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Remy woke up with his head filled with purple.
He didn’t know what had woken him first; the nightmare or the nausea. One moment he was somewhere else, drowning in his own mind with screams ringing in his ears. The next he was sitting upright in bed with his stomach twisting violently beneath his ribs.
He moved before Rogue could wake. Slipping out from beneath the blankets, he stumbled toward the bathroom, one hand pressed over his mouth. His feet caught on the edge of the rug, and he grabbed the doorframe hard enough to steady himself before making it inside.
He barely made it to the toilet.
His stomach emptied in painful spasms. When it was over, he stayed there with his forehead against the cool porcelain, breathing through the ache in his ribs and waiting for his body to settle.
Eventually, he flushed. The sound seemed impossibly loud in the darkness.
Remy staggered backward and lowered himself onto the floor in the corner beside the bathtub. His knees came up against his chest. He was shaking, muscles trembling beneath his skin as though he were freezing. He pressed his hands together, trying to make them stop.
Purple.
The bathroom disappeared. For one terrible moment, he could feel the soft touch of bayou grass under his feet. There was purple light threading between his fingers, creeping beneath his skin like veins. Remy jerked his hands violently, as though he could shake the power loose, but it only spread farther, staining his palms and winding up his wrists.
Purple.
He could feel something moving inside his mind, something enormous and ancient pressing against the edges of his thoughts. His body was no longer his. His hands were no longer his. He could see Rogue standing in front of him, could hear her voice, could see the fear in her eyes.
Purple.
Remy sucked in a breath and slammed his palms against the bathroom floor.
Kinetic energy flashed beneath his hands, sharp and uneven, racing through the tile in jagged bursts. The floor gave a low crack. Hairline fractures splintered outward from his palms, and the tiles crumbled to pieces. The flash died almost as quickly as it came, leaving only the broken floor.
“Non.”
The word came out barely audible.
His heart was racing so hard that he could feel every beat in his throat.
He knew where he was.
Mansion. Bathroom.
Rogue was in their bed, asleep and safe. He’d been sleeping. He’d been safe.
But his body did not believe him.
His chest tightened until his lungs labored with every breath. He tried to inhale deeply but couldn’t seem to get enough air. Every breath stopped somewhere beneath his ribs, shallow and useless. His fingers tingled. His ears rang. His stomach twisted, and for one frantic moment he thought he was going to be sick again.
He closed his eyes.
Purple.
He pictured a card between his fingers, the familiar weight of it, the soft glow beginning at its edges. He pictured the light blooming outward, bright and warm.
Pink. Focus on pink.
His mind slipped.
Purple. The bayou. Rogue. His hands.
No.
Remy shook his head violently.
He opened his eyes.
White tile. Blue-gray shadows. The bathtub. The sink. The towel hanging crookedly from its hook.
He forced himself to name them.
“Tile.”
His voice shook.
“Sink.”
He swallowed.
“Door.”
The door.
That was important.
The door was open.
He could see the bedroom beyond it.
The bedroom where Rogue was sleeping.
He was not trapped. Nobody was holding him here, and nobody was inside his head. There was only Remy LeBeau.
He pressed one hand against his chest. “Breathe,” he whispered, half begging, as if he could persuade his own heart to calm.
His lungs still resisted.
He tried again, slower. In and out. In and out.
The panic didn’t disappear, but it stopped climbing. Slowly, the bathroom began to feel real again. The cold tile beneath his palms, the hard edge of the bathtub against his shoulder, the faint hum of the vent overhead. The air still smelled faintly of soap from their showers just a few hours ago. Small, ordinary things that marked the life he lived.
Then he heard something move outside the bathroom.
Remy went rigid.
The doorway filled with a familiar silhouette.
Rogue.
She stood there barefoot, hair loose around her shoulders, sleep still heavy in her eyes. She had clearly woken when he left the bed. “Remy?” she asked.
He couldn’t answer.
She took one step into the bathroom. He recoiled instinctively.
Rogue stopped.
He saw the movement in her face when she realized what had happened. “I’m sorry,” she murmured, not moving any closer. He both loved her for that, and hated himself for it.
