5 more Gambit/Rogue drabbles.
Because I just can't leave well enough alone. Also I am sitting on Ryan's couch in Chicago watching him play Marvel vs. Capcom with his brother, and I am feelin' me some X-Men right now. DEADPOOL IS THE MAN IN THIS GAME.
006. Manual Transmission
Rogue slams on the car horn, and Remy, who had up until this point been strolling leisurely past the garages on his way back up to the mansion, startles backward more than a few ungraceful feet.
“You, sir, are late,” she says from behind the windshield of a candy red Mazda MX-5 Miata that has almost certainly been borrowed without permission from Scott Summers.
“Christe, Rogue!"
She grins from behind a curtain of unruly two-tone hair, pushing silver streaks behind her ears, mirth spilling from the corners of those wicked green eyes. “We goin’ out, or what?”
“Yeah, yeah, we goin’ out! Jeez…” So long as she’s got the convertible top down, he doesn’t bother with the door.
“Scott’ll recognize that huge footprint on his wax job, sugar, an’ burn your butt from here to New Jersey.”
“Dis one ain’t too keen on Jersey. I’ll buff ‘em out, first.”
“No you won’t.”
“Mos’ likely.”
She palms the gearshift and the car damn near flies down the drive; the wind doesn’t even come close to wiping that smirk off her face. “Good thing Ah hear Trenton’s nice this time of year.”
Remy watches her hands, one draped leisurely over the top of the wheel, the other coaxing the stick shift from gear to gear along with the purr of the car. It’s…kind of sexy. He wolf whistles long and low. “Damn, girl, who taught y’ t’ drive a stick?”
“A friend’s dad back in Mississippi, long before it was legal for a kid my age t’ be learnin’ such things.” Rogue smiles and smooths back the curls that’ve whipped into her face. “B’sides, Ah’ve had loads of practice palming someone else’s-ah, gearshift lately.”
His easy grin matches hers as he leans over with his lips an inch from her ear. “If by ‘someone else’s gearshift’ y’ mean the nether regions of dis one’s anatomy-”
“Gawd, Rem!” She colors, red creeping up into her ears, “Whose else didja think Ah was referrin’ to?!”
That toothy smile taking up permanent residence on his face, Remy eases back, smug as a cat with a mouse, into the car seat. “Jus’ checkin’.”
007. Trust
“Dat’s just it!” His entire body vibrates, the honey in his voice replaced with raw, focused anger the likes of which she’s never seen in him in all the time she’s known him. Even under the trenchcoat, she can see his body thrumming, taut and coiled with the tension in his muscles. Scarlet sparks dance at his fingers, charging the air with nothing else to touch-and for just one split second, Rogue is afraid of him.
(of Remy-sweet, gentle Remy who would never in this life or any others try to hurt her)
In the gap between words he closes the space between him with long strides, his face close enough to hers to be unsettling; frightening, even. “You don’ know where I’ve been, Rogue,” he says in a voice as carefully reined in as his last was unrestrained. “Y’ don’ know what sort o’ monsters I got hidin’ in my closets. What makes y’ so sure y’ can trust me?”
The instant’s pause it takes to swallow down the fear is the longest of her life.
“This.”
Her kiss is a featherlight brush of her lips against his, so light she can’t even feel the leeching pull of her mutation, over as soon as it begins. And when she breaks away she stumbles backward and away from him. She looks once over her shoulder before bolting from the room.
008. When I Think About You
“The Divinyls, chere?”
“WHAT-!?” Rogue whips around and slams the power button on her speakers faster than a five-year-old escaping with contraband cookies. Her flush shoots all the way down her pretty neck, oh-so-visible with her wet hair all swept up into a towel like that. “Get out of here!”
“An’ jus’ who might you be thinkin’ about while touchin’ you’ pretty self, Rogue?” Remy wheedles, as innocent as can be, leaning with fluid, languid grace against her doorframe. He waggles his eyebrows.
“Make y’self scarce, Swamp Rat, before I do it for ya.” With grit teeth and bare hands careful to anchor at the middle of his shirt, she gives his gut a shove that sends him stumbling back, laughing, into the hallway.
