at their hands. “Okay.
She let him keep her there. Her palm, warm against his skin, feeling the tension roll through him as the pain hit in waves.
They stayed like that for a long time.
Eventually Rogue said, “Hank needs to see this.”
Remy immediately shook his head
She gave a sharp nod in response. “Tomorrow.”
“Chère.”
“I’m serious.”
“So’s Gambit.”
“You’ve been in pain for three weeks.”
“It ain’t killin’ me.”
Rogue’s expression changed. Remy saw it and his face fell. “That ain’t what I meant.”
“I know.” She squeezed his hand. “But you don’t get to decide that pain isn’t worth telling somebody about just because you survived worse.”
He was quiet.
“Hank can help,” she continued. “Maybe there’s something he can do. Maybe it’s scar tissue. Maybe it’s the nerves. Maybe your body is still adjusting. I don’t know. And neither do you.”
Remy looked toward the mirror. She wondered what he saw there. Someone broken? Or someone who was surviving the worst that could happen to a person?
“I don’t want him fussin’.”
“Then tell him not to fuss.”
“He no listen.”
“Probably not.”
That earned a tiny smile. Rogue softened
“Just let him look.”
Remy sighed. “Tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow,” she repeated, firmly.
He nodded. “Okay.”
Rogue smiled. “Thank you.”
Remy looked at her. “You really worried?
She didn’t lie. “Yeah.”
“I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” She moved closer. “I’m not worried because you’re a burden.”
His face tightened.
“I’m worried because I love you.”
Remy leaned back against the wall. His eyes closed. Rogue stayed beside him.
After a few minutes, she asked quietly, “You wanna go back to bed?”
“Yeah.”
She stood and offered him her hand. He took it. When he rose, he moved slowly.
Rogue didn’t rush him.
When they made it back to bed, Remy sat down carefully.
Rogue pulled the blankets back, and once he was safely curled against the sheets, she climbed into the bed beside him.
He settled slowly against her. His head came to rest on her shoulder, and Rogue wrapped an arm around him.
He was quiet for a long time. Then his hand found hers beneath the blanket.
His fingers curled around it.
“I love you,” he whispered.
Rogue turned her head and pressed a kiss to his hair. “I love you too. So get used to it.”
He smiled against her shoulder.
The pain was still there. She knew that.
She could feel the slight tension in his body, the careful way he breathed, the way he occasionally shifted as though trying to find a position that didn’t pull at old wounds.
But he wasn’t hiding it anymore, and that mattered. That meant they could face this together.
Rogue rested her cheek against his hair.
She thought about the scars beneath his shirt, the places where his body still remembered what had happened even when he wished it wouldn’t.
Remy’s breathing gradually slowed. His fingers loosened around hers. He fell asleep.
Rogue stayed awake for a while, listening to him breathe. He was alive. He was hers.
She would let him learn. Slowly and patiently, as many times as it took. He didn’t have to hide when it hurt. He didn’t have to apologize for needing her. He didn’t have to be unbreakable to be loved.
He just had to let her in.