Non,” he breathed. “Don’ be. Gambit sorry he woke you.”
Rogue shook her head. “Don’t you worry ‘bout that.”
He wished he could make his hands stop trembling. He wished he could slow his breathing, swallow down the panic, and give her the version of Remy LeBeau she deserved to see. She had woken because of him, and now she was standing there watching him struggle to get his own body back under control. He needed to find himself, to give her a smile, make some foolish remark, anything that would take that worried look out of her eyes.
She stayed in the doorway.
Remy knew what was supposed to happen next. She was supposed to cross the small space between them and sit beside him on the floor. He would slip an arm around her, careful of his ribs, and make some foolish remark that would earn him an exaggerated roll of her eyes before she laughed anyway. He would call her chère. She would answer with sugah. It was familiar and it was theirs. Once, it would have been enough to pull him out of almost anything.
But he could barely breathe.
His chest burned with every shallow inhale, his heart still hammering against his ribs. The thought of Rogue coming closer only made the panic surge again. His mind had already decided what would happen. If she touched him, the purple would spill into her. It would crawl through her skin, fill her with the same terrible power that had once filled him. She would burn because of him, and he would be the one making it happen.
Perhaps seeing him struggle, Rogue took a cautious step into the bathroom.
Remy’s body reacted before his mind could catch up. His shoulders jerked, and he instinctively pressed himself farther into the corner, as though the extra few centimeters of distance could keep the purple from reaching her.
She stopped at once.
Remy hated the fear that flashed across her face. It wasn’t fear of him, he knew that. It was fear that she had frightened him. Fear that she had moved too quickly.
“I’m not gonna touch you,” she said softly.
He nodded, but his hands were still shaking. He believed her. That was the worst part. He trusted Rogue completely. It was him that he couldn’t trust.
He closed his eyes against the shame. For years, Rogue had been the one stopping herself from reaching for him, pulling her hands back because a touch from her could kill him. She had learned to live with that distance, even when he knew how much it cost her. Now the roles were reversed. She was standing in the bathroom doorway, watching him retreat from her as though his touch was something to fear.
He hated it.
He hated that she had to measure every movement around him, that she was standing there with her hands where he could see them because she was afraid of startling him. He hated that he was making her remember all those years when loving each other had meant keeping their distance. Most of all, he hated that some part of him still believed the danger was real.
He was safe, Apocalypse was gone, and he would never hurt her again. He owed her touch. He owed her everything.
But he had hurt her so easily.
The memory came without warning, dragging the bayou up with it. He could see her standing there again, could feel the weight of the crystal in his own hands, could remember forcing it into her chest. That terrible purple, everywhere. He remembered trying to stop himself. Remembered being unable to. The memory tightened around his chest until he could barely breathe.
Purple.
Remy opened his eyes and dragged a shaking hand over his face. His palm came away damp, and his fingers trembled against his cheek. The panic was still there, lodged beneath his ribs, making every breath feel too small. He knew what he was supposed to do. He had done this before. Slow down. Breathe. Remind himself where he was. But knowing what to do did not make his body listen.
Rogue lowered herself into the doorway and sat with her back against the frame. She did not come any closer. She kept her hands resting in her lap, where he could see them, giving him the space he needed without leaving him alone.
“Breathe, Remy.”
“I know.”
He tried.
The first breath came in ragged and thin. The second broke halfway through, and he coughed around it. He pressed a hand against his chest as though he could force his lungs to slow down.
“I know,” he said again, more breath than voice. “Just… ain’t happenin’ yet.”
“It will.” Rogue's voice remained steady, almost matter-of-fact, as though she had all the time in the world. “Look at me.”
He turned his head and his eyes found hers.
“Tell me where you are.”
Remy swallowed against the dryness in his throat. “Bathroom.”
“Tha’s right.”
She waited until he took another breath, even though it shook on the way in.
“Where?”
“Xavier’s.”
“Good. You’re at the school.”
He nodded.
“What time is it?”
Remy glanced toward the clock on the wall, but the numbers blurred. “Don’ know.”
“Yeah, that was a stupid question. Don’t matter. It's late.”