“Can’t a man be curious, what with y’ proclaimin’ how y’ get off to de world?” Remy’s honey-bourbon voice dips low and he winks at her, and dear Lord, he’s lucky she loves him so much, or he’d be getting chucked halfway across the continent for that one.
“Well, Remy-love,” Rogue purrs, leaning against his vacated spot in the doorframe, a smile twisting up one side of that wicked, wine-red mouth, and damn, she’s a sight to see. “When a girl ain’t gettin’ touched nearly as much as she’d like, turns out if she wants somethin’ badly enough, she’s got to...take matters into her own hands, y’know?”
Remy catches one last glimpse of her saucy grin, and the door shuts in his face with a click. He stays outside her room long enough to know she turns her speakers back on to finish singing along.
009. Sunny Days
It’s a warm day. Exceedingly warm. The kind of day where shee can look up into the trees and see the breeze rustling through its leaves, and feel nothing but heavy, still heat from where she stands.
Rogue has a love-hate relationship with warm days. She used to love sitting out under the sun with a book or with just her own thoughts, blanket spread beneath her and the sky hanging above. Well, before her powers manifested. Now there’s too many other people lurking in her head, and on sunny days like this one just looking out the window is an ordeal. Now it’s either bare some skin, cool off and avoid all human contact, or surround herself with people and die of heatstroke swathed head-to-toe in fabric.
Which brings her to this particular tree branch. Sure, sitting up in a tree isn’t quite as comfortable as a blanket on the ground, and not quite as full of company as she’d like, but she’ll take what she can get. It’s worth it just to wear shorts and a halter top again.
It also provides a nice vantage point for Remy-watching. He’s playing catch with some of the younger students. They swarm every other time he catches the football, miniature horde-on-one, and from Rogue’s perch it’s hilarious watching him fall to the grass in a heap with six-year-olds hanging from his arms. That is, until he notices her lounging in her tree. Remy noogies one of the smaller boys and hands him the ball, trotting over and looking far more graceful than anyone has right to with his hair all flying in his face. He’s smiling like the goofball she knows he is-and delightfully shirtless.
In one smooth bound he hops up and grabs hold of a sturdy branch next to hers, and pulls himself up far enough to ghost the barest of kisses over her lips as she leans across the gap to meet him. Then the next minute he’s dropped back to the ground and loping back toward to the small mob of little ones now attempting to use him for wiffle ball target practice. Rogue laughs to herself.
(In her daydreams Remy plays with a little gemstone-eyed boy while she watches, smiling, from a blanket in the grass.)
010. Accident
It’s two in the morning when Dr. McCoy finds her in the infirmary. She’s curled up in a chair beside Remy’s bed, knees hugged to her chest, face buried in her arms. When she notices him and looks up, he can see the tearstains shining on her face. Her gaze, though, stays fixed on Remy.
“Ah coulda killed him,” Rogue murmurs. “If Ah hadn’t woken up for water when I did.”
“He’ll wake up,” Hank tries to reassure her. “Likely sooner than later, if I’m not mistaken. You even said yourself there were very few memories your mutation managed to absorb from him. And recent ones, at that.” The doctor lays one large, careful hand on her shoulder, and she flinches, just slightly, in fear of doing the same to him.
“But the ones Ah took…” Rogue draws in a long, shuddering breath
Hank pulls up a chair next to hers. This poor girl who’s always forced herself into isolation shouldn’t have to be by herself now, let alone get shooed away to sleep.
“He loves me so much,” she says, more to herself than McCoy. “Those memories Ah took were all of me. Ah can feel in my head the way his heart picks up when Ah do nothin’ but smile at him. How he feels gettin’ t’ fall asleep next to me in bed.” Her arms tighten briefly around her knees. “An’ look where that’s got him. What Ah’ve done, jus’ by bein’ near him at night.”
“Rogue, you were careful. You’ve always been. And so has Remy.” He pats her hand, her slender fingers dwarfed by his furry palms. “Things will happen that are out of your control.” He smiles softly. “If he loves you like you’ve seen in those memories, then when he wakes, your face will be the first he wants to see, regardless of what you could’ve done to him.”