Remy nodded. He drew his knees closer to his chest and wrapped his arms around them, resting his cheek against his forearms so he could keep looking at her. The position pressed against his ribs and made each breath a little more difficult, but he didn't move. There was something grounding about keeping Rogue in his line of sight, about knowing exactly where she was and knowing she wasn't going to come any closer unless he asked.
“We’re not in New Orleans, Remy.”
His eyes closed against the surge of memory. Apocalypse's fingers were wrapped around him, impossibly strong, impossibly giant, dragging him down into that terrible purple. He had fought, trying to wrench himself free, but there had never been anywhere to go. He remembered screaming inside his own head until there was nothing left but the raw, useless sound of it. He had thrown himself against the walls of his own mind, clawing for some way back to the surface, but Apocalypse had been everywhere, pushing him farther and farther out of himself until there was almost nothing left that belonged to him.
Then came the glimpses of Rogue, her face, her voice, that flash of green against purple as she followed him. All he could do was watch Apocalypse puppet him and pray Rogue would survive it. The memory tightened around his chest until that old helplessness began closing over him again, and he curled his fingers against the bathroom floor, forcing himself to feel the cool tile beneath them. He was not there. He was not trapped. His body belonged to him.
When he opened his eyes again, Rogue was still there.
She hadn't moved.
She was watching him from the doorway, patient and steady, giving him the time he needed to find his way back. The sight of her anchored him more effectively than anything else could have. The bathroom was still around him. The floor was cold beneath his hands. His heart was still racing, but the room no longer felt like it was disappearing.
“I’m here, Remy,” she said, softly.
Remy swallowed and nodded. He wanted to tell her he was all right, but the words felt too big to manage. She seemed to understand anyway.
“You don't gotta fight the whole thing at once,” she said. “Just keep comin’ back.”
He let out a shaky breath. “Tryin’.”
“I know, sugah.”
They let the minutes pass. Rogue stayed where she was, and Remy stayed curled against the wall, neither asking the other to cross the space between them. It was strange, sitting so far apart in their tiny bathroom. But there was comfort in knowing she was there and that she wasn't going anywhere.
Then, from somewhere behind her, came a tiny, irritated meow.
Remy blinked.
Rogue looked over her shoulder.
Trouble walked into the bathroom. She paused in the middle of the floor and stared at both of them. Her expression, as much as a cat could have one, seemed deeply offended.
“Trouble,” Remy whispered.
The cat ignored him. She walked straight past Rogue, jumped onto the counter, and curled herself neatly into the bathroom sink.
Then she looked at them again.
Remy stared. “She mad.” His throat felt raw as he forced the words out.
Rogue glanced at the clock. “It’s the middle of the night. She wants us in bed.”
Trouble gave a short, displeased chirp.
He almost smiled. “Bossy little thing. She take after you, chère.”
“Absolutely not.”
Trouble tucked her paws beneath her chest. Remy watched her for another moment.
The panic was still there, but it felt further away now. The purple had faded with it, leaving the bathroom washed in the muted blue-gray of the early morning. Small pieces of tile littered the floor around his feet where his power had struck. Rogue sat in the doorway, her red hair tangled from sleep, freckles scattered across her face, watching him with that steady green gaze. Trouble was curled into a ridiculous little ball in the sink.
And Remy was himself.
He looked at Rogue.
“I’m sorry.”
Rogue’s brow furrowed. “For what, sugah?”
He took a slow breath, trying to find the words without making them sound like blame. “I know what it like chère,” he said. “To love somebody you can't touch. To want it so bad it hurts.”
“Remy…” Rogue sighed.
“I remember you pullin’ away from me.” His voice grew quieter. “Every time you wanted to reach for me and couldn't. Every time… seeing the things you couldn’t do…”
She went very still. Remy immediately regretted quoting her from that night. It was a memory they both tried to forget, he knew, but some things stuck. He couldn’t help it. He wanted her to be happy.
“I ain't bringing it up to make you feel bad.”
“Remy… you know I didn’t mean-”
He cut her off with a wave of his hand. “I just...I know how much it hurt you. I know what I’m asking you to do now… if I can’t… if I never…”
Rogue wiped a tear away with the back of her hand. “That don’t matter to me now.”
“Chère…”
“You remember what you told me?”
Remy frowned slightly and shook his head.
Rogue's mouth curved into the smallest smile. “Some things are deeper than skin. And you were right.” She drew a breath. “And I’m sorry I left you.”
Remy shook his head immediately. “You don't gotta apologize.”
“I do.”
“I didn't mean to make you feel bad.”
“You didn't.”
“I shouldn' have brought it up.”
“I know why you did.” Her voice remained gentle, but there was something firm beneath it. “I still need you to hear me.”
Remy fell quiet.
“I was scared,” she said. “I was so afraid of letting you down. Afraid that I couldn't give you what you needed, that loving you wasn't going to be enough if I couldn't touch you. I thought I had to choose between the life I wanted and the person I loved.”
Her eyes stayed on his.
“I didn't understand then.”
Remy watched her, unable to find anything to say.
“I understand now.”
She glanced at the space between them.
“If this is what it takes to keep you here, Remy, then I can do it.”
His throat tightened. “You don' have to.”
“I know.” She smiled faintly. “But I want to.”
He stared at her.
“I would do this forever if I had to,” she continued. “I'd sit right here. I'd wait as long as you needed. Because having you here is worth it. Alive. With me. Remy, it’s worth all ‘ah this.”
Remy looked away, blinking hard.
Rogue's voice softened.
“You loved me when I couldn't touch you. What’s one more time?”
He had spent so long thinking love was something he had to give people, something he had to earn through sacrifice, protection, usefulness. He had loved Rogue when he could not have the simplest thing in the world, when touching her would hurt them both.
They had loved each other anyway.
He looked toward Trouble.
The cat had fallen asleep.
“She’s gonna tell Jubilee we been neglecting her.”
“She probably will.”
“Traitor.”
Rogue smiled.
Remy sat quietly for another minute, letting the silence settle around them. His breathing had steadied, though his body still felt wrung out from the panic. Eventually, he planted his hands against the floor and pushed himself upright. His legs were unsteady beneath him, and for a moment he had to wait for the room to stop shifting before he trusted himself to move. Rogue watched him from the doorway, but she did not reach for him.
Remy took a step toward her.
Then another.
He stopped a few feet away. The space between them suddenly seemed much larger than it had before. His eyes dropped to her hands, resting quietly in her lap, then returned to her face.
“We still playin’ by the same rules?”
Rogue's expression softened. “What rules?”
“Don’t touch unless I say.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Those rules still stand.”
Remy nodded slowly. Something about hearing her say it made his chest loosen.
He took another step, then another, until he could lower himself carefully onto the floor beside her. He left a deliberate space between them. For a while, neither of them spoke. Rogue kept her hands in her lap, and Remy focused on the slow rise and fall of his own breathing. The bathroom was quiet except for the hum of the vent and the occasional rustle of Trouble shifting in the sink.
Then Remy moved.
It was barely an inch at first, just enough to lessen the distance between them. He stopped, waited, and listened to his own body. Nothing happened. No surge of panic. No purple creeping through his vision. He shifted a little closer.
Their shoulders touched.
Every muscle in his body went rigid.
He waited for the memory to take him. He expected the purple. Expected the crushing weight of Apocalypse's presence, the sensation of being forced out of his own mind. Instead, there was only warmth spreading through the place where they touched. Rogue was solid beside him.
Remy let out a breath he hadn't realized he was holding.
Rogue glanced toward him, but she didn't move. “You okay?”
He looked down at their shoulders, still resting together. “Yeah.”
A small smile appeared on Rogue's face. She didn't reach for him. This had been his choice, and she understood better than most what that meant.
Remy let his head rest against the wall and kept his shoulder against hers.
Trouble remained curled in the sink, snoring softly.
The night was still bad. The memories had not disappeared, and neither had the pain. His entire body arched. None of that had changed.
But he had crossed the room. He had chosen to close the distance.
And when the purple did not come, when Rogue's warmth remained beside him and nothing terrible followed… maybe he could keep choosing this.