Her voice is broken and small when she answers, “Ah hope you’re right.”
006. Manual Transmission
Rogue slams on the car horn, and Remy, who had up until this point been strolling leisurely past the garages on his way back up to the mansion, startles backward more than a few ungraceful feet.
“You, sir, are late,” she says from behind the windshield of a candy red Mazda MX-5 Miata that has almost certainly been borrowed without permission from Scott Summers.
“Christe, Rogue!"
She grins from behind a curtain of unruly two-tone hair, pushing silver streaks behind her ears, mirth spilling from the corners of those wicked green eyes. “We goin’ out, or what?”
“Yeah, yeah, we goin’ out! Jeez…” So long as she’s got the convertible top down, he doesn’t bother with the door.
“Scott’ll recognize that huge footprint on his wax job, sugar, an’ burn your butt from here to New Jersey.”
“Dis one ain’t too keen on Jersey. I’ll buff ‘em out, first.”
“No you won’t.”
“Mos’ likely.”
She palms the gearshift and the car damn near flies down the drive; the wind doesn’t even come close to wiping that smirk off her face. “Good thing Ah hear Trenton’s nice this time of year.”
Remy watches her hands, one draped leisurely over the top of the wheel, the other coaxing the stick shift from gear to gear along with the purr of the car. It’s…kind of sexy. He wolf whistles long and low. “Damn, girl, who taught y’ t’ drive a stick?”
“A friend’s dad back in Mississippi, long before it was legal for a kid my age t’ be learnin’ such things.” Rogue smiles and smooths back the curls that’ve whipped into her face. “B’sides, Ah’ve had loads of practice palming someone else’s-ah, gearshift lately.”
His easy grin matches hers as he leans over with his lips an inch from her ear. “If by ‘someone else’s gearshift’ y’ mean the nether regions of dis one’s anatomy-”
“Gawd, Rem!” She colors, red creeping up into her ears, “Whose else didja think Ah was referrin’ to?!”
That toothy smile taking up permanent residence on his face, Remy eases back, smug as a cat with a mouse, into the car seat. “Jus’ checkin’.”
007. Trust
“Dat’s just it!” His entire body vibrates, the honey in his voice replaced with raw, focused anger the likes of which she’s never seen in him in all the time she’s known him. Even under the trenchcoat, she can see his body thrumming, taut and coiled with the tension in his muscles. Scarlet sparks dance at his fingers, charging the air with nothing else to touch-and for just one split second, Rogue is afraid of him.
(of Remy-sweet, gentle Remy who would never in this life or any others try to hurt her)
In the gap between words he closes the space between him with long strides, his face close enough to hers to be unsettling; frightening, even. “You don’ know where I’ve been, Rogue,” he says in a voice as carefully reined in as his last was unrestrained. “Y’ don’ know what sort o’ monsters I got hidin’ in my closets. What makes y’ so sure y’ can trust me?”
The instant’s pause it takes to swallow down the fear is the longest of her life.
“This.”
Her kiss is a featherlight brush of her lips against his, so light she can’t even feel the leeching pull of her mutation, over as soon as it begins. And when she breaks away she stumbles backward and away from him. She looks once over her shoulder before bolting from the room.
008. When I Think About You
“The Divinyls, chere?”
“WHAT-!?” Rogue whips around and slams the power button on her speakers faster than a five-year-old escaping with contraband cookies. Her flush shoots all the way down her pretty neck, oh-so-visible with her wet hair all swept up into a towel like that. “Get out of here!”
“An’ jus’ who might you be thinkin’ about while touchin’ you’ pretty self, Rogue?” Remy wheedles, as innocent as can be, leaning with fluid, languid grace against her doorframe. He waggles his eyebrows.
“Make y’self scarce, Swamp Rat, before I do it for ya.” With grit teeth and bare hands careful to anchor at the middle of his shirt, she gives his gut a shove that sends him stumbling back, laughing, into the hallway.
“Can’t a man be curious, what with y’ proclaimin’ how y’ get off to de world?” Remy’s honey-bourbon voice dips low and he winks at her, and dear Lord, he’s lucky she loves him so much, or he’d be getting chucked halfway across the continent for that one.
“Well, Remy-love,” Rogue purrs, leaning against his vacated spot in the doorframe, a smile twisting up one side of that wicked, wine-red mouth, and damn, she’s a sight to see. “When a girl ain’t gettin’ touched nearly as much as she’d like, turns out if she wants somethin’ badly enough, she’s got to...take matters into her own hands, y’know?”
Remy catches one last glimpse of her saucy grin, and the door shuts in his face with a click. He stays outside her room long enough to know she turns her speakers back on to finish singing along.
009. Sunny Days
It’s a warm day. Exceedingly warm. The kind of day where shee can look up into the trees and see the breeze rustling through its leaves, and feel nothing but heavy, still heat from where she stands.
Rogue has a love-hate relationship with warm days. She used to love sitting out under the sun with a book or with just her own thoughts, blanket spread beneath her and the sky hanging above. Well, before her powers manifested. Now there’s too many other people lurking in her head, and on sunny days like this one just looking out the window is an ordeal. Now it’s either bare some skin, cool off and avoid all human contact, or surround herself with people and die of heatstroke swathed head-to-toe in fabric.
Which brings her to this particular tree branch. Sure, sitting up in a tree isn’t quite as comfortable as a blanket on the ground, and not quite as full of company as she’d like, but she’ll take what she can get. It’s worth it just to wear shorts and a halter top again.
It also provides a nice vantage point for Remy-watching. He’s playing catch with some of the younger students. They swarm every other time he catches the football, miniature horde-on-one, and from Rogue’s perch it’s hilarious watching him fall to the grass in a heap with six-year-olds hanging from his arms. That is, until he notices her lounging in her tree. Remy noogies one of the smaller boys and hands him the ball, trotting over and looking far more graceful than anyone has right to with his hair all flying in his face. He’s smiling like the goofball she knows he is-and delightfully shirtless.
In one smooth bound he hops up and grabs hold of a sturdy branch next to hers, and pulls himself up far enough to ghost the barest of kisses over her lips as she leans across the gap to meet him. Then the next minute he’s dropped back to the ground and loping back toward to the small mob of little ones now attempting to use him for wiffle ball target practice. Rogue laughs to herself.
(In her daydreams Remy plays with a little gemstone-eyed boy while she watches, smiling, from a blanket in the grass.)
010. Accident
It’s two in the morning when Dr. McCoy finds her in the infirmary. She’s curled up in a chair beside Remy’s bed, knees hugged to her chest, face buried in her arms. When she notices him and looks up, he can see the tearstains shining on her face. Her gaze, though, stays fixed on Remy.
“Ah coulda killed him,” Rogue murmurs. “If Ah hadn’t woken up for water when I did.”
“He’ll wake up,” Hank tries to reassure her. “Likely sooner than later, if I’m not mistaken. You even said yourself there were very few memories your mutation managed to absorb from him. And recent ones, at that.” The doctor lays one large, careful hand on her shoulder, and she flinches, just slightly, in fear of doing the same to him.
“But the ones Ah took…” Rogue draws in a long, shuddering breath
Hank pulls up a chair next to hers. This poor girl who’s always forced herself into isolation shouldn’t have to be by herself now, let alone get shooed away to sleep.
“He loves me so much,” she says, more to herself than McCoy. “Those memories Ah took were all of me. Ah can feel in my head the way his heart picks up when Ah do nothin’ but smile at him. How he feels gettin’ t’ fall asleep next to me in bed.” Her arms tighten briefly around her knees. “An’ look where that’s got him. What Ah’ve done, jus’ by bein’ near him at night.”
“Rogue, you were careful. You’ve always been. And so has Remy.” He pats her hand, her slender fingers dwarfed by his furry palms. “Things will happen that are out of your control.” He smiles softly. “If he loves you like you’ve seen in those memories, then when he wakes, your face will be the first he wants to see, regardless of what you could’ve done to him.”
Her voice is broken and small when she answers, “Ah hope you’re right.”